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You first meet him in the dead of night.
The forest you consider home is quiet, save for the rustling leaves dancing in the gentle air. The moon is full, illuminating your surroundings as you walk through. Most of your wolf brethren are asleep. There will be no play fighting tonight, no rationing for scraps. The hunt has gone well and there is enough meat to sustain the pack for a whole week. You let your mind drift along to the faint voice of the ever-present wind, gods of old keeping watch over your kind. It’s calming, and harmless, a whisper that soothes the heart. That is Mondstadt for you, never without the wind that gives it life.
Soon enough, it is your turn to patrol. A soft breeze ruffles your hair, tickling the bare skin on your arms. An hour before the sun coats the world with its golden glow and makes its presence known to the sky, you snap alert to one of your packmates nudging your back. From the impatient growl surfacing in her throat you know that it is time for you to rub the sleep from your eyes and swallow down the contentment a full midnight meal has brought you.
Faraway stars still twinkle over the horizon and it doesn’t take much for your eyes to adjust in the dark. Years of hunting in the night has tempered your senses and you no longer fear most of the creatures that roam under the cloak borne from its shadows.
The woods around you stretch wide, almost empty except for your packmates who wander between trees and bushes. No birds chirp in the distance, no creatures bark their warning. Only the soft sound of crunchy grass beneath your feet and the rustle of wind flowing past the canopy of trees above. Everything is quiet, as it should be.
Until it isn’t.
Suddenly, you hear the snap of a twig. Your hairs at the back of your neck prickle. You raise your head in rapt attention, trying to locate the source of the sound. Your gaze settles on an old gnarly cedar tree not far off and your nose immediately catches the scent of dew or damp earth and some other thing else you can’t quite place.
Intruder.
You thought it would be another peaceful night, just like the previous nights before. Turns out you may have thought wrong.
The disturbance continues as more twigs get broken and autumn leaves crunch under the intruder’s feet. Judging from the pattern of their footfalls, it is a two-legged creature. The steady pace of approaching steps, neither cautious nor calculating suggest that they are not here to hunt. They may simply be a wandering traveler lost in the middle of the night. But one can never be too certain.
Slowly, you creep over towards the sound until you see a vague outline walking down the worn-down path leading to the city of Mondstadt. Hidden by the bushy undergrowths, you take a closer look.
It’s human, your eyes soon tell you. You see a person in white garbs traveling by their lonesome with barely a package to carry their necessities. They walk leisurely into the night, while still maintaining a careful watch around their surroundings. You immediately duck under the bush you’re hiding to avoid their gaze. You’re still some few paces away from the stranger that you’re not entirely sure if they have hair the color of Mist Flowers or whether the moon is playing tricks on you. What strikes you the most, though, is the large blade around their back, a similar kind to the one you wield. It shines dangerously in the night, a warning to potential enemies that the stranger is not to be trifled with. Your curiosity and wariness are aroused. This was not a traveler who had only come to find shelter; the way they carried themselves suggests they are experienced. You don’t sense any malice from this individual and they seem harmless, despite the threatening claymore. Still, you stretch your fingers, preparing to fight for your home if it comes down to it. You will not let anyone destroy those you love.
You take a deep breath and stand up. The stranger can see you now and their eyes widen for a fraction of a second at the sudden movement. Better to strike first before they have a chance to do something nefarious. You will yourself to be quick as lightning and, in the blink of an eye, place the sharp end of your blade right on the skin of their neck before they can so much as utter a word.
Face to face like this, your noses almost touching, you finally get a closer look at the intruder.
The first thing you notice under the shine of the fading moonlight is how the person is very blue. He has the eyes of a sharp-eyed cat and they gleam like the frozen lakes up on Dragonspine. Fascinating yet dangerous if one lingers for far too long. His hair is a halo on his head, reflecting the moonlight in a hazy glow, a soft cloud atop his pale face. He, like you, also has a Vision and, like the most of him, it’s an endless pool of blue and it makes you hold your claymore a little bit tighter and raise your guard a little bit higher. He’s staring silently back at you and you can feel him gulp against your sword. Your own Vision thrums against your back, power ready to be unleashed.
He is ice incarnate, you think. And with grim satisfaction, you remember that ice can easily be broken by tempered steel.
You growl at him. “Who are you?”
The stranger lets out a shaky breath as he’s being held down against your blade. “May you graciously lower your weapon?” His voice is barely a whisper. “I do not wish to fight and I mean you no harm, so please let me through?”
He seems sincere, you’d give him that. Eyes wide open and mouth parted in between breaths, he is the picture of rapt honesty. After a few minutes of an intense staredown and stifling silence you ultimately decide that he, at least, does not seem to be an imminent threat. He did not fuss the entire time you glared at him, just accepted the silence and patiently waited for your move.
You warily let down your blade just a tiny bit for him to straighten up and clear his throat.
Again, you ask, “Who are you?”
His answer comes immediately. “My name is Chongyun and I am an exorcist from Liyue,” he says. The name sounds foreign to your ears. And judging by his clothing alone, he does not seem to be a resident from Mondstadt so he probably is telling the truth. The patterns on his white hooded jacket are not like anything you’ve seen the villagers here wear. There is some sort of bounce his voice makes when he says his name, in a way you’ve never heard before. It almost sounds like he’s about to start singing. Your own tongue crumbles at the mere thought of trying to replicate it. Chongyun.
