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He deserves better.
So much better.
So why?
Why is it that my heart skips in clumsy circles at his name, blood flooding to my cheeks and creating that dreadful fuzzy feeling?
Feelings are so frustratingly intricate.
I can turn them into song, but the words die in my throat. The notes twist into discord.
My fingers pause and stutter as I attempt to play the strings of his own heart, and I find myself unable to return to my rhythm, head dizzy from the pure joy of his presence.
He brings more happiness than alcohol ever could, at the cost of my carefree persona.
I can’t lie to myself in front of him.
It’s dangerous.
If I am to be the sun, warm and bright, then he is Icarus. Wings of wax will only carry him so far; I will one day burn him.
I don’t want to see him fall.
He flies too close, far too often.
The rare occasions that I find him in my arms are short lived, quiet, comfortable, before I have to pull away.
I retreat to the tavern, like I always do, and eventually he makes his way back to me for the cycle to repeat.
I don’t trust the work of my own hands, and I don’t trust fate to protect him from me.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
No one survives me.
It’s why I don’t make an attempt to keep myself considerably tangled with people.
The traveller and Diluc are friends, maybe even Kaeya and Rosaria, but they keep at a distance; perhaps they subconsciously know that it’s reckless to be close, or they feel the scorching, warning fire when they attempt to be.
That makes him downright self destructive.
I’m broken and jagged, and yet he manages to flow into each crack with acceptance, as if it’s not even there.
I don’t understand how, after everything he’s been through, all the foolish mistakes I've made, he can look me in the eyes as someone worthy of care.
How he can hold me and promise that it’s okay.
I love him, so much it hurts, but the tale of Icarus was never one of romance. It’s hubris, ignorance in the face of the Gods.
Icarus met his tragic end, falling victim to the rays of sun he embraced, enticed until even his faith couldn’t hold him, and he drowned under the harsh, unforgiving waves of a darkened sea.
I don’t need the power of prophecy to know that is how we will end.
The archons are not supposed to care for mortals, and although adepti are anything but, there’s supposed to be a divide.
I’ve never been good at separating myself from humanity; even in Khaenri’ah, I couldn’t help but sympathise with them; they’d done nothing truly wrong.
Women, men and children alike died, for no greater sin than being better, because we're cowards.
We fear what we cannot understand, and wage wars when our power is challenged. Everyone knew that, even then.
Yet I still killed them.
I gritted my teeth and contradicted my own views of freedom, the ones an old friend gifted me.
A heartless betrayal of his memory.
How am I supposed to let people in again, knowing that?
That each time somebody will be hurt?
No matter how many times his words find their way to my heart, dancing pretty about my thoughts, the fact remains that I will be the means to his destruction.
He must know that.
It’s selfish to love him regardless.
But I can’t stop.
I loved him when he was cold to me, stony mask unfaltering, and when his gentle affection was hesitant, far between, and now, when he keeps me close, holding his hand out when I try to leave him, just so I can always find my way back.
I love the way he cares for those close to him, the way his eyes light up like the elegant gemstones that Morax talks so much about, the way he laughs, although rare; even the songs I painstakingly practice to sound heavenly on my lyre can’t compare to the sound.
He is this world’s most beautiful melody, and I’m the fool that keeps begging to hear it once more.
Music grows old over time; boring, stale, mortals often find new means to create it, or new styles, or refresh previous ones.
I don’t think he could ever grow old to me.
For each charming note, I pull further away, and so we will continue until fate grows tired, and rips away our chords from her page.
I’ve accepted that this is how it must be, my punishment for weakness, and yet I still allow myself to believe.
I hope, with all that I have left, that he proves me wrong.
Xiao, please be the exception.
Please stay by my side.