Archive of Our Own

It is in the lonesome company of the night, where Xingqiu allows the monsters he hides to rise up, and rear their ugly heads. 

There is terror in the way he cuts himself up — terror, but also, comfort. Dissects himself, picks apart the pieces and scrutinises them. Does he like what he sees? Or should he throw that piece aside?

It’s a ritual — perhaps monthly, perhaps weekly, depending on how poorly he feels. Whenever he finds himself to be disliked, then he will do it.

This time, however, he feels like there is a part he has to kill. So he swims through the pieces, searching for the one sliver that bugs him, annoys him so greatly. What exactly is it that he hates? 

Not this personality, the one obsessed with books. That part is fine. Not that part either, the one who might go overboard with pranks (he’ll have to trim it later, but for today, it is okay). Oh.

Oh.  

This part he cradles in his palm, trying to figure out what it is. The presentation of himself in front of Chongyun. What does he do? Pranks him, teases him. Eats with him, sleeps by him. Touches him. 

Somehow he feels uncomfortable by this — he’s getting too close, he thinks. There is fear in such intimacy. There is weakness in such things, the closer you are, the clearer your flaws become. He wants to know, he itches to know, just what part of him Chongyun dislikes. Hates. Wants to kill. Xingqiu would do it in a heartbeat. 

Except, he also knows, that if he ever asked Chongyun such things, the boy would look at him, confused (and concerned, perhaps), and say something akin to but Xingqiu, how could I ever find a part of you to hate?

There is insecurity in the lack of criticism; surely there must be something Chongyun finds greatly annoying, something he just can’t remember at the moment. Or worse still, can’t bring himself to say.

Frustrated, Xingqiu drops all the pieces, refusing to sort through the mess he has wrecked upon his carefully constructed persona. He’ll settle it next time, perhaps, as he wheedles out bits of Chongyun’s true thoughts, little tell-tale things that’ll finally let him know what it is that Chongyun hates. 

The sea of pieces parts for him, sharp edges of broken glass cutting, as he stacks them into something resembling more like a Xingqiu he knows, a Xingqiu others know.

~ * ~

Chongyun simply can’t imagine how things would be without Xingqiu.

How they had been friends, been by each other’s sides, doing everything alongside the other for so long. How Xingqiu aided him in his expeditions, dropping him hints of intel. How Chongyun, in turn, followed him along to live his heroic dreams, slaying hilichurls. How Xingqiu smiled so brightly after his failed hunts and cheered him up, knowing just what to buy to bring that very same smile on his face (except smaller, more muted, because Chongyun fears losing control of his emotions). How Chongyun, in turn, stayed by his side as he consumed book after book, lost in his own little world.

They’re inseparable. They are a pair. A unit. Chongyun is forever grateful to Xingqiu. Chongyun can’t imagine not having Xingqiu.

There’s comfort and security in this friendship. They’ve grown so used to each other’s company, they’ve forgotten how it tastes to be apart. 

It’s the same way Chongyun gravitates towards him in the crowd — the princely, perfect heir of the Feiyun Commerce Guild. And how Xingqiu would tilt his head with that same princely, perfect smile, and pull him away, to wherever he pleased.

And Chongyun would follow. Chongyun always follows.

Xingqiu had laughed, teased him about it, something about a lost kitten. Aimless, directionless, sticking to the closest person next to him. It’s moments like these that instil some sense of doubt. Chongyun just doesn’t know if Xingqiu truly liked him as a friend. Perhaps he was just being kind and diplomatic, as he is, an aristocrat through and through. Chongyun knows they get on well, that much is true, but did Xingqiu truly see him as a friend?

He hopes he does. 

Chongyun hopes that, after everything they’ve been through together, Xingqiu would at least think of him as something more than an annoyance he wishes to get rid of. Not just an acquaintance, but as a friend, and if he’ll permit, something more. Something closer. Chongyun hadn’t had many friends before, and Xingqiu is just special like that — he hopes that Xingqiu finds him special in some way too.

So he lives on, a little nervous, always tethering and ready for Xingqiu’s command, wherever he desires. Whatever he wants, Chongyun will give, because Xingqiu has given him so much more. Perhaps it’s true, perhaps he does lack some inner force telling him to act, perhaps he lives his life grappling with just too many things at once, and can never come to a conclusion on his own. And so, he turns to others to help him through such messy thoughts.

But he also knows that not everyone holds such a privilege. He doesn’t run with the wind, no, he follows the tides in Xingqiu’s wake. Headstrong, steadfast, never losing sight — Xingqiu is that goal, and Chongyun chases, just like he does with all his other dreams. 

And he is lost no more. 

~ * ~

It’s a relatively normal outing, with Xingqiu swallowing every emotion he feels around Chongyun. He’s smiling and prattling on about this new play Yunjin has written, trying his very best to ignore the way their knuckles brush with each step they take. 

“Oh,” Chongyun says, and Xingqiu screeches to an abrupt stop. “It’s a cat.”

And it is; Xingqiu looks down to see a cat, with black and white fur, staring at them intently with large golden eyes. It calmly approaches them, and then proceeds to lie down on Chongyun’s shoe, seeming rather content with the position. 

Catcher-General Kitty is what the children call these cats — they take on the vital role of catching various vermin around Liyue, and are now pampered by old ladies and children alike. 

This one seems friendly enough. 

Chongyun slowly slips his foot from under the cat, staring at it, rather confused. He begins to walk again, but the cat meows, offended, and chases after him. It meows again, rubbing its head against his pants, curling around Chongyun’s legs. He freezes, afraid of accidentally kicking or stepping on the cat.

Xingqiu grins. “It likes you,” he says, squatting down to pet the cat. To his infinite pleasure, the cat abandons Chongyun in favour of Xingqiu’s hand, meowing as he pets it.

Chongyun kneels down curiously, staring intently as the cat’s tail curves in the air, flicking about. “You can pet it, you know,” Xingqiu teases, noticing how Chongyun hesitates. 

“I’ve never pet cats before…” he mumbles, voice trailing off sheepishly, but dutifully obliges anyway. The cat seems to prefer Chongyun’s hand — well, Chongyun’s hands are warmer after all, due to his pure-yang spirit, and it’s something Xingqiu has never quite gotten used to, nevermind the fact that he has held it too many times to count. 

“It’s so cute,” Chongyun says, in awe, as if he’s only realising it. Xingqiu gives a weird, exasperated, yet endearing laugh — “You say this like you’ve never seen a cat before,” he teases.

Chongyun frowns, and Xingqiu notes the way his nose just scrunches up, all adorable and strangely cat-like — oh, this cat is such bad news. “That’s not true,” he says defensively. “I just… never had the opportunity to appreciate them up close.” He then turns his attention back to the cat, seemingly forgetting Xingqiu is there at all, and coos at it, responding to its meows with mews of his own.

Archons, Chongyun meowing? Xingqiu never thought he’d see the day Chongyun do something so out of character. Exorcist with a heart of clear water and face of ice — if every citizen of Liyue got to see this side of Chongyun, then the appellation would change to something more like heart of a cat lover, face of an angel— never mind. Xingqiu stops these incriminating thoughts before they can get any more out of hand. 

Chongyun, now more comfortable with the animal, grows bolder in his ministrations.

“It looks like it's wearing a tuxedo,” Chongyun giggles, holding the cat up by its paws.

Internally, Xingqiu curses every deity in Teyvat for making Chongyun this obliviously adorable.

Chongyun bobs his hands up and down, making the cat do a funny little dance, all while smiling goofily to himself. The cat doesn’t really seem to mind it — but Xingqiu would still like to look out for Chongyun, lest the cat scratches him and scars him permanently for life. Then again, he’d never be able to see him like this in front of animals again, he muses. The more Chongyun plays with the cat, the more he adopts this strange, high-pitched, breathy voice, as he begins to baby-talk the cat. 

“Hello,” he says softly. “What’s your name, kitty?”

The cat meows, and Chongyun scoops it up in his arms, delighted. “Look at you,” he coos, as the cat’s paws go to rest on his chin. “You’re so cute.” He cradles it, tapping its nose with a cheeky finger, lips curving into a light smile.

Xingqiu finally breaks out of his mesmerised stupor, and reaches out, patting the cat’s head rather awkwardly. The cat’s tail flails about from all the attention it’s receiving. “Do you want to hold it?” Chongyun offers, and Xingqiu hesitates.

“No thanks,” he declines. “I’m afraid I might drop it by accident.”

“Ah.” Chongyun sets the cat down on the ground hastily, as if suddenly reminded that he could be careless, or even lose control. It’s strange how he so quickly withdraws the moment he’s reminded of a potential disaster — a whiff of danger and he’s immediately backtracking, falling back to that ice cold nature, a defense mechanism.

(Xingqiu hates how he knows how that feels.)

“Aw,” he says, reaching to pet the cat again, hoping to encourage Chongyun to creep back out of that self-imposed shell. “Look at you.”

He’s not as good as Chongyun with the baby talk, but it must work, because the cat rolls over and exposes its belly. Xingqiu takes it as an invitation to stroke its stomach, and prays to every Archon above that it does not bite him.

“It’s fluffy,” Xingqiu says, genuinely surprised.

Chongyun, curious, joins in. He reaches for it tentatively, then strokes the length of its stomach. “I’ve never had pets before,” he admits, softly. Watches his hand sink into fur. “I’m not quite sure if I’m doing this properly.”

“Neither have I,” Xingqiu laughs in what he hopes is in a reassuring way. “But I think you’re doing great. The cat seems to like it.”

“So it seems,” he whispers, as the cat rolls over again, and bumps its head into Chongyun’s hand.

Xingqiu peeks at Chongyun from the corner of his eyes, and catches that lightest hint of a smile, finally returning. 

And for some reason, Chongyun has never glowed quite this golden.

~ * ~

Xingqiu comes to the violent realisation that he might be gay.

Might, he insists. Maybe. Perhaps.

(As if that’s any consolation at all.)

How did it start? How did that happen?

He blames all the novels he’s read, for instilling such thoughts in his head. As if two friends can eventually turn into something more. Two friends who harbour secret feelings for each other.

He stays away from the novels after that, goes clean and cold; still, the thoughts plague his mind at night. The way his heart thuds, blood thrumming with an apprehensive electricity — he wishes that maybe his body will burn and combust in a way even his vision cannot fix. It would be a better end, than to suffer through whatever currently afflicts him.

He tries to forget. He does not.

Love isn’t a sudden change. It’s not the way light fills a dark room, or the opening of a trapdoor below the guillotine. You don’t just fall in love. 

Love is quiet.

Love is a shadow that creeps up on you, and Xingqiu is only realising this agonising process far too late. It’s only when he starts combing through their shared history that he realises it’s always been there, and he’s just slow to arrive at such a blatantly obvious conclusion.

It’s the way his favourite novels start turning into romance; how he starts picking them up, rereading them, revisiting them, when he’s not paying attention: some subconscious drive. It’s the way he tries so hard to forget, to ignore and push it away; but it comes back crawling despite him breaking its legs — it still persists. It’s the hidden tendrils that impale his palms when he reaches out, and they shoot through his arms like frostbite, aiming straight through his heart.

There’s something dangerously poetic about these feelings. It tastes like flowers and blood in his mouth, reeks suspiciously of heartache and delusion. Xingqiu is logical. He doesn’t let his heart lead, not really, not really, not as he rationalises why he shouldn’t really be feeling like this, why he should just give up and never act on it.

It’s not much, not much. He reassures himself that he’ll forget it, that it’ll go away with time. That this infatuation is just what it is — an infatuation. Temporary. Unstable. 

And yet—

It’s the silent confirmation in the night, as he stares off into the distance, and sees the trees and buildings and lights, and somehow, always links it to him. And somehow, he knows, he knows he knows he knows it’s there. He can feel it stirring in his chest — sweet melancholy and bitter smiles. 

Xingqiu waits for it to go away, except it does not.

Surely, no one thinks about their friends like that? 

That rush, giddy and nervous; euphoria just at the sight— no, thought of him. 

That fleeting moment when their hands brush, and he has to pretend it isn’t molten rock pooling in his stomach, nor is there fire blooming on the very section of skin Chongyun touched, just barely.

That urge to take Chongyun into his hands and kiss him — smash their faces together and pull back, just to see how Chongyun would react. 

(Love isn’t a sudden change.)

The more you have, the more you're afraid to lose. Xingqiu is afraid— no, Xingqiu is terrified of losing Chongyun.

He has to swallow it down, suppress it with every fibre of his being. Can’t let it slip, can’t let it out, it’s creepy, it’s weird to act so close to someone — Chongyun being nice to someone who has less-than-pure intentions. Xingqiu wants to cut this part out of him. Xingqiu realises everything he does and tries his very best to not act upon it — except it simply manifests itself in different ways. A cruel game of catchup — where Xingqiu tries to curb it before it reappears again.

Xingqiu tries so hard to hold on to this friendship — he can’t lose Chongyun. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Chongyun ever left. 

(So much of his identity lies in this friendship. What becomes of him, if that very friendship is gone?)

Doubt leaves a trace of vinegar and turpentine; it’s acid on his tongue, as he tries to sleep for the night.

He wonders: would it be better if Chongyun knew?

He doesn’t know. He closes his eyes and prays that sleep comes soon. 

~ * ~

Lantern Rite is just as he remembers. But this year, it’s slightly different.

Xingqiu swallows his wish to court Chongyun — there’s only so much the adepti can do, after all.

Chongyun is by his side, nose scrunched in that look of concentration; Xingqiu’s just glad he doesn’t have to talk at all.

He sees a harbour full of lights, and he’s not impressed. How is he to be impressed by something he sees every day? He lets his gaze wander, and turns to the tumultuous sea, the ocean waves rising and falling, each crest like the wane of the moon — the moonlight flickers just like the stars, just like the million lanterns filling the sky, each one a fervent wish. 

His legs dangle off the cliff, a little dance with danger — distantly he wonders how it would feel like to fall off and crash into the sea. Would Chongyun join him? Or would Chongyun look at him in horror, a hand reaching out but not quite grasping? 

And as his gaze wanders, from harbour to sea to sky, so does his mind. From home to adventure to wishes. What is his wish then? What does he want so badly, that he looks to adepti for validation?

Chongyun, he thinks. I want Chongyun.  

But that’s ridiculous. He can’t yearn like this— shouldn’t desire like this. He has Chongyun, right here, right now, right beside him. 

His eyes drift, and land on its prize: despite the hazy glow of a million lights, Chongyun still shines the brightest in his periphery. 

He chokes on the image, feels it well up in his throat, like an ocean swell ready to drown him. 

Chongyun, Chongyun, Chongyun.  

He can’t stand for this. He— He won’t. He refuses to. He won’t have the adepti hear of something so selfish. Chivalrous men don’t resort to lanterns and deities to grant their dirty desires. 

He… He has a better compromise.

Xingqiu scrawls the words on the stick of the lantern — to remain as friends, no matter what. And for the first time in his life, he hopes and prays for the illogical. That the lanterns will reach the adepti, and grant his wish. 

