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Venti was a born poet, the tune of the lyre engraved into him even before he became an archon. Always fascinated by the rare tunes of those who would play in music or in words- easily enraptured by poets and musicians of all shapes and sizes.
A picture was worth a thousand words, yes, a lifetime of beauty in descriptions simply not able to be grasped no matter how hard a poet may try- while no two listeners of poetry would grasp the same visual, an artist could draw the eye in which only one in a thousand would see a different image to the one placed before them.
Poetry could tell a story, though. An image can only show a glimpse- a moment, frozen in time, a perfect snapshot. Yet the moment just after is beyond, and so is the moment before- a poet can tell a story that shows every moment in succession until the end of relevance to the tale, a task not even the greatest of paintings can convey.
Both had their merit, but only one called to Venti like inevitability- only one would he sculpt his mind and hands for thousands of years to achieve perfection of, to be able to speak in rhyme with such natural cadence that he practically thought in such fascinating tongue, only one would he practice until his hands were sore from lyre strings, only one had he mastered until he could play every song that ever was and ever would be as naturally as he breathed, each instrument he wielded feeling as though an extension of himself when playing his beloved melodies in Mondstadt’s walls.
He had often gloated, in the hazy part of his memories where he was unsure if he was drunk or simply forgetful and sober, that he’d be able to describe anything with poetic beauty enough to bring listeners into a slight trance from the sheer awe.
(With a combination of wonderful words and possibly-maybe-enchanted lyre music, he’d won plenty of mora and wine from said bets.)
There was one thing, however, that trying to describe in it’s entirety felt impossible- or if not impossible, utterly pointless, for no words could describe it quite right.
Well, thing wasn’t quite right.
Xiao.
He’d tried to describe him, privately and to Morax- well, Zhongli, but never had any words found it’s way to paper or to voice, seemingly perfectly perfected hand and mind unable to even fathom a way to describe him, or where even to start to try.
The way his eyes had widened the first time they’d formally met, before they’d tried to turn guarded again in suspicion. Venti was not a particularly oblivious man, despite his appearance of one, though, and he saw the way Xiao’s eyes would subtly glimmer when Venti laughed at one of Zhongli’s ever-pointless attempts to try and prevent his endless teasing.
(He saw the way Xiao had avoided his gaze when he’d turned to look, and the way a soft pink blush had found a soft spot below his eyes, almost unnoticeable beneath his impressive attempt at a scowl.
He’d described Xiao as cute then, in the solace of his mind, yet he didn’t think the word quite encompassed it now- it wasn’t wrong, not inaccurate, yet it does not scratch that itch in his brain, the feeling there must be a better way to describe Xiao’s addictive presence, a better way to describe the way Xiao… Is.
Love does strange things to people, Venti thinks in the isolation of mondstadt’s streets, far away, and he nearly scoffs out loud at the thought, yet…
No word calls to him in the same way.
Love.
The second time they officially meet is at the top of wangshu inn, and Xiao is surprised to see him.
He brings Xiao the best, freshest, sweetest apple he could find, and Xiao simply shakes his head.
”I do not find pleasure in mortal food.”
Venti counters back with a grin that apples are the fruit of the gods, and loudly declares that if Xiao does not want it it’s all the more for him.
Xiao rolls his eye in a way that seems almost fond.
(The third-and-a-half time they meet, Venti has discovered from smiley yanxiao that he loves almond tofu almost as much as his loner persona.
When Venti brings him some at the top of Jueyun Karst, he sees the way Xiao lights up- Xiao tries his best to act polite, but the moment he takes it from Venti, he blinks at the wrong moment and half the plate is gone by Xiao’s hand.
Venti smiles at him pridefully, and Xiao looks almost embarrassed.
Venti makes it a tradition after that, and once Xiao catches on, he starts bringing venti apples in return.)
The forth time is special, for Xiao makes a point to visit Venti instead of vice versa despite his duties, and when Venti sees him on top of the Dawn winery’s roof beside him, perfectly illuminated by the moon and looking absolutely beautiful, he only makes it an hour before Venti impulsively asks Xiao to kiss him.
Xiao tastes like almonds and sugar and a little bit of apple that Venti had finally bribed him into trying and Venti’s heart is beating to a love-song, and Xiao-
Venti still doesn’t know how to describe him, in all his ethereal beauty and his wonderful mind and everything Venti could’ve ever wished for and more, he thinks he might just burn down the world if Xiao were to ask him in that sweet rough voice-
And Venti is in love.
Venti is in love with him.