“Frosty stranger,” comes out of your mouth instead, unbidden. How could it not? He easily reminds you of snow and frost, with his hushed demeanor and quiet voice. Cold and out of reach. You do not trust him. Not completely.
Try to be polite now, Razor. A voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like your mentor chides you, but you pay it no mind. She is not here right now so she cannot scare you with her purple lightnings and her lazy smile that holds too many secrets.
You snap out of your thoughts and ready your stance, expecting a challenge. You insulted him, after all. You did not acknowledge his name. Hackles raised, hands steady. Do not hesitate. But the boy does not draw his weapon nor takes offense to your actions. He simply stands there and gives you a small chuckle, the sound almost making your breath catch in surprise. His eyes softly glow in the night as he settles for a tiny smile at your tactless remark, like sunlight slipping through cracks in the ice and you think that he may not be as cold as he appears to be. It does something strange to your stomach.
(He also smells like fresh morning dew after a cold rain shower. A pleasant smell. It reminds you of late winter days, when the dark gives way to early light and plants begin to push through the frozen ground. Not that it matters here, right now.)
“Frosty stranger,” he repeats back at you, as if testing the words on his tongue. He enunciates each syllable carefully and says it better than you did. You with your clumsy mouth and scratchy throat still not used to talking. In one quick second, jealousy is a rock that settles in your chest and you swallow it whole just as fast before it consumes you. He’s making fun of you, you’re sure of it. Him with his steady voice and controlled expressions. Now, now. Practice makes perfect, Razor, dear. We didn’t come into this world born with a silver tongue. Your mentor echoes in your head again.
“You may have something to call me,” the boy continues, “but it seems that I have not.” You hear slight amusement in his voice. Is he really making fun of you?
No, he is asking for your name, you realize with a start. This one is simple. You say the first word you’ve ever learned.
“Razor.” Sharp, straight, and true.
“Nice to meet you.” You find no hostility when he says it, his smile growing from a flicker into a burst of warmth, of dawn spilling forth through the leaves adorning the forest skyline. It gives your heart a moment’s pause before thudding back in your chest with such force that almost leaves you dizzy. Dangerous. This boy is dangerous with how easily he controls his emotions because you might just believe him.
He proceeds to explain to you his entire business for traveling to Mondstadt. An evil spirit, he tells you, has wandered out here where Liyue’s protectors have no strong duty to guard and keep watch.
What a silly spirit, you think. Does it not know that Mondstadt has protectors of its own?
Throughout his entire explanation, the boy’s eyes stay wide and open, a mirror to his soul; staring at it is like witnessing icebergs endlessly shift in the vast endless ocean.
Having said his piece, you are now certain of a few things.
His name is Chongyun. He is an exorcist. A spirit chaser. You may not trust him yet but you are going to help him find and exorcise an evil spirit.
(Because you are nothing if not determined and it’s what anyone would do for another. Even for someone confounding like him.)
He tells you later on what his name means.
After the incident with the evil spirit, you bump into him sometimes. You didn’t plan on it, not really, even though blue phantoms with wide-eyed gazes haunt your sleepless nights and you wander around aimlessly searching for a certain exorcist. Thinking back on it, you were sure that he wasn’t going to cross paths with you again. What other business would he have in your forest? A heavy feeling lodged itself on your chest when you realize that you would never see each other again. You push that thought away before you can identify that feeling, afraid of it consuming you whole. You need no such distractions. If he returns, then he returns. If he doesn’t, then so be it.
(In the first place, the evil spirit he sought for wasn’t really evil. Just a lost soul trying to find its way home. It stared at you with woeful eyes and told you a story of longing and regret. Of love not returned. It disappeared in a flash before the exorcist even got to approach him. The boy gave a long-suffering sigh but turned around and quickly reassured you that “all’s well that ends well”. If you’d had blinked at that exact moment you would have missed the flicker of disappointment that crossed his face. He hid himself well, you’ve come to notice. And you’ve never wanted to best the cold swimming in his eyes so badly until that moment. Didn’t he want the spirit gone? Why was he so sad?)
You meet him again in Dragonspine.
It was pure coincidence. You and some of your packmates were on the hunt for the elusive Great Snowboar King and his domain. Usually, the pack does not hunt for prey this massive and territorial because it was a waste of time and energy that could have been used for easier prey. But the situation was turning dire. The winter was particularly harsh that year, keeping most of the boars and hares asleep and hidden in its snowy embrace. You and your pack had no choice but to look south and wander to even more freezing terrain where animals do not sleep and hide at the first warning signs of intense cold. They thrive, alive and fresh, perfect for the hunt.
You are no stranger to the extreme weather since you’ve lived most of your life in the fickle temperament of nature. The biting wind of Dragonspine does not easily faze you, but you know that you cannot keep preserving your body warmth forever. Hunting must be quick and painless, your wolf guardian says after all. For both the hunter and the hunted.