He sees Chongyun think about his wish, holding his own thoughts. In his anxiety, Xingqiu does not prompt him to hurry up, even though he knows he normally does. Every year, in fact, as Xingqiu cajoles him to make up his mind and finally settle on one wish — there’s always a next year for other wishes. 

He looks at how Chongyun mulls over a wish like he’s about to pick a betrothed; slowly and hesitantly writing it down, neatly, because Chongyun believes the adepti will receive his lantern and he wants to leave only the best impression on them.

“Okay,” Chongyun says, lighting his lantern. Xingqiu does the same. 

They need not count to synchronise their actions. Their fingers let go of the fragile paper, and up the lanterns go, softly following the wind, wielding their own special, dream-like quality. 

Like fate, the wind is temperamental, and forever changing; and like the lanterns, Xingqiu can’t help but be dragged along in its ever-changing tides. 

~ * ~

If Lantern Rite is a yearly tradition, then indecision is, too. 

Chongyun stares at the sky in desperation, and when that doesn’t work, he looks to the sea. And then, to the harbour. 

Liyue, city of stone and contracts, some strange home he never had. He stares at it, allows himself to zone out a little, to procrastinate thinking about his wish just to soak up the image of the city in all its glory. 

He misses this — as a wandering exorcist, he’s always on the move, and because he’s always on the move, he has nothing to ground himself in. 

He grounds himself in Xingqiu, perhaps. A strange sort of motivation — Xingqiu gets him to leave with the promise of success in his endeavours, and Xingqiu gets him to return with the promise of comfort in friendship. The push and pull of a tide, he leaves and returns, day and night, and the only constant would be Xingqiu. 

The artificial light of the harbour — he misses this. This harsh glow, a promise, a reminder — stone and contracts, permanent, perpetual, unwavering. A juxtaposition against the starlight in the sky — fleeting, transient, temporary. 

Maybe that would be a good wish, he muses. To be able to spend more time in the harbour. 

But then he second guesses himself — is that really a wish he wants the adepti to see? It seems awfully superficial, surely that would leave a bad impression on them. 

Maybe something broader, not as narrow as staying in the harbour. More time with his family? Family sounds like a noble enough request to ask of the adepti, no?

Or maybe he should ask for something else…

Chongyun frets over his wish — he has too many things to want, too many options to choose from. Chongyun is greedy, and wants to hold on to everything at once. 

Success in his exorcisms? Overcoming his yang states? Or should he be less self-centred, and wish something for his family? Maybe something for Xingqiu? He’s never once spent a wish on his well-being.

Nothing sounds good enough. Everything feels important — how does he know what to write? He can barely remember what his wish was last year. He shouldn’t repeat wishes too: that might look bad on him. But first, he has to choose something to wish about. 

His eyes dart over, to try and peek at what Xingqiu might’ve written for some form of inspiration — no luck. If he got caught, Xingqiu would no doubt lecture him about his privacy and how he should not be peeking. 

Frustrated, he turns his gaze back to his lantern. Maybe this year he’ll give up his wish for Xingqiu. 

To have Xingqiu’s wish come true, is what he writes, and he decides that he’s happy with it. 

“Okay,” he says, slightly more confident in this wish. No room for regrets now, as he lights up the wick of his lantern. Stares at the fragile flame, hidden behind the yellowed paper. He holds it with steady hands, and slowly, lets it go. 

May the adepti see his wish and deem Xingqiu’s wish worthy enough to be answered. 

~ * ~

~ * ~

Now that the entire high of wishing and letting the lanterns go has dissipated, the atmosphere suddenly seems a lot colder. Xingqiu has lost his last line of defence; it had slipped out of his fingers and made its way over the sea, where it might touch the stars and reach Celestia. He pretends to stare at it, even as it disappears into an ocean of similar lanterns, so that he would have a reason not to talk, lest he betray himself.

Paper thin, fragile things — yet the cumulative glow of the pellucid lights give rise to something that could turn the night sky into one that could rival the day. Maybe it’s the lights that give him such hope, as if every other lantern out there is a sign and symbol that if he could just put his words together, it could come out strong, and he can say something and make a difference. 

He almost forgets his fears. 

“Chongyun,” he breathes, lost in the view. Barely registers how Chongyun turns to look at him. 

“Chongyun, I…” 

He hesitates. His eyes dart to Chongyun to gauge his reaction; the way he cants his head, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Xingqiu is starting to doubt himself, starting to realise his words and their potential impact on their relationship. Perhaps he shouldn’t say it after all. Perhaps he’s just being stupid. 

“Yeah?”

“I… like you.”

The silence is tense. Xingqiu thinks of a million ways this could go wrong — and his worst fear is that Chongyun is going to break their friendship off. 

“That’s not a good joke, Xingqiu.”

Joke.

Of course, of course it all amounts to this. Because this is the side Chongyun knows and sees. It’s like this because he made it like this. He should have known better. Should have anticipated this. 

“It’s not a joke.” He’s a mite defensive. This is dragging out longer than he had planned it to be. 

Chongyun frowns, tilting his head, utterly confused. “As a friend.”

Somehow this just makes Xingqiu feel worse. Makes him feel like he had been taking advantage of Chongyun the whole time. This is— This is disgusting. He is disgusting.

“No.” Because Xingqiu cannot lie. Not about this. “Not platonically.”

And the silence resumes; they both stare at each other. Xingqiu can’t help but feel the growing need to take back all his words, laugh it off and pretend that it really is one big joke. Play into Chongyun’s expectations of him. Maybe the lantern was a stupid thing to wish on. Maybe he should’ve just kept quiet, swallowed his feelings until he grew out of it or forgot it, whichever came first. 

“I…”

Xingqiu doesn’t know which is worse. The I like you too he sees in all his novels, or the I’m sorry, I don’t like you that way he’s been preparing for the whole time. 

“I don’t know.”

I don’t know. What exactly was that supposed to mean? Was that some form of sugar-coated rejection? Was that meant to placate him, make him feel better? Or is he saying that he’s never thought about it? Of course Chongyun, poor, innocent Chongyun, would’ve never thought about dating. Is he in shock, then? Does this mean that, if given some time to think about it, he would accept? 

That little drop of hope yearns for the promise, that tantalisingly sweet promise, that one that sings of salvation — that isn’t a no, there’s still a chance, there’s still a chance. And if Xingqiu were a little more emotional, he might have listened. 

If.

Anything that isn’t an enthusiastic acceptance is a failure, and Chongyun’s reply tells him all he needs to know. 

There’s a crushing sense of defeat, a whole tsunami swallowing up that pathetic drop, as Xingqiu brushes away the dreadful pooling in his gut with nervous laughter. “No, no, it’s fine, just pretend I didn’t say anything, it doesn’t matter.”

Silence. Xingqiu breathes heavily, like he’s just run a marathon. He looks away. Turns away, even. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” Chongyun sounds more uncertain, as if he’s still processing the words Xingqiu had mistakenly uttered. “Don’t be so hasty to take it back. I’ve just… never thought of you like that before.”

Laughter bubbles up, bursting through his lips, as he suppresses another nauseating wave of despair. “Is that not the same thing as rejection? I get it if you no longer want to be friends after this, though. Things like these always put a strain on friendship. Make it awkward. Uncomfortable.”

“Xingqiu!” Chongyun sounds horrified that he would even say such things. “Don’t say that! We’ll always be friends. I just… I don’t know. I don’t know! I’ve never considered emotions like that before, so I don’t know how to respond to you.”

“It’s okay.” It’s not. Xingqiu grabs his arm with his hand, gripping tightly, as if that could act as some form of consolation. Stares down at the harbour, glowing with the light of a thousand lanterns, reminiscent of a thousand stars. “You don’t have to accept anything. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Xingqiu, I—” Chongyun stops himself, sighing. “Never mind. I… I don’t want to force you into anything. Just… you’re welcome to talk about it anytime. Things like this shouldn’t be rushed.”

Xingqiu barely hears his words. All that rings in his head is the I’ve never thought of you like that, the sugar-sweet rejection. Of course, of course, he should be thankful that they’re still friends. It’s a privilege to still be friends, no?

“Sorry,” he whispers, to Chongyun, to himself, his words lost to the wind. 

~ * ~

I like you.

The dizzying thrum of the confession has not yet worn off.

Not platonically.

A brilliant visage of a once dear friend; bathed in the fragile lights of paper-thin lanterns, a voice light and breathy like finely-spun silk — the way Xingqiu utters his confession embodies ethereal in every sense of the word. 

So he did think of him as a friend, no, more than a friend. 

Xingqiu liked him, liked him, likes him.

What does that mean? What should that mean?

Such a concept makes him giddy; dizzy in that tell-tale way of an oncoming yang energy onslaught.

No one has liked him before, and neither has he liked anyone. Chongyun isn’t quite sure how to react to this new shift in dynamic. Well… 

He’s not quite sure how to feel about this.

It’s shocking, probably, because he hadn’t expected Xingqiu to see him in such a light. And Chongyun hadn’t really considered their relationship steering into something more romantic. He’s not like Xingqiu — he doesn’t read novels, he’s stuck in the rigid path forward, the one laced with ice, steadfast and unwavering in how he single-mindedly chases spirits, and works on his exorcists. Things he used to consider frivolous and fleeting, all of a sudden, seem too real for him to casually brush off anymore.

Now that he’s forced to confront it, he has to morosely admit that he was wrong, and take back the callous statement he once made. Romance is something even the high and mighty Xingqiu can fall prey to.

And, of all people, Xingqiu falls for him.

The thought makes Chongyun bury his face in his hands — his face is heating up, no doubt. This is strangely embarrassing to think about. In fact, it makes him shy. 

He’s flattered — to think that Xingqiu, Xingqiu, regarded him this highly. He’s not quite sure what Xingqiu sees in him, but he’s flattered regardless. 

If he accepts, this means they’ll be dating, right?

But what is dating? He’s never dabbled in such a foregin realm, afraid of what it might spell for his pure-yang spirit. He frowns, trying to imagine what they would do if he accepts. They’d still be like friends, right? It’s not that big a change, he reasons. It should be fine if he accepts.

(What kind of excuse — Chongyun is just desperate to get closer to Xingqiu, even if it comes at the expense of himself.)

It’s not too bad, he tries to reassure himself. You’ll just meet Xingqiu tomorrow, make some small talk, and finally accept the confession and nothing bad will happen. No passing out, no nosebleeds, just a normal conversation.

It’s not like he has any grounds for rejection. He’s strangely okay with the idea of dating — but only with Xingqiu. He can’t seem to imagine doing it with anyone else, the things like hand holding, going on outings (dates, but that’s embarrassing to say), not with Xiangling, not with… anyone. Simply because Xingqiu isn’t just anyone — Xingqiu is his best friend, first and foremost. Xingqiu is someone he trusts with his life, Xingqiu is the only person he’s allowed himself to depend upon.

He hesitates again. Is this really the right thing to do: to accept, even if he doesn’t feel strongly for Xingqiu, doesn’t view Xingqiu in the same way Xingqiu views him?

Xingqiu won’t hate him for rejecting the advance, he knows as much. But the idea of rejecting Xingqiu leaves an ugly taste in his mouth — it’s like he himself dislikes the idea of rejecting him.

It must be because of their friendship, or something about this kinship they share. He could… He could learn, perhaps. Learn to love Xingqiu the same way Xingqiu loves him. He’s done it before, in the very first meeting with Xingqiu, where he learns that he can have friends without passing out or giving into primal urges — he can do it again.

And that’s something special, right? This is why there’s no one else more perfect for the subject of his romantic ruminations — because of Xingqiu’s unique position in his life, it’s only natural that Xingqiu gets something exclusive.

(Like the faintest whisper in the fragile wind: lover, it says.)

His hands are warm, he’s no doubt heating up, and he really ought to stop thinking about this lest he overheats again. And as he bites on his lip, worrying away at flesh, he thinks: Alright, then. If I’m going to be dating anyone, it might as well be Xingqiu.

(It has to be Xingqiu.)

~ * ~

Despite his master plan in place, nothing seems to go the way he planned it to. Xingqiu didn’t meet him the next day. Or the next. Or the next. In fact, it’s been a while since Xingqiu has sought out his company. And so, Chongyun has decided to take matters into his own hands.

He heads to their usual spot — Wanmin Restaurant, in hopes of finding Xingqiu there.

Jackpot.

Xingqiu looks more tired, less elegant, and more unkempt — his posture and bearing are a mess, as he slumps over the table, his novel and plate of food lying forgotten by his side. Chongyun feels a slight stab of hurt at how Xingqiu doesn’t even invite him out for a meal anymore — it would have been a good opportunity to finally give a proper reply to his confession, instead of leaving its verdict hanging and unanswered.

Chongyun enters, calling out for Xingqiu — he jerks up and looks around wildly in what must be fear.

Their eyes meet. Chongyun wants to close the distance, to sit down beside him and finally, finally, have a meal together, just like how they used to before the confession. Except, Xingqiu looks at him like a deer caught in headlights. “Chongyun?” his voice cracks, a broken whisper.

And before Chongyun can reach out to him, Xingqiu is gone, like water slipping through his fingers, and Chongyun is left all alone.

~ * ~

The next time they meet, Xingqiu isn’t as elusive. But Xingqiu is cold, awfully cold, and Chongyun can’t help but feel the burn that comes with such a distance. He’s quiet, focused on his novel, barely even sparing Chongyun a glance. Chongyun feels like he’s nothing more than decor, to sit idly by Xingqiu, not even worth a sliver of his attention.

“Xingqiu?”

A non-committal noise in response. 

“Are you…” He doesn’t know if it’s his place to ask. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is curt and clipped, and Chongyun flinches at the harshness. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, before he can offend Xingqiu more. 

“It’s fine.”

There’s another long stretch of silence. Chongyun finally realises just how bad he is at maintaining conversation, and how he had always relied on Xingqiu to fill up the silence. And now that Xingqiu is so withdrawn…

“I-Is,” he swallows nervously, trying to get Xingqiu to speak again. “Is something bothering you?”

Xingqiu only gives him a look, and Chongyun feels like the biggest idiot in all of Teyvat. “Is it the confession?” he asks, tentatively.

Xingqiu tenses up at the forbidden word. “What about it?” he snaps tersely, then immediately regrets his tone, seeing how Chongyun immediately deflates and shrinks away. Xingqiu wonders if this is it, if he has truly pushed Chongyun too far, and this is the breaking moment, the edge before their paths diverge and split into two, never to cross again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

What kind of game is Chongyun playing? Why does he bother with such nonsensical questions? Why does he care? Xingqiu hugs his knees again, unwilling to let such bad memories resurface. “Didn’t you already reject me?”

“Archons, no!” Chongyun settles into place beside him. “I just needed some time to figure my emotions out. It’s not everyday someone confesses to you.”

“So what’s the verdict?” Xingqiu wants him to just rip the bandaid off already, stop meandering about, beating around the bush and trying to sugarcoat things again. Just say: I don’t like you, and be over with it. It’s less painful for both of them. 

