Work Text:
Ganyu nibbled nervously on her Qingxin salad. Xiao's almond tofu, meanwhile, sat entirely untouched, even though usually by now half of it would've been in his stomach. Since it was a light dish, he indulged in it whenever the opportunity arose. A leftover remnant of his eating disorder that disallowed him from eating anything of substance, lest it cost him his ability to jump, his ability of flight. Around them the restaurant was raucous, Xiangling's experimental dish taste testings were in full swing and there were various exclamations of delight or disgust. But it was as if the two of them sat in a bubble of silence, in which Wanmin's dog, Guoba, dozed.
The problem was: neither of their personalities lended themselves to conversation. Ganyu was considered an ice queen due to her reserved elegance; Xiao an antisocial loner because he kept to his business. Therefore although they were rink mates, they were only acquaintances who wouldn't go so far as to say they were on friendly terms. It was a strictly professional relationship, which is why Xiao had agreed to the dinner invitation in the first place: out of a sense of respect.
Finally, Ganyu delivers the news.
"Xiao, Zhongli xiansheng is returning."
His mind goes blank.
What?
***
He remembers the funeral.
Zhongli and Guizhong were the fairytale standard for a team in pairs, for they were deeply, maddeningly infatuated with each other. Marriage was a question of "when" not "if", and it had seemed just around the corner.
But Guizhong got sick.
And as it turns out, not the get-better-soon kind of sick.
She had Stage 4 cancer. Terminal. Xiao never found out what kind because already the diagnosis was terrible enough.
They tried, of course. Tried to stop her body, her capability, from wasting away. Tried to stop her legs from failing her so that she needed to use a wheelchair. Tried to stop the fog clouding her mind. Tried to stop her pain. Tried to stop her corruption, for that was ultimately what it was--an ugly revolt of cells that spread throughout her entirety.
The pair had to take a hiatus. Months unfurled like a silk worm cocoon, unraveling too the hopes of a cure. There would be no silk moth miracle for Guizhong, who grew weaker by the day, her beautiful voice diminished to a whisper, then to nothing at all. She used to hum all the time, spinning her threads of music even after falling ill. Consequentially her silence spoke loudly of a truth none of them wanted to confront.
Guizhong died on a brilliant autumn day, with sunlight slicing through the windowpanes and Zhongli holding her hand. She was cremated because she didn't want to be associated with a fixed location, but ever since then Zhongli had come to regard ice rinks as painful minefields of memory. It was as if the art of skating had gone to the grave with his betrothed, because in a way they had been one in the same. Which was why he had retired in the first place...
So why would he go back?