“I know I said I didn’t think of you that way before, and I really didn’t. I never saw you in a romantic light, but your confession made me… think a little.” There’s a light blush on his cheeks, as his hand comes up to rub the back of his head nervously. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that… I’m willing to give it a try. I-I’m new to all of these, you see, I’ve never really liked anyone before so I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel or react around them, I don’t even know how dating goes, but… but yeah. I… I’m available — if, if you’re okay with, you know… dating…” His voice grows smaller and smaller the more he rambles, but Xingqiu doesn’t care about any of that. His brain latches on to the hint of an acceptance. Taste of reciprocation. 

“You—” The words catch in his throat. “This isn’t some pity acceptance, is it?”

“What? No!” Chongyun bursts out, shocking himself more than it does Xingqiu. “No, no, I actually gave it a lot of thought. I’m not trying to spare your feelings or something like that, I genuinely, genuinely would like to experience it with you. I can’t imagine doing the same thing with anyone else.”

Xingqiu wants to believe. Yearns for that acceptance — yes, yes, yes, his heart chants. No, no, no, his brain says. It’s not true. You’ve manipulated him into this.  

“Are you sure?”

“Yes?” Chongyun seems confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to pressure you into anything.”

“You didn’t!” Chongyun sounds hurt that Xingqiu would even insinuate such a thing. “I came to that conclusion by myself.”

“Are you… sure…” 

“You keep asking me that,” Chongyun says quietly. “Do you regret it?”

Yes. No. I don’t know.

“No,” Xingqiu finally settles on an answer. “I don’t. I’m just afraid you will.”

“We can work it out together,” Chongyun promises. If Xingqiu can allow himself the littlest bit of delusion, then he can believe that Chongyun truly wants to date him too.

(You’ll be selfish? You will?)

“Promise me if you ever get uncomfortable you’ll tell me?” he eventually says, eyes closed and resigned. Lets his emotions win. 

“And then what?”

“We’ll stop, obviously. It doesn’t matter what I feel, you have to tell me. Promise me.”

Silence.

“I promise.” Then, “What about you? What if I don’t meet up to your expectations of me? What if I become too much for you? Would you do the same if you were uncomfortable?”

Xingqiu blinks, confused at the sentiment. “I will,” he says, carefully, unsure if he means it. 

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

And so they draw the first contract in their relationship. 

 ~ * ~

What does dating really mean? What is dating, if not just a title? Neither seems to have the answer, and neither is willing to ask anyone else about something so private. 

Holding hands, touching, hugging — they’ve done all these even before they were dating. Xingqiu is getting desperate to distance this new relationship from their old one, rushing to find a way to define dating in their context. 

(Pet names. Dates. Kissing.)

Except Chongyun is there to hold him back, to reassure him that it’s okay to take things slowly. They’re easing into things, and there’s no rush to do anything. 

(Even so. Even so, Xingqiu feels like there is a deadline to meet. He wants more, he wants more, more more more.)

He doesn’t want Chongyun to feel uncomfortable, so he chokes it all back. Waits, because he knows that a relationship is a two-way thing, and he cannot force it upon Chongyun if he is not ready. 

He yearns for… He yearns for, well, something. He’s not quite sure why there’s this ugly emotion brewing in his chest, and he’s even less certain on how to dispel it. Sometimes he sees other couples, holding hands, having fun. He wants to reach out and hold Chongyun, yet is afraid of how he would react. Would that make Chongyun uncomfortable? Is that just coercion, forcing him to partake in such things just to spare his feelings? 

Xingqiu hates the thoughts that follow, the snaking darkness that extinguishes all little notions of hope. It makes him feel utterly pathetic, disgusting, and useless — he wants to keep Chongyun forever and yet, he realises, he cannot. 

It’s strange, how a mere three months feel like three decades, maybe more, way more. Like three lifetimes — and he has to, he needs to remind himself to not get too far ahead. Because it’s only three months, too little to draw any conclusions, things can change, things will change.

(And when he thinks, he tries to prepare himself for the worst, he becomes the worst. There’s the lingering fear that, someday, somehow, all this, this this this is going to lose its magic and, and, he’ll never find the flutters in his stomach because only dread resides. He’s afraid. He’s afraid of Chongyun, of himself, of what will happen to him. He’s afraid of a future.)

Xingqiu realises this ugly side he can’t seem to cut out. This insecurity — that Chongyun might get bored and leave. He can’t ever tell Chongyun that, it would only pressure him to stay, to prove him wrong. 

He wonders what would be the tipping point for Chongyun — when would he finally leave? How would he go? 

(In his imagination, he sees this scene play out. Vividly, as if Chongyun were before him saying these exact words. “It’s not your fault, I just think we’re not a good match,” he says. He lies. Makes him believe for a second that he didn’t do anything wrong. But it’s his fault. It’s always his fault.)

What happens after that? Would they still be friends? Is that even possible? He’s heard ugly things, the crying, the screaming, the avoidance — would that be them? Is that how they would end up too? 

Suddenly, he wishes Chongyun would tell him what part of him he hates. He would kill it in a heartbeat, squash these unnecessary things, throw it away and never look back. It’s easier that way. Better for both of them. 

But Chongyun never says anything of the sort. Chongyun never lets him know of any flaws he has. Xingqiu doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong and all it does is fuel this insecurity that Chongyun is merely tolerating everything he’s doing. 

So he keeps this festering emotion inside; it festers because the more he tries to trim it, the faster and thicker it grows back. Returns with vengeance, out for blood. 

Maybe he jokes about it, casually, never makes it a serious topic. He holds on to the silent notion that making Chongyun worry is utterly pathetic, and he wouldn’t want to subject him to such ugly emotions. 

It bubbles up at the most random of times, fosters some sense of normalcy — I feel this and I don’t care. It slips out during training, crawls out during their walks, snakes out during dinner. It’s how Xingqiu copes, perhaps, desensitises himself to such icky emotions and pretends it no longer affects him. 

The thing is, Chongyun never laughs at such jokes. Usually people laugh at such things, possibly because they can empathise with them. Xingqiu brushes it off as his straightforward nature, dense and incapable of seeing things as the joke he meant them to be. 

Maybe, sometimes, he believes in them. There is comfort in saying it out, no matter how indirect. The gods, how do you stand me, that wonder when you’ll tire of me, this ah, maybe I’m too boring for you. No hard feelings if you leave me though, because I would do that too.

Chongyun replies seriously to all of these passing jokes. 

(I don’t stand you. “Stand” means I tolerate you and I don’t. I like you and the things you do.)

(I wouldn’t? I don’t know how you got such an idea in your head.)

(Why would anyone leave you? They’re blind if they do.)

Xingqiu just laughs (albeit awkwardly) and tactfully changes the subject. 

Perhaps Xingqiu goes too far with his jokes. Or perhaps this is the accumulation of all of them. For some reason, Chongyun finds out about everything he tries so painstakingly to hide. 

“Xingqiu,” he says, quietly. Gently. Seriously. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean?” he retorts. “It’s just a joke, come on.”

“Yeah, but…” Chongyun gnaws on his lower lip, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know. It’s not… it’s not funny.”

It’s not funny hurts. Xingqiu frowns. “Meaning?”

“I know you joke about things when, you know, you don’t want it to be treated seriously. But you don’t have to trivialise your feelings like that.”

Xingqiu laughs, awkwardly. “Huh? I’m not doing that.”

“You are.” Chongyun’s eyes dart away and he starts fiddling with his fingers. “You joke to make yourself feel less pain about it. But it hurts you still.”

For some reason, Chongyun hits everything on its head. 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he admits. “I thought joking about it would make it less serious.”

“But at what cost?”

And Xingqiu suddenly realises how careful Chongyun is in this relationship. How careful he is with his emotions. Xingqiu suddenly realises he does not know how to handle this situation at all. 

The silence lingers, so Chongyun takes it upon himself to soldier on and continue. “I’m sorry, I just… I just take your emotions rather seriously. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable or something, we don’t have to talk about it—”

“No, no,” Xingqiu rushes to cut him off. “We can talk about it, I’m just not used to talking about it and I didn’t know if you wanted to talk about it; honestly, it’s really stupid and stuff and I don’t think you should really care about it and—”

“Xingqiu.” The way Chongyun whispers his name is so painful, Xingqiu pauses and feels his heart stop. Shatter, perhaps, as though it’s been encased in Chongyun’s ice. Hauntingly chilling, these cold fingers reach out and seizes his fragile heart, squeezes, and wrenches it dry. The pain manifests itself in his eyes, and Xingqiu wills away the tears. 

“Yeah?” he says, steadying his voice. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, not here, not now.

“Your feelings are not stupid and I will always care about them. I care about you. They’re important to me. I want to know if you feel bad or feel poorly. I want to help you through them. Is that wrong?” Chongyun looks at Xingqiu like he’s helpless, like he’s the one in despair. “I don’t know. I don’t understand how you brush them aside and play them off as a joke so easily.”

“Chongyun,” Xingqiu says, sensing his distress. “It’s fine. I’ll get over it.”

“You don’t have to get over it,” Chongyun insists, some kind of weird stubborn quality etched into his voice. “If you’re afraid of making me worry, then tell me these things. I want to know them. I always want to know them.”

“Okay, okay, jeez. I don’t even know what you want me to say. What, ‘hi, I’m afraid you’re going to end up leaving me for unspecified reasons and that’s why I’m so insecure.’ Isn’t that a little too direct?”

“It works for me.”

Xingqiu sighs, feeling as if he’s losing some sort of hidden argument. “Okay then. Yeah, it’s that. It’s literally that. I keep thinking of ways we could break up and I wish it would stop.”

Silence. Xingqiu wonders if he’s gone too far with his monologue. 

“It’s easy to think that we’re going to end up in disaster and we’re gonna break up and it’s all crying and a mess, since it happens everywhere.” Chongyun begins, slowly. Wisely even, like he’s given this exact scenario too much thought and knows exactly what to say. “But I have no intentions of going anywhere, nor to anyone else.” Chongyun averts his eyes, looking away. Shyly, Xingqiu realises. He’s slightly embarrassed of himself. “I’ll stay here as long as you’ll have me.”

“Don’t you always know what to say,” Xingqiu offers a half smile, then reaches out to pull his cheeks. 

“Does this mean you feel better?” Chongyun looks at him with wide, expectant eyes. 

Xingqiu smiles at him, for real this time. “You always make me feel better.”

Chongyun chews on his lip, suddenly nervous. “I should do it more.”

“What you do is enough,” Xingqiu offers, hoping to placate him. 

“Not enough,” he insists. “Not enough if you end up feeling that way.”

“It’s stupid, honestly,” Xingqiu bites down on his words bitterly. “I don’t know why you care so much.”

“I care about you.” Chongyun inhales, and looks down at his hands. “I want to know what I can do better.”

Xingqiu realises how he’s not alone in such sentiments — except Chongyun hides it better than he does. Stews in his own emotions, and never lets it slip out. And all of a sudden he feels bad for joking about it — he should have had better self-control and held it in. 

“I don’t know,” he says, carefully contemplating his next few words. “I don’t really want to force you into doing anything.”

“You won’t. Don’t you trust me enough to make decisions for myself?”

Xingqiu sighs, realising that when pitted against emotions and Chongyun, he just can’t win. “Alright, but please, you don’t have to do any of these. I just wanted to, you know, do more couple-y things. Like go on dates! Hold hands! It feels like we didn’t move past the station of friends. I don’t know how this is supposed to feel special.”

“Sorry,” Chongyun says, weakly. “I don’t know if I could… actually do any of those things. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself and so… I just didn’t.” His voice grows quieter and softer and Chongyun looks so small now. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you or made you feel bad. I just don’t know if my yang spirit will ruin everything for us.”

There’s relief at the explanation given, that Xingqiu can finally go to sleep at night knowing the reason for such a distance. But now it feels awful — there’s concern and worry swirling together into a new ugly blend, tasting bitter on his tongue. He never knew this was how Chongyun felt, and suddenly he feels so so selfish. 

“You don’t have to apologise. It’s fine. Take your time — there’s no deadline, remember? You’re the one who said that.”

“Not when it makes you feel like that. I’ll work on it,” Chongyun says softly. “Can you give me more time?”

“We have all the time in the world, Chongyun. Don’t rush into anything.” Xingqiu wants to hug him, but hesitates. Would Chongyun even like such things?

Except there’s no need for him to even go on an overthinking spree — Chongyun leans into him and rests his head on his shoulder. It’s enough to dispel the cumbersome thoughts and worries. 

“I’m glad you told me this,” Xingqiu says, filling up the silence. “I’m glad I have a reason for the lack of contact. At least I know it’s not because of my inadequacy.”

“It’s my fault,” Chongyun insists bitterly. “And I’m glad you told me too.” He takes a deep breath, echoing his promise, “I’ll work on it.”

“It’s no one’s fault,” Xingqiu shushes him. “Stop apologising for things you can’t control. I don’t blame you, and I could never do that. I’m just happy you’ll have me.”

Chongyun makes a small noise of agreement. They stay like that for a while, getting used to this sudden contact they’ve never really had together. Xingqiu refuses to sit here and let time pass — refuses to waste any more precious moments on stupid and trivial things like his emotions. He pulls back, pulls away. Chongyun sits up in response, that confused tilt of his head. Xingqiu only smiles, and extends his hand. Waits for Chongyun to take it, and then leads the both of them out of his room and into the harbour — they head off to the outskirts of Liyue for their regular walks together. 

Xingqiu is happy to put the conversation behind them — he talks about the novels he’s read, tells Chongyun about stories he’s heard, spoils him a bit on the plays Yunjun has allowed him to see. 

It’s always something about the other — how they fall so easily to some unspoken routine. Cover up the raw pain and metallic blood with candy and flowers, pretending as if the moments of vulnerability never occurred. Is this a sign of their comfort, or a sign of their avoidance? 

Chongyun refuses to simply let it be, though. He knows Xingqiu would let it be, and so, it falls upon him to do something about it, plagued by his promise to do better. He spends most of the time trying to summon up the courage to do something, something, anything, but he never finds it in himself to reach out and hold his hand. He’s so scared of touching him, as if his desire might catch up to him and explode into flames. 

Chongyun can’t deal with the heat. He usually avoids such things. Watches them from afar.

Except now he knows how much that hurts Xingqiu. He has to overcome it. He has to do something. 

His inaction has dragged on, and now it’s close to the end of their time together. Xingqiu has a curfew to follow, and Chongyun isn’t someone of enough importance to hold him back. Maybe next time, he thinks, disappointed at himself. I’ll do it next time. 

They stare at the setting sun, that fiery red hue burning the sky, and Xingqiu sighs a line of poetry about the sight before them. Chongyun nods mutely, because he’s simply not as eloquent as him. He wonders if this pretty picture of the ending day would finally be enough to tip him over the edge and give Xingqiu what he wants. 

Xingqiu turns to leave, a quick “come on”, and that familiar tilt of his head. At the sight of the heir framed in golden light, Chongyun feels his mouth run dry, and the urge to hold Xingqiu in his arms grows fiericer, hotter, melding into a roaring inferno and thrums in his ears. 

And Chongyun finds it in him, some wild bravery he never knew he had. Scrambles to catch up to his retreating figure. Slips his hand into Xingqiu’s, and holds him tight. 

There’s a flash of surprise on Xingqiu’s face, but he doesn’t comment on it. He doesn’t have to. There’s no need for meaningless words. 

Instead, his only reply is to tighten his grip, and to not let go. 

~ * ~

Maybe it’s because of that talk, but Xingqiu begins to feel a slight change. A little shift. Not very noticeable at first, but because he’s always so aware of himself and his actions, he catches everything as it happens. The smallest of details don’t go unnoticed, as Xingqiu reviews himself and his actions in his nightly introspections, insomnia-fuelled overthinking that keeps him awake.

They start to hang out together more than usual, as if their past friendly-platonic-hang-out-not-dates weren’t already frequent enough.

Perhaps dating was just an excuse to spend more time in each other’s company — perhaps what they really wanted all along was to monopolise the other’s existence. Is that dating? Is that what defines a romantic relationship? Neither of them knows. 

He tries to recall the events that had transpired and mentally screams at himself for less-than-perfect responses and reactions, replaying scenes in his head, wondering how he could have done so much better and yet, did not. 

That laugh that sounded a bit too sharp now that he thinks about it— Or, or, how about him offering to do other things than simply repeating the routine they had fallen into, just hanging out for lunch, maybe dinner, then just doing their own things with idle chatter. It’s tepid, bland, boring — surely this gets tiresome after a while. 

He remembers silence.

Does silence mean that their relationship has gone stale? Is it getting too awkward, too boring? How is he supposed to counter this? Does he suggest they take it a step further? Be more daring, try other things that couples do that aren’t limited to hand holding? Chongyun doesn’t even call him by a pet name — is that some kind of sign?

He tries to remember such thoughts, tries to see how’s it’s like in the moments, and comes to the conclusion that it’s really not as bad as he had imagined it to be.

There’s silence, but silence means nothing when it’s together with Chongyun. 

There is comfort in just sitting together, no obligation to talk and fill the air with meaningless chatter. The both of them work on their own personal projects; Xingqiu reads his novel and Chongyun carves a talisman out of wood. 

Xingqiu thinks about their past, and juxtaposes it with the present. Things used to be so natural — now they’re careful, cautious. Chongyun can’t hold his hand in public anymore, and Xingqiu can no longer bring himself to use terms of endearment. He had been bad with expressing affection outside of teasing… but now it just seems worse. 

It takes a little coaxing, but eventually, Chongyun learns to lay his head on Xingqiu’s lap. And in turn, Xingqiu learns to lean his head on Chongyun’s shoulder. They’re relearning, retracing the steps of their friendship, except with slightly different implications in each action. Xingqiu can finally call Chongyun by a favoured nickname, and Chongyun can finally touch him without tensing up. 

Maybe it’s a progression, and not just regression; they’ve learnt to share their food, eat from each other’s plates They’ve learnt to share their space, indulge in the presence of the other — no shame, no shame, because now there’s the perfect excuse.

Yes, Xingqiu reasons. With each step backwards, they take three steps forward. And, logically, that should mean that disaster isn’t imminent, and that they can keep playing this game of dating. Two fools, who know not of what this contract entails, fumbling along until it somehow works out. It’s almost laughable, Xingqiu thinks, as his eyes trail from the pages of his novel to look at Chongyun, his eyes closed as he meditates. The talisman lies on the ground by his side, seemingly completed. There’s not much change, and yet, there is. It’s something he can’t put his finger on and it simply drives him insane.

(This thing he can’t dissect, can’t break down into pieces to stack into something more sturdy or coherent. There is insecurity in the lack of certainty and control.)

Silence rings in his ears, and he can’t help himself.

He reaches out, closing that distance between them. Indulges in the light gasp that escapes from Chongyun’s mouth, as his fingers find their way in his hair, fiddling with the ice blue locks.

“Sorry,” he says, smiling, yet not pulling away.

Chongyun blinks, as if confused as to why Xingqiu would reach out to touch him. He’s unmoving (he doesn’t tense up, at the very least), when Xingqiu presses his forehead to his, and then leans on him, reaching for the talisman.

“Is something the matter…?”

Always so formal. “Not really,” he says, flipping the talisman around to inspect it. “I was just bored.”

He hears Chongyun laugh, that quiet exhale of light amusement — “I didn’t know you could be bored with a novel by your side.”

(So there’s banter as well. He must have forgotten that, in his anxiety to search for cracks.)

“Don’t act like that,” Xingqiu pouts, finally bored of the wooden trinket. “There are other, more interesting things than my beloved novels.”

He sees the way Chongyun smile, pleased, and he immediately realises just how much Chongyun loves the confirmation that he means something to Xingqiu, even though it must be common sense by now. 

“You can have it, if you like it that much,” Chongyun offers, handing the talisman back to him.

Xingqiu opens his mouth to decline, the phrase I was just curious hanging on the tip of his tongue, but he changes his mind. If Chongyun needs reminders of just how much he’s worth, then Xingqiu will gladly remind him. He accepts it graciously, lips curling into a smile. “Thank you very much, my dear exorcist.”

He doesn’t miss the way Chongyun flushes at the words, nor the tiny mumble Chongyun says in response, so soft he thinks it might not have been meant for his ears: anything for you.  

(His smile widens, fractionally, as he locks this memory away, to remind himself why this relationship is not failing, and to reassure himself that all is fine.)

~ * ~

Love is found in warm meals. Even though he really wants to someday, Chongyun can’t enjoy such things.

So they come to a compromise for a date — hotpot. 

A simple dish concept, where a partition is placed in a pot, dividing it into two sides. Different soup bases can then be placed on either side, making it convenient should one desire a light soup base, and another, something spicier.

Chongyun feels bad for making Xingqiu wait for him to finish his meals after they cooled down. Not many places sell cold Inazuman meals, and it simply adds to the waiting time. Even though Xingqiu insists he doesn’t mind, Chongyun would rather not waste precious time like this. It takes Chongyun much deliberation to figure out a solution, but he is pleasantly surprised to see Xingqiu agree so readily. 

Xingqiu places reservations at Xinyue Kiosk (a feat Chongyun hadn’t known was possible, considering the long queue), and in less than a week they are there for their first official date. 

A date. It makes Chongyun slightly giddy in all the right ways. He asks for a bowl of iced water from the waiter, earning a weird look in his direction, but a simple glare from Xingqiu is enough to shut her up. 

They’re in their own private corner — clearly the guild has enough influence to allow for Xingqiu to get such a prime spot. He wonders how much he must’ve paid for this one meal together. Xingqiu smiles, tilting his head in that light, inquisitive way. “You’re overthinking again.”

“A-Ah…” Chongyun, caught off guard, fails to come up with a proper response. “Sorry. I should be paying attention to you.”

“So earnest,” Xingqiu giggles. “It’s alright. Come on, what do you want to eat?”

Chongyun stares at the menu and feels his mouth run dry. “I don’t have enough mora for this…” he protests, weakly. “I didn’t know it would be so expensive to eat here, I thought…”

“Oh, hush now,” Xingqiu rolls his eyes. “I asked you what you want to eat, not if you have mora.”

“B-But I can’t! You can’t pay for my food!”

“Yet all the other times, you let me treat you to a cold dish,” Xingqiu sighs dramatically. 

Chongyun flushes, confused at the sentiment. “Yes? But that’s because you were trying to cheer me up! I couldn’t possibly leech off you like this!”

“Chongyun,” Xingqiu leans his head on his fist, looking at him with those golden eyes. “You know mora isn’t an issue for me.” His eyes widen, that typical puppy-dog look he pulls so often, yet Chongyun never grows immune to it. “Won’t you let me spoil my boyfriend?”

My boyfriend. Chongyun hasn’t gotten used to such a phrase yet. He feels the spike in heat rushing up the back of his neck and colouring his face. He immediately averts his eyes and turns to the side, using his palm to cover the lower half of his face in shame.

“Do what you want,” he mumbles into the back of his hand, and Xingqiu beams so bright it looks like he’s just gotten the upper hand in a business deal. 

“So, what do you want?”

“I trust your judgement.”

Xingqiu arches a brow. “Is that so?” he purrs, looking rather smug. “Well then, I hope you enjoy whatever I get.”

“I’m not picky,” he grumbles. “But you better not order Jueyun chilis with everything…”

Xingqiu gasps, pressing a hand to his chest, affronted. “Chongyun! Surely you don’t think so lowly of me!”

For some reason, this makes him crack up, just a little. “I wouldn’t put it past you,” he teases, if only just a bit. 

“Fair point.” The waitress returns, and Xingqiu places a very lengthy order that makes Chongyun wonder what the total cost amounts to. But no matter how he tries to ask Xingqiu, Xingqiu just doesn’t tell him, replying in cryptic comments and slight shrugs. “You’d just try to pay me back, and I won’t stand for that,” is his only argument. Chongyun gives up after realising Xingqiu isn’t going to budge on his stand. 

The hotpot is prepared, and their ingredients finally arrive. Chongyun has the light soup base facing him, while strangely, Xingqiu had ordered mala… Chongyun recalls Xiangling’s avid recollection about eating such a dish — oh, it’s not really spicy, it just numbs the mouth! It’s even in the name, numbingly spicy! Chongyun had raised a brow at her sentiment, but declined the offer to try it anyway. And today, he faces that exact same fiend, wrinkling his nose at the Jueyun chilis floating around as Xingqiu stirs the concoction, that look of faux-innocence on his face. 

“Come on, dearest Chongyun,” he coos. “Don’t let my soup base scare you. Please, eat.”

Unsure of what’s to come next, he takes a slice of beef and dips it into the boiling soup, swirls it around for a minute before taking it out and dunking it in the bowl of iced water. 

He eats, chewing carefully, and catches Xingqiu giggle. He looks at him, confused, but Xingqiu does nothing much except close his eyes and deliberately put a slice of beef in his own mouth, looking rather serene. His lips curl up in a little smile, and Chongyun can’t help but anticipate that something bad is going to happen. 

The dinner happens uneventfully — they chat about normal, mundane things, no spicy disastrous cross-contamination, but Chongyun really can’t help but feel that Xingqiu is plotting something and he’s about to fall into some sick, sadistic trap. He shakes off these thoughts, willing himself to be grateful that Xingqiu even arranged them this date in the first place. It is Xingqiu who’s bearing the brunt of the cost, after all, and he really shouldn’t be doubting his intentions and ought to be thankful that Xingqiu is treating him so well. Not many would be this patient, he tells himself. He should find a way to pay him back — it’s simply basic courtesy.

“Say ‘aah’!”

Chongyun looks over to Xingqiu, then at the slice of cooked meat dangling from his chopsticks. His eyes narrow, unsure if it’s a trap or not. It looks normal, and there’s no steam, and he can’t feel any heat from it — there’s no signature oily red sheen of mala either, so it should be safe, right?

But that’s not the only thing holding him back. Having Xingqiu feed him is utterly embarrassing, and he hesitates a bit too long. 

“Come on, Chongyun,” Xingqiu cajoles. “My hand is getting tired.”

They’re dating, so this should be normal… right?

Chongyun can feel the heat rushing to his head, gathering at the tips of his ears — he leans towards Xingqiu’s chopsticks and takes a bite. Then, chokes, as that signature burn of Jueyun chilis hits his mouth. 

Turns out dating doesn’t exempt Chongyun from all of Xingqiu’s childishly cruel pranks. 

“You— Urgh!” Chongyun chokes, and sputters, reeling away. 

He hears distant laughter, and faintly wonders why he allowed himself to fall into such a trap. The heat muddles enough of his senses, and he slumps backwards onto the floor — he can’t even feel the pain from the impact. 

A cool hand brushes his cheek, and he jerks at the contact. His vision is clouding over with black dots, and he prays Xingqiu doesn’t let him do anything stupid on this one date they have.

The next thing Chongyun wakes up to is him lying in Xinqiu’s lap, with an insufferable smirk on the latter’s face.

“Hello,” he purrs, stroking his face. Chongyun forces himself to sit up, frowning at the way his head pounds.

“Ugh, my mouth feels numb…” Xiangling had been right, it was numbingly spicy. Chongyun presses his fingers to his lips, cringing. His tongue feels like it’s no longer there — how strong was the mala, really?

“What did I… do?”

“Nothing, really,” Xingqiu beams, and Chongyun really can’t find it in himself to believe him.

“Did I wreck the place?” A look around tells him no, but he can’t even begin to imagine anything he had done while completely uninhibited and unhinged. It looks rather neat, nothing seems out of place, no messed up plates and bowls strewn over the place, no broken table, no weirdly bent cutlery. 

The thing he worries about is that he had left the furniture alone and went off to harass someone. There’s no one else here other than Xingqiu— oh no. He immediately fusses over Xingqiu, checking if he had done anything to him — he remembers when he chased Xiangling with a claymore and can’t imagine doing the exact same thing to him. Xingqiu just giggles in response, letting Chongyun check for anything ripped cloth or injuries — none. Nothing, as if he didn’t pass out at all. Chongyun frowns, trying to rationalise an answer. 

“I’m all right,” Xingqiu reassures him gently, gaze soft. “See?’

Chongyun shakes his head, confused. “I don’t get it. Are you sure I’ve done nothing to you?”

“You checked, didn’t you? And did you see anything?”

“No…”

“Then I’m fine,” Xingqiu declares. “Don’t worry so much about it.”

“But I did do something, right?”

Xingqiu only smirks in reply. 

“I did!” Chongyun gasps, horrified. “What did I do? Xingqiu, come on, tell me. Xingqiu?”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Xingqiu practically purrs, with that insufferable grin on his face. Chongyun can’t help but feel like he did something ridiculously embarrassing while in one of his states, and that Xingqiu is just refusing to tell him anything just to tease him.

Try as he might, he can’t seem to get Xingqiu to tell him what had happened. Xingqiu just brushes it off, claiming it to be nothing of importance, but the smirk on his face tells him otherwise. 

Eventually, Chongyun comes to terms that he’ll simply never know what happened. His only source of comfort is that the area was a private one, and he really had no way of humiliating himself in front of other esteemed guests, losing both his face and reputation. Xingqiu always laughs at the most random of moments, and when Chongyun looks at him inquisitively, he just smirks and tells him: “I just remembered that time we had hotpot together.” That’s enough to shut him up, and have him look away, embarrassed and ashamed.

Xingqiu just laughs at his reaction, and teases him for it every time it happens.

(What Chongyun doesn’t know, is that he first tried extremely hard to impress Xingqiu, and was told that he should finish the leftover mala Xingqiu had in his bowl — and to Xingqiu’s utter surprise, he did. All while happily seating himself in his lap, drinking serving after serving as Xingqiu refilled the bowl again and again. Afterwards, he asked for Xingqiu’s hand in marriage, which Xingqiu claimed was a little too fast for them, which Chongyun whined about incessantly for fifteen minutes, listing off his achievements and bragging about his clan’s prestige and skill before draping himself across Xingqiu and then promptly passing out. There was no way Xingqiu would ever tell him about such things — he would simply apologise for months, all embarrassed and abashed, and Xingqiu would never be able to prank him again from sheer guilt.)

~ * ~

Chongyun hates the way his affliction becomes their affliction. Hates the way that his own weakness has now become a burden not to himself, but to someone else who doesn’t deserve it. Xingqiu doesn’t deserve this. And he, in turn, doesn’t deserve Xingqiu.

He covers his face with his hands, fingers curling into his fringe in despair. What did he do? Why did Xingqiu refuse to tell him anything? Xingqiu never refused to tell him what he did — Xingqiu never missed a chance to tease him about it either. Were his actions that unsavoury? What monstrous atrocities did he commit this time?

It’s only their first date, and he’s already fallen prey to such a curse. Who’s to say it won’t exacerbate? Who’s to say it won’t get worse?

It had been bad when he was in this alone, but somewhere along the way, the bad shifted to a mangeable. It was okay, because he was affecting no one but himself. He tries so hard to keep it under control, to rein in everything, and yet, he embarrasses himself, all over again. 

An inadequate partner. A broken lover. Who could love something so tragic? Something so abnormal? Who could stand to be by his side, as he works through his problems one by one, slowly? There’s no deadline, yes, but Chongyun also knows that patience has a limit. 

First, he neglects Xingqiu. And now when he tries… he messes everything up, just like how he knew he would have. 

It’s an ugly curl of rancid regret and sour sorrow — mixed and blends together in a blizzard that leaves him stranded. Leaves him all alone. Perhaps it builds up in his eyes, prickling at the corners — a pair of tears as if to mock his sorry, isolated state. Everything has its own other half, and meanwhile, he’s struggling to keep a hold on himself. And if he’s already struggling so much with something so simple, then can he really keep a hold on Xingqiu?

This situation is not unfamiliar, in fact, he’s grown used to it. Chongyun is good at handling these emotions — locks them away and just never comes round to feeling them. Because to feel is too dangerous, because who knows what kind of things he might do when he loses control of himself?

(Everything. If you lose yourself, then you’ll lose Xingqiu — first as a lover, next as a friend. This is why you lose everything. This is why no one stays.)

Push it away. Push it aside. It’s not like Xingqiu can help him with this — this is something he has to work through himself. Because no one else can help him overcome this. Because no one should help him overcome this. 

It’s his own burden to bear. He swears he’ll work through it, somehow, somehow. 

He will. He has to. If not for himself, then for Xingqiu. He can’t— He can’t have Xingqiu believe he’s the inadequate one. It’s not his fault. It was never his fault. 

(It’s mine, he thinks, cold and bitter. It has always been my fault.)

He’s tired. He doesn’t know how else to continue, what else should he do, how can he just not screw up anymore.

He bites his lip, so hard he thinks it might split. Let it break, let it bleed — if only the cure to his problems were this simple. 

Chongyun takes a deep breath. Exhales. Another deep breath. He continues this cycle until he’s calmed down enough, and shoves all his emotions into a pretty little blue box, which he locks and throws the key away. He stands up, with some strange resolution, simply because there’s no more time to waste on his own problems. There’s an expedition soon, and this might be the one chance to prove to himself, that he’s okay, that he’s capable of doing one thing right, in this pitiful existence of his. 

But when he stares at the spread of intel on his table, he realises that his vision is too blurry for him to focus on anything, other than the doubling of words, and the way tears drip onto the papers and bleed through ink.

Chongyun isn’t strong enough for this. He wavers, yet again, lost with no anchor, with no guide.

Today, the wind blows in, harsh and cold, and Chongyun is swept away, a flurry of indecipherable papers in his wake.

~ * ~

Chongyun frets over his newest expedition, another one of his common, habitual routines, but to Xingqiu, it’s not truly the same expeditions he used to embark on.

Xingqiu helps him, properly this time — sieves out proper information and intel with regards to evil spirits. He knows how happy it’ll make Chongyun, so he sets aside his pranks and goes to help him fulfill his dreams. 

Every intel is a step closer; if he closes his eyes he can imagine the smile when he returns, saying how he sensed traces of an evil spirit, and that he’s getting closer to achieving his goal. No need for useless hunts, not anymore. The taunting can take place in other forms, other places — not something Chongyun values so much. Not something Xingqiu wants to see him succeed in. 

“How was it?” Xingqiu asks, as a way of greeting.

Chongyun flushes, avoiding Xingqiu’s expectant gaze. “I tried my best to look for it, but I wound up missing it by a hair anyway,” he says, abashed. 

“That’s all right,” Xingqiu tries to cheer him up, slinging an arm around his slumped shoulders. “There’s always a next time. Now, time for your reward!”

“Re-Reward?”

“For all your hard work!” Xingqiu has already taken to dragging him towards Wanmin Restaurant, and Chongyun only sputters in confusion.

“But I didn’t even see it!”

“That does not negate the dedication and effort you put in,” Xingqiu lectures him, sternly. “You need some encouragement and I shall provide it.”

Some new, cold Inazuman dish — a sashimi platter which makes Chongyun perk up in all the right ways. Xingqiu smiles fondly, willing to spend any amount of mora on things as long as they  make Chongyun happy. Xingqiu slides the shredded radishes to Chongyun, and takes a slice of tuna, popping it in his mouth — it’s ice-cold and refreshing, and he sees why Chongyun would enjoy such a meal.

And when he looks at Chongyun, all relaxed and the failure of his expedition put behind him, Xingqiu can’t help the swell of joy that rushes over him, knocking right over, as his palms cradle the too-fragile vibrations of Chongyun’s laughter, and his fingers trace the curve of Chongyun’s smile. 

~ * ~

It’s the little things, they suppose. It’s the little things that make up dating. 

There’s no need for some grandiose affair, no need to shout it out to the entire harbour, entire Liyue, entire Teyvat. It’s enough to sit by each other. It’s enough to leave behind a little note and a container of food. It’s enough to get a single box of tea, or maybe an ornate comb with the symbol of a phoenix entwined around its spine.  

Sometimes Xingqiu likes to give a little more. Splurge a little bit, because Chongyun has given him so much and he deserves whatever fancy gift Xingqiu has in mind. 

Xingqiu is, surprisingly, kinder. Chongyun has made him kinder. In his attempt to help Chongyun to get everything he deserves, Xingqiu realises the care he is capable of. Realises that he has the capacity for gentleness, just like Chongyun. Realises that, because of Chongyun, he’s become better. For him, it’s for him, because he wants so badly to see Chongyun happy.

More treats for failed expeditions, because he just wants to cheer him up, because he deserves it after a long time out working hard, because he ought to have a break.

It’s not just pleasantries. Xingqiu comes to the realisation that he means every word he says.

It’s small, shifting from how he finds it harder to tease Chongyun, how he’s no longer able to give him false intel, and now, how when he says he loves the time they spend together, he means it. It’s not like he puts on a diplomatic smile, like what he does with the numerous businessmen flocking to the guild doors, chattering away about boring talk of sales and stocks, no, Xingqiu smiles because that’s what Chongyun deserves. 

Xingqiu is a chivalrous man. And chivalrous men make sure that their partners are never left behind.

It starts out small, like nudging Chongyun in the right direction, away from all those fake intel people offer him in exchange for his mora. Advises Chongyun before he can get swindled yet again, makes sure to glare at them from the corner of his eyes just before they leave. 

Then, a little bigger, like listening more in meetings to hear of the latest gossip and rumours, something someone spirits somewhere, and then verifies it for himself. Interviews the person carefully before letting Chongyun know about such hauntings.

Then, a collaboration. Chongyun and Xingqiu, working together on a project, their project. Exchanging intel they’ve received, cross-referencing and interviewing — they do it together simply because they’re a team.

Weeks of planning, because Xingqiu is meticulous like that and absolutely refuses to let Chongyun fail again. Chongyun had looked on nervously, trying to help in whatever way he could.

It’s a joint effort. Xingqiu doesn’t just give him a tale, doesn’t just say a few lines and send him along his way. Chongyun hadn’t realised it then, but now, he comes to the realisation just how much Xingqiu has done for him. How Xingqiu sifts through news articles and rumours to give him a proper lead, and now, Xingqiu is beside him, interviewing others alongside him, following him along, as far as the Guild will allow him to go.

Chongyun would have liked for Xingqiu to follow him for this expedition as well; considering the amount of effort Xingqiu put in, he deserves to at least see the cumulation of his efforts. Except Xingqiu has his own duties to tend to. A reminder that Xingqiu has other things outside of him, and he can’t just monopolise Xingqiu as he likes. 

No matter. For Xingqiu, he’ll succeed. He’ll do them both proud. 

Dusty roads and dirty books — Chongyun heads out for field work while Xingqiu stays back and researches on any past sightings. A collaborative effort — that’s what dating is, right? A team task, where two people come together as partners to work on something together. 

And sometimes, the something is the relationship. Sometimes it’s love. Other times, it’s dreams and aspirations. Whispers of ambition. 

The hiss of wind. The scuttling of leaves across the earth. The dripping of water into a pool. The creeping sensation of yin energy filling the air. Wuwang Hill is indeed a good place to find spirits, he can feel it, cold and slimy, slithering along his bones and worming its way into his heart.

If he can feel it that strongly, then that must mean the spirit is strong. Strong enough to affect him to this extent.

His heart flutters, from anticipation and fear. Is this it, then? Where an exorcist can finally see a spirit, and use his skills to vanquish it?

The further he wanders, the colder it gets. The air is damp, with the fleeting will-o’-wisps avoiding him and his abundance of yang energy. It parts for him, his burning heat in the chilling cold, like a curtain drawn back to reveal the sun. He calms himself down, wills his heart to slow — calm down, calm down, or you’ll scare it away.  

He walks, slowly, carefully, approaching the source — he can’t afford to scare it, not until he has gotten a good look of the spirit. What is it? Would it be human? Would it be monstrous? Is this finally where his family legacy can continue, where he can finally add in something that isn’t just a figment of his imagination?

This fuels him, and he continues onwards, careful as ever. No twig-stepping, no tripping and falling — eyes forwards and never straying from the goal. 

He’s getting closer. He’s there. He can feel it. He can feel it. 

He can see it, vague images in his mind. A mass of darkness, leaking purple-blue hues of yin energy. A distorted humanoid shape, plotting its vengeance on the innocent citizens of Liyue. He can taste it: the sweetness of victory, of how close he is to finally seeing it, and then, vanquishing it with his own skills.

He feels a spike of yin energy, sending chills down his spine. It’s there, it’s just there, just a little more—

It immediately diminishes, and Chongyun knows this sign. Chongyun had felt it a million times, the tell-tale way a spirit flees from him, dissipating away into something he can no longer sense.

Panic sparks. He runs towards the disappearing energy, hand out and reaching, grasping, for something, for something, for what? The spirit is faster than he is, and all he feels is the weakening of energy, no matter how hard he pushes himself, no matter how fast he runs, no matter how quickly he chases. 

And when he runs to the spot where he had last felt the spirit, it’s empty, save for the darkness of the night and the lonesome trees looming over him. 

~ * ~

He returns.

He feels so ashamed, as if he doesn’t have the right to do so. Why return, as the bearer of bad news? Why come back, and humiliate the both of them further? After everything they’ve done together, he still fails. After all that hard work, after all those hours and late nights and interviews, he missed it. He had been right there. If he had been a little more careful, a little more stealthy, a little more, a little more, little more—

He’s Xingqiu’s first failure. 

Xingqiu, who brought the Guhua Clan back up after its declination. Xingqiu, who always found a way, no matter what. Xingqiu, the prodigy, with his perfect streak. Failing, and it’s all because of him. 

That notion stings. 

His face is set, betraying none of his emotions. He had locked it up, carefully, an icy facade that it’s fine, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.  

Xingqiu is already waiting for him, and that makes him feel so bad, because he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. How disappointed would Xingqiu be if he found out? How terrible would the aftermath be?

“Chongyun!” he calls excitedly. “How was it?”

He can’t bring himself to say it, but he also can’t bring himself to lie.

“I sensed its presence,” he starts, nonchalantly, unaffected by whatever emotion he might be feeling. “It was in Wuwang Hill, just as you said it would be.”

Xingqiu beams, proud. “And then?” he prompts, waiting for more. Anticipating his success, a success Chongyun cannot offer him.

His throat closes up, but he finds a way to choke the words out. “It was really strong. You should have been there, that amount of yin energy was something I’ve never experienced before.”

By now, Xingqiu’s face twists into one of suspicion. Chongyun knows that he has been stalling for too long. He can’t avoid it any longer. He breaks eye contact with Xingqiu, looking away at something that is suddenly far more interesting than their conversation. 

“I-I—” his voice breaks. “I didn’t see it.”

This is a far cry from his usual behaviour. During such failed hunts, he’d usually flush, look away, abashed and ashamed at his ineptitude. Tell Xingqiu about how he tried to look for it, spent a sum on intel, only to just miss it. 

None of that. Today the only thing he offers are four words. The only thing he can offer. His throat is tightening and when he looks at Xingqiu’s face full of concern, he breaks. 

For once, Chongyun cries over a hunt. 

Perhaps it’s because of the vested effort. Now, he disappoints not only himself, but also Xingqiu. The one person he doesn’t want to disappoint — and yet, he failed. 

The disappointment hits heavily — Xingqiu doesn’t even offer to treat him to a cold meal, just pulls him in close and lets him cry. 

There’s no steadfast nature in this. There’s no rebound, no next time. This is a deep pit of inadequacy and Chongyun lets out a guttural cry of anguish because he hates it so much. What else is left? What else can there be to this? How, after so much effort, from him, from Xingqiu, could he possibly fail?

(It’s no longer his affliction. It’s now their affliction.)

Xingqiu, the heir, the talented, the prodigy. Brought to his knees, simply because of Chongyun’s ineptitude. His first failure — Chongyun. Trying to help someone who cannot be helped. Save someone who cannot be saved. 

He lets Xingqiu lead him away, follows him wherever he wishes to go. Xingqiu wraps an arm around him, shielding him from onlookers, hurriedly bringing him somewhere more private.

Chongyun wipes his tears, but they keep coming, and he keeps gasping for air because it’s just not enough as he sobs, and sobs, and sobs.

He hates this. He hates this so much. He just wants to stop crying, stop making Xingqiu feel bad because of him. This kind of burden, he doesn’t want to put it on Xingqiu. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve this. 

Chongyun takes a deep breath, wiping his face, willing the tears to stop. Xingqiu seats him on the floor in a little alleyway, somewhere dark and gloomy and no one would wander near. And Xingqiu, Xingqiu should look disappointed, upset, or even angry, but when Chongyun looks at his face through blurry eyes, all he sees is concern.

Ah, it feels bad. 

Xingqiu pats his shoulder, letting him cry. Tells him to let it out of his system.

But enough of crying. Chongyun calms himself with deep breaths, locks his emotions away, preventing it from spilling out again. 

Xingqiu holds him close. “Better?”

“Mhmm.”

They don’t move away after that, Xingqiu keeps him close and Chongyun stays there, because he needs it. He wants this. And Xingqiu knows that. They’ve been together long enough to know exactly what the other wants and needs. And Xingqiu knows that Chongyun, in his most vulnerable moments, wants validation. Needs support. Needs to be told that it’s okay that he had failed and that there’s a next time, it’s okay, they’ll figure it out together, just as they’ve always done.

“I’m proud that you tried,” Xingqiu says, softly. “I don’t know how you find it in yourself to keep going, despite everything going against you.”

Chongyun remains unnaturally silent, and Xingqiu hopes that he didn’t say something wrong. 

“I don’t know what you see in me,” Chongyun mumbles, looking away. 

For some reason, Xingqiu looks at him, and sees all his insecurities staring back. Is there comfort in the way he knows he’s not alone in this? Or is there hurt and sadness in the way he knows he’s not alone in this?

Xingqiu’s heart wavers, painfully.

(Was this how Chongyun felt?)

He reaches out, holds his face, directs Chongyun’s gaze back to him. “Everything, Chongyun. Your kindness, your determination, your faith — everything.”

“I’m just a normal person. I’m just a normal boy.”

“Not to me,” Xingqiu breathes. “Not to me.”

“I’m lacking in so many things.”

“And I am as well.” Xingqiu leans forward and brings their foreheads together. “We are all lacking, in some aspect, in some area, aren’t we?”

“Well, yes—”

“Chongyun.” The way he says his name makes him stop. “You would never let me say such things about myself. Why do you do it too?”

“I don’t know.” 

Chongyun is crying, again, and Xingqiu gently wipes his tears away with his thumbs. Pulls him in for a hug and rests his head on his shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Xingqiu says, patting his back. “I get it. That ‘how did I ever get with someone like you’ sentiment. I see a lot in you, Chongyun. You’re gentle, you’re strong, you do what is right. You teach me so much, teach me so many things. You make me a better person, Chongyun. You make me want to be a better person, for you. You mean so much to me, Chongyun, I would never trade you for anything else.”

“I don’t see it,” he sobs. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, I see it,” Xingqiu insists. “You’re the kindest and sweetest and the most loving person I know. You inspire me in so many ways. You might not see it, but I assure you: it’s there. It’s some inherent quality you have. Perhaps you’ve grown used to it and think it mundane and something expected of you, but believe me, you’re so many things at once. You might think you’re lacking, but I think you’re enough. You’re more than enough for me.”

And Chongyun just cries into his sleeves, hands gripping onto his coat. Xingqiu pats him, strokes his hair, whispers little bits of poetry he constructed just for him, unfinished lines that can never truly capture the true essence of the exorcist that lies in his arms. 

Somewhere, Xingqiu hears a little whisper of a thank you. He smiles, and continues telling Chongyun about how much he means to him, and all the ways Chongyun is very much enough.

~ * ~

Love is found in absence. 

Perhaps not love, but longing. Silent, quiet, cold. Perhaps it is in such moments that they truly realise the extent of how much they want to be with each other. 

There are days Xingqiu cannot leave his house, for his commerce guild duties bind him tight and refuse to let go. There are weeks Chongyun disappears with the wind, a travelling exorcist wandering freely in search for another spectre, some ghostly spirit he can never touch. 

To one, the harbour is a tether of tightening lineage. To the other, the harbour is a home they’ve never had. 

And so, they find ways to make up for it. Lost time and empty winds — they stay out until the blazing sunset settles into an inky twilight. Tangle their legs together on the bed, as if that’ll keep the other one for the night. Intertwine their hands, as if that’ll get the other one to leave for the day. 

Perhaps that is also why Xingqiu and Chongyun are inseparable. Even in their pre-dating days, this is a notion well-known by the both of them — time is transient, is temporal; like the skittering of stones on the sea they both throw, as they compete just whose rock skips the furthest before sinking into its watery grave. 

“I win,” Chongyun declares. 

Xingqiu pouts. “You’re a claymore wielder,” he whines. “It’s not a fair fight. Hardly chivalrous of you at all.”

“Stone skipping needs technique too,” Chongyun points out. “It’s not all just about strength.”

Xingqiu sticks his tongue out childishly, hurling his last rock into the sea. It just sinks into the murky depths, and disappears from view. “How’d you even get it to skip five times? That’s so unfair.”

“Luck, I suppose,” Chongyun muses, mulling over the question seriously. “Or a really good stone. My usual technique allows my stone to skip three times, two if I’m unlucky. Maybe it was more flat this time? I hear it helps with the distance covered. Or maybe it was the— Eh?”

“Oh, you,” Xingqiu laughs, taking Chongyun’s face between his hands and squishing it. “Always so serious. So stoic.”

It takes Chongyun five solid seconds to realise that he had seriously answered a rhetorical question. “Oh.”

“Anyway,” Xingqiu’s voice dips low. “I’m glad we can hang out one last time before you go off again.”

“I’m sorry,” Chongyun says, suddenly bashful. “I wish I didn’t have to go.” A stuttering heartbeat. “I wish I could’ve taken you along.”

Xingqiu closes his eyes and brings their foreheads together. “I’ll miss you,” he says, like it’s their final parting. It really isn’t, he knows it isn’t, but it feels just like it. “Please take care of yourself.”

“And you stop running off to where Master Xu can’t find you,” Chongyun teases, earning himself a dramatic gasp from Xingqiu, acting like he’d just been shot. 

“Cruelty!” he cries out. “To take a jab at me at my most vulnerable of moments! You’ve ruined the moment, dear Chongyun, I can’t believe you’d say something like this just before we separate! How unromantic!”

Chongyun giggles. “Alright. I’ll miss you.” He raises his arms hesitantly, but it’s Xingqiu who closes the gap between them, hugging him tightly. “Take care of yourself,” he insists. “No sleeping in the rain. No hiking to Dragonspine just to see an evil spirit. No starving yourself for days on end just to catch a glimpse of some ghost.”

Chongyun’s gaze softens. He pats Xingqiu’s back in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Yeah,” he says, voice thick. “It’s not to see a spirit anyway. Just learning more thaumaturgy and martial arts for exorcism.” He lets his thoughts drift, just a little. “The master I’ll be meeting is a renowned exorcist. I’ll do my best to learn from him on this journey.” 

“And come back stronger than ever,” Xingqiu finishes the thought for him. “Don’t let me hold you back.” He pulls away, smiling at him. “Go and prep your things. Go forth and conquer, my beloved exorcist.”

Chongyun flushes red. “You’re always like this,” he grumbles. “I’ll grab my things and leave soon. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Xingqiu smiles serenely, but inside, he knows just how long the days will be in Chongyun’s gaping absence.

And barely twenty-four hours later, Xingqiu finds himself missing Chongyun’s ever so elusive presence. 

He sits by the harbour, legs dangling off the edge. The afternoon sun is heady and beats down on him heavily — faintly, he wonders how Chongyun is coping with the heat. Is his yang energy flaring up? Does he have anyone next to him to cool him down? Is he doing okay?

Xingqiu frowns to himself. Fiddles with a smooth stone in his hand, then throws it the way Chongyun had taught him — it bounces, twice, thrice. A swell of pride, like the rise of the ocean waves, cresting at its zenith — Xingqiu tries again with glittering eyes and steadier hands. 

Look, Chongyun, he thinks, smugly. I can do it too.

And when Chongyun returns, the first thing Xingqiu does is to drag him to their usual spot in the harbour, with a small pile of stones he’d gathered in preparation for Chongyun’s arrival. “Here, watch.”

And he replicates his sweet, sweet, victory; and it pales in comparison to Chongyun’s smile. 

“See?” he says, as if proving a point. “It’s about the technique.”

“Maybe,” Xingqiu rolls his eyes, and tosses another stone, watching it skip. “I think it’s because you taught me, though.”

Chongyun makes a small huff of laughter, but when Xingqiu peeks at his face, it’s tinted red. 

“Come home with me,” Xingqiu says abruptly, standing up. 

Chongyun looks up at him, shocked at the forward question. 

“Not like that,” he corrects, his turn to blush. “I just have something to give you.”

And on the way to Xingqiu’s house, Chongyun notes how the other gets more and more jittery. More skittish, deep in thought and most definitely plotting something. Chongyun recognises it in the way Xingqiu’s brow furrows, or the way he subconsciously brings his thumb to his lip and gnaws on the nail. 

Xingqiu is worried about something, but Chongyun isn’t sure if it’s his place to ask what he’s worried about.

Xingqiu leads him to his room, ushering him in and blatantly ignoring the pointed stares the maid gives the both of them. 

He then shuts the door behind him, breathily heavily. Then, bursts out into laughter. 

“Oh, that was hilarious,” Xingqiu says, wiping away nonexistent tears. “The way the maids looked at us all funny — is my dear Chongyun that fine a specimen?”

“Stop that,” Chongyun grumbles, face red. “It’s all your fault, acting so blatantly suspicious like you had something to hide. That’s why we were getting those looks.”

“And can you blame me?” Xingqiu practically purrs, and Chongyun just knows he’s teasing him. “I missed you terribly,” Xingqiu begins, all theatrics. “So much so that I could barely sleep nor eat, that all my thoughts were consumed with nothing but y—”

“Get to the point, Xingqiu,” Chongyun smiles, poking his sides. 

Xingqiu squeals in response, jerking away. “You heathen! Mean, mean man! To treat me so cruelly while I’m about to offer you a gift!”

“You still haven’t told me what the gift is,” Chongyun points out. 

“Ah.” Xingqiu flushes red, mellowing down. “S-See, I’ve been meaning to find a good opportunity to ask you of something and never really had one, and thought that now would be a very good time to be direct.”

Xingqiu backs him up until he is flush against the wall with nowhere to run, leaning in close, close, close. “My dear exorcist,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut. “This is my welcome back gift for you.”

Xingqiu’s heart pounds at their proximity — he’s worried Chongyun won’t be able to take it, he’s worried Chongyun might decline, and tell him no, and that he’ll never get the chance to do this.

“Can I kiss you?” he breathes, his heart stuttering with every beat of finally finally finally. 

“Yes,” comes an equally hushed reply. 

There’s a giddy rush of heat, and Xingqiu feels his heart soar with the utter joy the acceptance brings. He takes his face in his hands, feels the way Chongyun tenses up as he brings them closer, closer, closer...

Their lips meet, and Xingqiu feels Chongyun immediately relax. And then his whole weight is on him, as Chongyun slumps into his arms, overheated and passing out from the excessive yang energy coursing through his veins. 

Xingqiu understandably freaks out. 

“Chongyun? Chongyun! Oh Archons, oh no…” Xingqiu carefully holds Chongyun up and sets him down on the bed. He hadn’t truly expected Chongyun to pass out on him like that: an unfortunate oversight on his part, as he now scrambles to find a place for Chongyun to rest and for something to cool him down with. 

He lays Chongyun on his bed, and sneaks out to get a towel and a tub of iced water. He really doesn’t want anyone to find out about this, and doesn’t call the maids to help him. When he returns, Chongyun is still blissfully knocked out in the exact position he had left him in. He dips the cloth in the cold water, and folds it neatly, brushing Chongyun’s fringe back and placing it over his forehead. Chongyun is warm, very very warm, and it reminds of the time he ran a fever after returning from an expedition in Dragonspine. 

This feels strangely familiar, Xingiqu replacing the towels, Chongyun squeezing his eyes shut and breathing heavily; if Xingqiu recalls correctly they were at Chongyun’s house, and not his own. He prepares another one, wringing out the water and swapping the towels when he feels the other one get too warm.

This continues until Chongyun wakes up, and the first thing he does is grin.

That shouldn’t affect him as much as it does. Xingqiu ignores the way his stomach swarms with butterflies and opts to fuss over him instead. “Welcome back, Chongyun. How are you feeling? Are you okay? Anything you need? Water?”

“Xingqiu,” he whines, eyes half-lidded and looking way too hot for his own good.

“Also: why did you say yes!” Xingqiu’s tirade continues, ignoring him and replacing the towel with a cooler one. He really ought to scold him for being so impulsive and careless! “If you weren’t ready, you could have told me!”

Chongyun, half drunk and dazed, grins up at him with the goofiest smile ever, hands reaching up to catch his face. “Wanna kiss you,” he slurs, trying to tug Xingqiu down. 

Xingqiu effortlessly breaks out of his grasp, setting his arms down by his side, earning the grumpiest pout. Chongyun crosses his arms and looks away, huffing like a child in his little temper tantrum. 

“Kiss me when you can actually control yourself,” Xingqiu chides. “You’re going to overheat and pass out again.”

“Now,” Chongyun whines. His yang-inebriated state really does make him more honest — Xingqiu can’t remember a time Chongyun has ever acted like this. 

He swallows. “Okay,” he says, slightly selfish. Tucks his hair behind his ear and leans down. And then Chongyun’s arms are snaking around his neck and tugging him down — he holds him in place against his lips. Xingqiu feels the heat from Chongyun’s body, feels the giggles rumbling through his chest, feels his heart beating fast and furiously. He pulls back, and Chongyun, satisfied, looks up at him with flushed cheeks and curved eyes. There’s a silly smile on his lips, which makes Xingqiu want to kiss him again, but he knows he really shouldn’t. 

“Okay,” he says, with more finality in his tone, standing up to switch the towels. “Enough for today.”

“Did I do good?”

Chongyun’s eyes are wide and expectant, like he wants praise or something. Xingqiu offers a resigned smile, placating him. “Yes, you did.”

It’s hours later before Chongyun finally returns to his senses, where the sky blazes with all forms of colour that Chongyun has learnt to associate with Xingqiu. 

He apologises, again, for the hundredth time, for ruining the kiss and everything; and Xingqiu, with the patience of a million saints, replies to him a hundred times on how it’s not his fault, and never will be.

“I’ll work on it,” he declares, a familiar phrase. 

Xingqiu laughs, mirthful and amused. “If that’s what you want,” he says. Runs a loving hand down the side of his face. “Time for you to return home, my dear Chongyun.”

He nods. As much as he hates to leave again, especially so soon after they’d just met and reunited, duty calls. He ought to return to his clan and give them an update on his expedition and lessons with the famed exorcist. “I love you,” he says, as a way of farewell. 

Xingqiu only smiles, and doesn’t say it back. Chongyun lingers, hoping to hear the recuperation — and he does. Xingqiu begins awkwardly — despite his scholarly mind, Xingqiuis terrible at saying such simple three words. 

(Chongyun doesn’t mind, not really. It’s just that it’d be nice to hear him say it back sometimes.)

“I… love you.”

Chongyun beams, radiantly like the sun — “I love you, too,” he says, before leaving Xingqiu’s house and heading to his own. 

He presses his fingers to his lips; he wonders how the kiss had felt like, before his yang energy had overtaken him and stolen every last memory of the experience. Was it light and loving? Hard and needy? How much had Xingqiu restrained himself for his sake?

His fist clenches uselessly by his side. He has to do something, something, something, anything. Xingqiu deserves better. Xingqiu deserves more. 

He walks home, and his pace quickens until it turns into a brisk walk, and then he breaks into a run — he runs, as if that would help his escape from all his problems and insecurities. They catch up to him, the same way the night catches up to the sun after a sunset — inevitable, dreadful, lonesome. 

Xingqiu, Xingqiu, Xingqiu.

And this sunset, in all its fiery glory, echoes his silent refrain. 

~ * ~

Love is found in the lanterns they release, in the fire that flickers just like the stars, in the light that dances off the waves of the sea. 

This time, this isn’t as nostalgic. This isn’t as romantic. Something about the stars and fires and lights make them seem more muted, clouded over by some haze of chilling anxiety.

Their anniversary draws near. The weight of Chongyun’s own promise (to himself, and to Xingqiu) is heavy, and he wants it to be special. He wants to give Xingqiu what he deserves.

He might have enjoyed Lantern Rite all those years ago, but this time, there’s slight dread, the pooling sensation of inadequacy, a tumultuous torrent that threatens to drag him under. Some sense of urgency; I have to do something, something, something. He doesn’t know what there is he can do, without messing up. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever be enough for Xingqiu.

Of course Xingqiu would say it’s enough. But Chongyun also knows he deserves better. Chongyun knows he deserves more.

His handmade lantern lies in his grasp, as he traces the paper gently, as if contemplating the wish he wants to write on the stick. Truth to be told, Chongyun doesn’t spend as much time thinking about his wish. He already knows what he wants. 

This year, Chongyun is a little selfish. He doesn’t spend his wish on Xingqiu, nor does he spend it on his family. He spends it on himself — to overcome my pure-yang spirit. He wants so badly to remember, to keep the moments he spends with Xingqiu. He wants to able able to hold hands, kiss, go on dates without his stupid yang energy botching every attempt. He wants Xingqiu to have an actual functional partner who doesn’t black out the moment they try to get intimate. He can only imagine how frustrating it must be — if he’s already so frustrated with himself, then what about Xingqiu, who must also tend to him, who must also suffer something he was dragged into?

There’s some wild desperation. Will this finally allow him to be adequate? Will the adepti hear his wish, feel this despair and fear? Will they finally grant this one wish of his? And, if not for him, will they do it for Xingqiu?

When they release their lanterns, Chongyun doesn’t even turn to ask Xingqiu what his wish is about. He thinks… He thinks that he has no right to ask about it anymore.

“Chongyun…?” Xingqiu asks, quietly, concerned. 

He just offers a tight smile in response, and hopes that Xingqiu doesn’t comment on how it doesn’t reach the corners of his eyes. 

As a distraction, he slips his hand into Xingqiu’s, and drags him into the wilderness, a promise of an adventure on his lips. 

~ * ~

“Happy one year anniversary,” Chongyun says, beaming. 

Xingqiu looks up, mildly amused. “I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me,” Chongyun insists, sitting on the couch. “Close your eyes.”

And Xingqiu does, humouring the both of them. 

Chongyun places something light and long in his hand, and when Xingqiu opens his eyes, he sees a new earring. Xingqiu smirks. “That’s adorable,” he purrs, teasing. Studies it, scrutinising its colour, testing its weight. Chongyun swallows, hoping that it caters to his taste.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Xingqiu reaches up to pull at his cheeks, earning a scowl as Chongyun swats his hand away. “I’m just teasing you. Don’t be so nervous. You know I love anything you give me.”

And to prove his point, Xingqiu takes off his old earring, replacing it with the new one. It’s a trail of ice blue jewels, strung together like raindrops, crystallised and frozen in a single moment. Xingqiu cups it, trying to look at it from his periphery. “How does it look on me?”

“Amazing,” Chongyun confesses, and suddenly realises how lacking his vocabulary is. “You look pretty.”

“I’m always pretty,” Xingqiu argues, and Chongyun rolls his eyes despite the smile on his face.

“Of course, you’re always pretty. Come on, a whole day awaits us.”

“Oh?” Xingqiu grins. “You’ve got something planned out?”

Chongyun prefers to let his actions answer for him. He grabs onto Xingqiu’s hand and pulls him out into the harbour. Chongyun refuses to answer any question Xingqiu might ask — “You’re too smart,” he says. “You’d figure out the surprise in no time, and then it won’t be a surprise anymore.”

Chongyun gets a strange assortment of things like a bamboo steamer, a bag of something from Xiangling, and a box which he cradles very carefully. He refuses to let Xingqiu hold any of these items, no matter how many times he offers. Xingqiu is slightly miffed how Chongyun can no longer hold his hand because of these bulky items, and finally, manages to convince him to pass the bamboo steamer over.

“I won’t be able to guess anything just by holding it, Yun,” Xingqiu teases, and Chongyun flushes bright red. 

“I wouldn’t know that,” he says defensively, maintaining his stance. “You’re too sharp-witted for your own good.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” he smiles, smug.

Xingqiu follows Chongyun out of the harbour along a simple dirt path, kicking up gravel out of boredom, picking apples from trees, dancing around Chongyun curiously to try and get him to confess his grand plan. Chongyun’s lips are sealed shut, and he reminds Xingqiu for the millionth time to conserve his energy because he’ll need it soon. 

Xingqiu laughs it off, stopping his antics, only to start them up again after a quick break. 

But the moment they reach Jueyun Karst, Xingqiu begins to realise why Chongyun told him to stop wasting his energy.

Chongyun is making him hike. Xingqiu adores leaving the confines of the harbour, even more so when he’s able to do so with Chongyun around, but hiking. He really doesn’t feel like doing any of these strenuous activities, and instead, whines to Chongyun about it.

“Chongyun, do we really have to climb this mountain?”

“Yun, are we there yet?”

“I’m so tired! Can’t you carry me?”

Chongyun ignores Xingqiu’s incessant complaining, reassuring him that they’ll reach there soon, reminding him to be patient. 

The air at higher altitudes is cool and fresh — rejuvenating, even, so very different from the stifling and stultifying heat of the harbour. Maybe this is why Chongyun favours these mountains, it must really be soothing to that rampant yang energy of his, giving him some semblance of control in a land where everything threatens to strip that same control out of his hands. 

Chongyun looks around, searching with purpose — and still refuses to tell him what he’s searching for. Xingqiu huffs, ready to cause a scene until Chongyun comes out and tells him everything, but stops short when he sees a pretty pastel mat on the dirt floor, weighed down by stones and an ornate wooden basket.

“Oh!” Chongyun’s eyes light up. “It worked!”

“What worked?”

“This!” He beams, pleased with himself. “I prepared this picnic in the early morning for our date, and prayed to the adepti to keep it safe. It worked!”

Chongyun immediately goes over to check it out, fussing over the slightly ruffled mat and checking the basket of food to see if any of it had been stolen. Then, he clasps his hands together and squeezes his eyes shut, uttering another prayer of thanks to the adepti.

Xingqiu chuckles. Chongyun is very superstitious, but it all just adds to his charm. 

“I came to Qingyun Peak to seek the blessing of the adepti, and it appears that they have given it. Here—” Chongyun nudges him towards the mat. “Take a seat.”

And Xingqiu does, feeling the mat shift under his weight. He kicks off his shoes, and waits for Chongyun to follow suit and join in beside him. Chongyun reaches into the basket and begins to pull out a whole array of treats, taking out little plates from the bag and setting it on the mat. He quickly takes out a serving of mora meat from the basket, and places it on the floor. Then, clasps his hands together and bows, leaving the offering for the adepti to take. 

“That’s enough, Yun,” Xingqiu calls him back. “I feel like you’re here to date the adepti, and not me.”

Chongyun flushes bright red at Xingqiu’s teasing. “Th-That’s not true,” he stammers. “I simply must express my gratitude to them, for allowing me to use their sacred space. I-I don’t intend to court them—”

Xingqiu bursts out laughing — only then does Chongyun realise it had been a joke. 

“You’re awfully cruel,” he mutters, sliding down into position beside him. Xingqiu only beams up at him innocently. 

Chongyun must have forgiven him eventually, because he rummages through the food prepared, and plates everything nicely for their date. Then, he passes Xingqiu a lotus flower crisp, staring at him expectantly. Xingqiu takes a bite of it, thinking that’s what Chongyun wanted to see, but that gaze which reminds him of a kitten waiting for praise does not waver in the slightest. If anything, it seems to intensify after he tried the dessert. 

“Yes, dearest Chongyun?”

“Ah.” Chongyun sounds like he had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “No… I just asked Xiangling to try and teach me some desserts,” Chongyun says, abashed. “It might not taste very good though, and I know how you’re picky over these kinds of things, so you don’t really have to eat them if you don’t like them— Ah?”

Xingqiu shushes him by petting him on the head. “Enough of that,” he says. “I’ll gladly eat anything you make me.”

“Even if it doesn’t taste good?”

“Yeah.”

Chongyun thinks a little. “Even if there are carrots?”

Xingqiu frowns, face twisting into a look of disgust at the mere thought. “That would be the exception.”

Chongyun laughs, and picks up a couple of baozi. Places them in the steamer, and puts it over the stove he had set up beforehand. 

Xingqiu eats, enjoying the burst of sweetness on his tongue. Chongyun has outdone himself this time, preparing all sorts of goodies, ranging from almond biscuits to pineapple tarts — he even sees rare treats from Fontaine, croissants and éclairs and macarons. 

He can only stare in awe. “Did you make these yourself?”

“Not all,” Chongyun admits, shyly. “The Fontaine goods are hard to prepare — Xiangling could tell you all about how much I failed making the macarons. I ended up importing them from Fontaine instead — I would’ve liked to make them myself, though.”

Xingqiu reaches out to cup his face. “Don’t say such things,” he whispers, softly. “You’ve put in so much effort into making everything else. It’s more than enough for me.” Xingqiu smiles fondly, a tad bit regretful. “Now I wish I could do something for you too.”

“You don’t have to.” Chongyun stands up, heading to check on the steamer. “I prepared this for you. Seeing you enjoy this makes me happy enough.”

Xingqiu takes a bite of Chongyun’s goodies first — Fontaine’s goods can come later. “Then I’ll shower you with praise, because everything you make is exceptional.”

Xingqiu can see the tips of Chongyun’s ears redden. “That’s not true,” he argues. 

“Not true? Why, who dares say such blasphemous things about my boyfriend’s cooking? I think it’s simply divine — I cannot stand to hear this kind of slander!”

Chongyun snorts — Xingqiu catches a glimpse of an amused smile — before he extinguishes the fire and heads back with the bamboo steamer in his hand.

Chongyun opens it, taking out one layer and nudging it towards him. “It’s for you,” he says. “Warm food is nicer to eat on such a chilly day.”

“And you’re going to eat it cold?” Xingqiu pouts. “Why not share one with me?”

Chongyun laughs sheepishly. “I-I can’t, see, I really don’t want to ruin this date.”

“You won’t ruin it,” Xingqiu insists, pouting. “Come on, you have to train to overcome your yang spirit! You can’t keep running forever!”

“Not today,” Chongyun says, finality in his tone. 

Xingqiu drops the matter of making Chongyun go on a heat-induced rampage (though that would be fun to see), huffing in a childish tantrum. He takes a bite of the bun — the savoury warmth of meat fills his mouth, and the softness of the dough is light on his tongue. Then, he tactfully changes the subject. 

“It sure is cloudy today, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chongyun says, eyes drifting up towards the sky. “It’s good weather.”

“It looked like it might rain this morning.” Xingqiu continues that thought. It is good weather for sleeping in. Then, he realises the implication of his words. Horrified, he looks at Chongyun wildly. “What if it rained, Yun? Then all your efforts would have been wasted.”

“But it didn’t.” Chongyun beams oh-so innocently. “The adepti could feel my sincerity and did not let such things happen.”

“Your faith terrifies me.” Xingqiu leans back, looking up at the sky. Takes another bite of the baozi. “I still can’t believe you planned all this out.”

Chongyun takes his lip between his teeth, worrying away at it. “Is it to your liking?”

“What do you think?” Xingqiu purrs, sliding up to him, with that smug, half-lidded gaze. It softens when he sees Chongyun’s tense face. “Of course it is.”

They enjoy their snacks with each other, and Chongyun produces a board from his giant rucksack of things, with tiny white and black pellets. “Weiqi!” Xingqiu gasps. “It’s been a while since I’ve last played.”

“You say that now, but we all know you’re going to win anyway.”

“Who’s to say?” Xingqiu lies down on his stomach, propping his face up with a hand. “I want black.” He waits for Chongyun to properly set the game up, munching on snacks in the meantime.

Black starts first, and so Xingqiu opts for his usual opening moves, placing his stone on the fourth line, near the corner, and waits for Chongyun to respond. Chongyun takes up the empty corner (on the third line, because he’s cautious as ever), and this continues until all four corners have a stone on them.

Xingqiu likes to go on offensive — and as such, he goes to the sides of the board and starts claiming new territory. Yet, Chongyun, careful as ever, defends his corners first, with the knight’s move. Xingqiu grins to himself, and lazily places his piece between the two corners Chongyun has claimed, splitting his territory. 

Chongyun frowns, face scrunched up in a look of concentration as he tries to figure out what Xingqiu is playing at.

(It’s nothing, really. Xingqiu is here to have fun in this leisure game — and win because he’s competitive and knows not the taste of failure.) 

“Don’t be so serious,” Xingqiu says serenely, popping another lotus flower crisp in his mouth. Chongyun doesn’t respond, and places his stone down.

It continues, with more commentary from Xingqiu, and monosyllabic responses from Chongyun. Xingqiu’s taunts only increase in frequency, as the game draws to its most complicated parts yet, with an ongoing battle for territory in the middle of the board.

“Really, Yun, are you sure you’re playing to win?” Xingqiu purrs, teasing as he captures five stones of Chongyun’s. Chongyun makes a small, offended noise, losing the territory he had been trying so hard to defend for the last six moves.

“I already told you you’re going to win,” he grumbles, and forsakes the area to attack another of Xingqiu’s territories. 

Xingqiu only grins in response, taking a bite of macaron, enjoying the sweet, sweet taste of victory. “I’m rusty,” he says, as a jab. He defends against Chongyun’s move, and Chongyun’s frown only deepens as he contemplates his next move. Xingqiu can see how he hesitates, reaching forwards to place his stone, only to retract his hand, contemplate, and reach forward yet again.

“Aw, still thinking, my dear Chongyun?”

Chongyun takes a bite of a now cold baozi, and places his stone resolutely. “Make your move,” he says, avoiding the taunt entirely. 

The game continues, and it’s obvious how frustrated Chongyun grows with each passing move. Xingqiu’s smirk widens the more Chongyun frown deepens. Xingqiu is more decisive in his moves, slamming stones down so fast it makes Chongyun flinch, and all it really does is pressure him to react faster and faster.

“Hah!” Xingqiu crows. “I win.”

Chongyun only sighs. “Yes, it appears that you have.”

“Am I not going to get a prize?” Xingqiu teases, rolling onto his back to face the sky. It seems to have cleared up in the duration of their game, the sun bright and warm in the cold air of the mountains.

“A prize…” 

Xingqiu’s eyes flit towards Chongyun, who seems to grapple with something. And then, he sighs, inching closer towards Xingqiu. And all of a sudden, Xingqiu’s heart pounds, with anticipation and anxiety — just like another game of weiqi, but somehow, the stakes are higher this time. Chongyun’s eyes flutter shut as he leans down, closer, closer, closer— No. It’s no good if Chongyun is forcing himself for his sake. Xingqiu hesitates, but ultimately moves away in worry and concern. “Chongyun…?”

His eyes open, revealing that familiar blue gaze, soft and confused. “You don’t want to?”

“It’s not about me,” he says. “Can you handle it?”

“I want to do it.” His voice is steady, resolute. “I can do it.”

Xingqiu looks at him with an arched brow, doubting his words. Then, settles into a self-satisfied smirk, one that betrays any intention of concern. He’s happy to hear of such a request, after all. Xingqiu had always liked the idea of kissing him, and probably would do it more, if not for the fact he blacked out every time he tried. 

Xingqiu slides up to him and holds his face in his hands, staring straight into icy blue eyes. “You sure?”

“I’m ready,” he promises.

And then he wakes up, realising that he was not ready. Xingqiu’s mouth is curled in an evil grin, the amber light of sunset reflecting in his incomparably golden eyes, and Chongyun knows he’s about to suffer a new kind of storm. 

“Rest well, my dear?”

~ * ~

Chongyun simply never hears the end of it ever since that incident.

It’s embarrassing, yes, but it also makes him feel inadequate. But he also doesn’t want Xingqiu to feel bad — he does enjoy some teasing and banter, he wouldn’t want Xingqiu to stop doing such things out of fear of hurting his feelings. And so, he swallows it down, and refuses to let Xingqiu know of these ugly emotions.

He’s more determined than ever to prove Xingqiu wrong. He wants to, he needs to, he needs to be able to provide the needed affection, if not for Xingqiu, then for himself. This is the thing he must learn, the thing he’s grappled with for so long — if he can hold hands, if he can say I love you, if he can do all these things without overheating, then he must push himself further. 

He makes his way to his usual spot, the one with the cat he’s somehow made friends with, and has grown to pamper with treats and pats. He sits down beside it, staring into its golden eyes, blinking slowly (Xingqiu told him that’s how cats convey affection). He then sets down a little bowl of cat food, rattling it temptingly to lure the cat closer to him. 

The cat he has affectionately named Socks purrs as he pets it. He’s taken to visiting it whenever he’s free, to feed it, play with it, calm his mind. Or, on days like this, as a sounding board for problems he can never share with another human soul. 

“What should I do?” he asks the oblivious cat, more preoccupied with food than the content of his speech. “How can I be better? Why am I not enough?”

Socks just keeps eating.

Chongyun sighs, exasperated. 

“I’ll give him something more tangible,” Chongyun promises the cat, as if such a flimsy contract involving an animal would hold. Then, with more conviction, he tries to brainstorm some ideas. “I need something that isn’t just talismans and dates. Or tea. I think that’s grown old.”

He strokes Socks’ head, thinking aloud. “I wonder what good gifts there are. I’m quite bad at those. Xingqiu always gets me good, practical things, like a comb — it’s both pretty and useful. I don’t know what practical things I can get Xingqiu that he doesn’t already have. Argh, it’s so hard to get things for a son of a successful commerce guild.”

He sighs, casting his gaze upwards to the sky, as if Rex Lapis might descend down and offer him some godly advice for his predicament. 

“I can’t even get him a novel,” he laments. “I have no idea what counts as ‘good’ to him.” He sighs, scratching Socks on the head. “Any ideas?”

The cat only gives a meow, and goes right back to eating. 

Chongyun, for some reason, can’t bring himself to frown at the sight of this cute cat. “I’ll think of something,” he says softly, smiling. “And it has to be great, because Xingqiu deserves nothing less.”

~ * ~

Love is found in saga seeds. In the way Chongyun, on his travels around Liyue, specifically hunts down these seeds, from every location he can possibly find them. In the way he pockets a tiny piece of all corners of Liyue, just for Xingqiu. 

Chongyun makes sure to wash them, carefully, rubbing off dirt and grime. Feels the smoothness of the seed between his fingers, rubbing until the glossy finish of its coat is seen. Another ruby red seed for his collection, as he dries it, seed by seed. Gingerly drops them in a crystal glass jar, counting as they fall in. He’s reached 165, and there’s still a lot more to go. 

He corks the bottle, and tucks it away, then goes off to find an evil spirit, but also, more saga seeds littering the floor. 

He’s grown so distracted that he all but forgets his job as an exorcist, and simply spends more time with his head down and eyes on the floor, looking for that signature red seed. 

He continues, until he fills the jar to the brim, until he reaches 365 — one seed for every day of the year. Only then does he head back, present finally ready for his lover. 

The first thing Xingqiu does is not look at his gift, but instead, throws his arms around his neck. Chongyun awkwardly stands there, jar in hand, rather unable to hug back. 

Xingqiu pulls back, miffed, but his expression softens when Chongyun holds up the gift to him. 

“For you.”

Xingqiu takes it, gently, carefully, studying its contents. 

“相思豆,” he continues. “To signify my mutual longing for you.” 

“Saga seeds,” Xingqiu echoes, slowly, wisely, tasting the words. Stares at the jar thoughtfully. “Saga means ‘goldsmith’, if you asked someone from Sumeru. These very seeds were pitted against silver and gold, because of their uniform weight.” He opens the jar and picks a few up, testing that theory with his hand. “They say four seeds make up one gram.”

“This jar of seeds can’t even counter the weight of my love for you,” Chongyun argues, and Xingqiu smiles, because that sentence was stupid and mushy and gross and he likes it.

“We’ll see about that. How many seeds are there?” he asks, unwilling to lose to such a petty argument. 

“Three hundred and sixty-five.”

“You romantic idiot.” Xingqiu puts the seeds back and seals the jar. “Come here.”

The afternoon blazes with fire, and Chongyun can taste it too. But for Xingqiu, he follows. He walks into the burn and clings on to the silvers of inky smoke that trail Xingqiu’s arms. Xingqiu laughs, amused at how Chongyun pinches on to his sleeves, and leads them both to another fancy restaurant for a celebration.

“It’s too late for lunch,” Chongyun protests, but Xingqiu shoots him a look that effectively shuts him up. 

They eat, but in the moments of silence Chongyun notices the way Xingqiu’s eyes trail back to the gift. Then, drift back to him, this newfound smile in place. 

Sunset is the time they convene — it’s a trend Chongyun hadn’t noticed before, but does recently. 

And when they leave the restaurant, it is sunset. 

Here comes the golden hour — golden mora, golden light, golden eyes.

Gold spills onto the pavement they step on. Chongyun says something, he doesn’t know what, but somehow it makes Xingqiu throw his head back in amused laughter. Cradles the jar of shifting seeds like it’s a package of rubies, ones from Fontaine or someplace far — fiery red and important. Rare. 

(Golden crest, golden tassel, golden laughter.)

For what it’s worth, Chongyun thinks that no amount of gold could ever match this. 

They sit at the outskirts of the harbour, away from the prying eyes of the public; legs dangling off the edge of the cliff, staring down at the ocean. Xingqiu hugs the jar close, as if afraid that if he lets go, it would tumble down and away, all of Chongyun’s hard work lost to the murky depths of the sea.

They talk about the things the other have missed out on, detailing their time during their separation. A lovely reunion, under the fullness of a melting sun, dissolving rays scattering across the sea in a sheen of gold — an aureate tint everywhere, on his hands, on the floor, all over Xingqiu.

The wind blows by. Their eyes meet, and Xingqiu smiles. Sets the jar aside. Chongyun can only watch, as Xingqiu leans in closer, tucking his hair behind his ear. This is unfair, this is so unfair, as Chongyun feels his heart hammering away at the sight in front of him.

And then they’re staring at each other. When Xingqiu leans in, eyes fluttering shut, Chongyun closes his eyes and tries to meet him. 

The heat courses through his veins, sears itself in his heart and brands its dizzying delirium in his mind. He’s losing grip on reality, no matter how hard his fist clench, and he’s unable to ground himself.  

He fails to meet him. Panting, he brings a hand to his chest, trying to recall whatever steady breathing technique his clan taught him. He’s sure he’s flushed red, probably looks like he could pass out any moment — he’s not going to pass out on Xingqiu today. His fingers dig into his shirt, and he’s vaguely aware of Xingqiu looking at him with concern. 

A cool hand reaches over to cup his face — Chongyun squeezes his eyes shut and feels Xingqiu press a kiss to his cheek. A compromise for them both, as Chongyun reins in his rampant emotions and Xingqiu still gets a kiss out of it. He slumps over, as Xingqiu tugs him to lean on his shoulder. 

In, one, two, three, out. In, one, two, three, out. 

Xingqiu is cooling to the touch — probably because he’s overheating right now. He wants his popsicles so badly, just to calm down a little. 

But he also knows if he can’t overcome this by himself, then he’ll have to remain dependent on those damned ice pops. 

So he holds on, tries his best to hold on to the slipping frays of his consciousness — grounds himself by trying to remember who he is, where he is, what’s going on around him. 

I’m Chongyun. I’m in Liyue. I’m with Xingqiu. 

The heat is starting to dissipate. 

Um, right now I’m overheating. I can’t overheat, though. Uh, I’m leaning on my boyfriend right now. He’s stroking my hair. I-I should control my breathing. In, one, two, three, four, out. In, one, two, three, four, five, out. 

“Better?” Xingqiu whispers, and Chongyun makes a noise in response. It doesn’t really answer his question, doesn’t really sound like a yes or no, but at least they both know he’s conscious enough to formulate some vague reply to the question. That’s an improvement. 

Once he’s sufficiently calmed down, he pulls away, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, voice thick and face red. “I ruined the moment.”

“Nonsense.” Xingqiu pats his cheek. “There’s no need to rush into what you’re prepared for. I’m actually glad you didn’t force yourself. I would’ve hated for that to happen.”

His look of gentle concern twists into something more mischievous, a smirk playing on his lips. “Besides, I think you look cute when you’re all red and blushy like this.”

Chongyun finds it in him to glare despite his growing embarrassment, smacking Xingqiu’s hand away and turning his head. He knows the burn’s spreading to his ears as Xingqiu laughs at his reaction. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mumbles, and Xingqiu catches it.

“What? I don’t think I heard that. You really have to speak up, Chongyun.”

Chongyun’s face scrunches up, and that must be what Xingqiu was looking for, because he simply breaks off into more laughter. “I’m glad you’re having fun,” he says hotly, huffing and crossing his arms.

“Don’t be like that,” Xingqiu purrs, a hand reaching to cup his face and pull him near. Kisses him on the cheek. “Am I forgiven now?”

As much as Chongyun would have liked to say no, he can’t bring himself to be mean to Xingqiu when he’s like this. “Yeah,” he sighs, resigned. 

Xingqiu stands up, offering him a hand; Chongyun takes it, and he hoists him up. Chongyun expects Xingqiu to let go after that, except Xingqiu doesn’t. He holds on tight, and they walk back to the harbour, linked together by their hands, as the sky fades from sunset to twilight, and finally, a quiet night.

~ * ~

Love is found in the solace they seek. On more tiring days, they learn to look for each other — if not to cuddle in each other’s warmth, then to sit side by side, and let the rejuvenating silence cheer the other up. 

Today happens to be Xingqiu’s turn — after a long, dreary business negotiation with stubborn and stingy merchants, he no doubt wants some peace and quiet, and the company of someone he likes. And who better to fill that role, if not Chongyun? Chongyun lays his head on Xingqiu’s lap (he insisted), as Xingqiu strokes his head absent-mindedly, while he reads his novel. His fingers play with Chongyun’s hair, and Chongyun closes his eyes, relaxing into the comforting feel of Xingqiu’s hand.

It’s nice to lie down and enjoy these quiet moments, but Chongyun starts to get restless. He takes to looking around the room, hoping to find something to entertain himself with. “Your room is still as messy as ever,” he tuts, finally sitting up to help Xingqiu pack some things up.

Xingqiu only makes a non-committal noise, eyes glued to his novel.

Chongyun picks up the stray books strewn over his table, and stacks them neatly in a pile. Then, adjusts Xingqiu’s bed, smoothening the sheets, folding the blanket, and rearranging the pillows. Satisfied with his work, he looks around to find more things to pack up — his eyes roam the surprisingly neat floor. At least there are no tripping hazards this time, he thinks, finally looking at the shelves, with random stacks of paper wedged in whatever empty spaces there are. Something else catches his eyes though — a container filled with ruby red seeds. 

He stares at the jar, tucked away on the shelf. “You kept it,” he comments, voice thick. 

Xingqiu’s gaze follows his, and he smiles, lightly. “Should I not have?” he teases, and Chongyun smacks him because he’s always like that. 

“Mean,” Chongyun huffs.

“Surely you don’t mean that?” Xingqiu teases, as Chongyun reaches to run his fingers around the mouth of the jar, noting how it’s clean and well taken care of — no dust or dirt collecting in its grooves. The implications fester in his heart; it makes him think of Xingqiu taking the jar down, just to count the seeds, to pick up four seeds, five, six, and realise that the weight of his love is worth so much more than that.

He turns to Xingqiu, seeing his boyfriend smile smugly from behind his novel, his eyes curved in that familiar, mischievous way. “Maybe I do,” he teases back, making his way across to Xingqiu, slow and deliberate.

If anything, Xingqiu’s grin only seems to deepen. 

(Xingqiu, Xingqiu, Xingqiu, his mind chants, and all of a sudden, wants.)

There’s no burning, no buzzing — there’s no creeping danger, the prickling of heat up the back of his head — none of that. He’s never felt more calm, this has never felt more natural. Call it instinct or impulse — Chongyun wants so badly to kiss Xingqiu, and so he does. He leans in, and to his delight, Xingqiu doesn’t pull away. Just tilts his head, that unspoken question clear as day.

“I’m ready,” he says, for the hundredth time, as if that’s any more reassuring than it was the first time. 

Xingqiu looks at him with that look, the I doubt you, but I’ll oblige you anyway one. Wraps his arms around his neck and cranes up, lips brushing his. 

He doesn’t black out. 

Chongyun’s hands move to grab Xingqiu’s waist — he feels the way Xingqiu smiles against his lips and presses forward, kissing him harder, deeper. 

And then he pulls away, that handsome smirk on his face. “Congratulations,” he teases, running a hand down the side of his face. “You’ve done it.”

“I love you,” is Chongyun’s only reply. 

“I love you too.” And there’s nothing teasing about his tone; he’s all serious and soft and he means it. Nothing defensive, nothing shameful, as Xingqiu finally says the words as they are. 

And as a reward, Chongyun kisses him again.

(Love is found in wishes, in little kisses, in sugar sweet dreams.)