And so the pack wasted no time in snatching up the foxes and squirrels you happen to come across the steep slopes and snowy landscapes the mountain has to offer. Traveling further in even gave you a peculiar trail of boars trapped in blocks of ice. The pack does not question it and makes quick work of pointing you at a nearby fire source so that you can ignite a torch to melt these frozen prey before your packmates can sink their teeth in the chilled meat ripe for the taking.
Before long, you have amassed a heavy sack, brimming with all kinds of meat to last you all throughout the remaining winter. Fortunately, you did not encounter the Snowboar King so the way back home was mostly uneventful. But a part of you wishes you were able to challenge the great boar. He would’ve stood no chance. You’d make sure of it.
Traversing down the mountain took you all longer than anticipated. The way down was steep and treacherous and the foggy horizon didn’t do anything to help lift anyone’s spirits. The next thing you knew, night had already fallen and a terrible blizzard suddenly rained down from the heavens as if punishing you for even thinking your endeavor was going to be easy.
The pack has no choice but to find a path that leads them into the core of the mountain. There were several hilichurl camps you had to avoid and icy bridges you had to be careful of, seeing as how you do not want to slip and plunge to your death. At least inside the mountain, you can be sheltered from the blizzard raging outside. But, by the archons, are you getting tired of all this snow. Everything here is white and desolate and cold. You just want to go home. Home, where there’s no need to start a fire to get warm and where the trees are numerous enough to give you protection from the elements.
Your rueful musings are stopped dead in its tracks when you notice a familiar shade of blue down in the distance, right there at the center of a frozen lake inside Dragonspine. He is standing still, in that familiar way you remember that cold autumn night when you encountered him oh-so-long ago. Could it be?
You drop the game you’re carrying at the small temporary settlement your pack has set up and run as fast as you can. The fatigue in your limbs is replaced by the sudden thrill that washes over your whole body. Your heart is racing and you’re breathing in shallow, rapid breaths. You don’t even know why you’re acting like this. For some reason, you just want to see him again.
The figure is getting closer and you pick up the familiar scent of falling rain right up ahead. The glint of a Cryo vision on his hip, a tiny curl of icy blue hair standing on the top of his head. It is him. His name a quiet melody in your head. Chongyun.
He’s facing away from you and the stillness of his composure tells you that he has not noticed you yet. He is taking deep and measured breaths as he slowly bends and twists his body to a rhythm you cannot hear. His eyes are closed but somehow, even in this position he can still maintain a perfect balance. The way he moves is almost like that of water, graceful and fluid as it passes through. The steps he takes are precise and measured and you could only watch on, mesmerized by the lone ritual he’s performing right in the middle of the frozen lake. The ice creaks and groans under him, but never breaks. When you think he might have encountered a particularly thin layer of ice beneath him—the only thing keeping him from plunging into the freezing depths below—he gracefully jumps and slides past onto more stable footholds, carefully mapping out the dangers with his instinct alone.
His movements are so controlled and practiced. As beautiful as his voice when he speaks—soft-spoken and soothing. There is something ethereal about this boy, who can create such beauty while remaining untouchable. You’ve seen the way he holds himself, the way he carries himself, as if there are no obstacles between them. Even when the cold wind blows, it seems effortless for him.
Beautiful.
Your mind is utterly blank.
Speak, Razor.
You could watch him until the stalactites have melted off and the winds blow no more.
Let him know you’re here.
You pause right behind him and all that’s running through your head is—
“Frosty stranger.”
His head quickly turns around to face you in surprise and the spell is broken. He opens his eyes wide just like that time he first saw you, but instead of fear and wariness there is only genuine amazement and the way they light up when he recognizes you was everything you could have hoped for.
“Razor!”
Afterwards, it became an unspoken pattern between you two. You already know of his regular trips to the frigid mountain region between your homelands. If you wanted to meet him, he was always there waiting in the cold embrace of Dragonspine. To better his constitution and overall condition, he trains there at least once or twice a week, every sixth day. The day of Cryo, he tells you, blessed by the Tsaritsa’s icy benevolence. A day where he may strengthen the bond with his Vision and attain balance in mind and body. Honestly, the days never felt any different for you and you wonder if it matters what day one trains. All you know for sure is the strength of your own muscle, honed by years of hunting and fighting, are the result of constant action and perseverance. It is all on you. Days had no say in the matter. Blink, and they’ll just pass you by.
(Your Vision is another matter. Bestowed upon you by the Electro archon, your mentor explained. You think, Who are these archons to determine who was so worthy of their so-called gift? You treat your Vision like any other part of you, to be used and sharpened so that you may master its power. Your power. Lightning flows through your veins and becomes one with corded muscles, amplifying your attacks, and no archon can take that away from you.)
You are at Dragonspine again. Alongside the exorcist. Again. (It’s funny how you keep bumping into each other. You might even call it fate.) You find him deep in the heart of the mountain, where water has turned into crystal floors and he stands there so casually, so calmly as if he is one with the ice himself. Eyes closed and breathing even. Training, as usual, to better his spirit. You settle into companionable silence while you wait for him to finish his meditation.
(Your patience is always rewarded by the sight of bright blue eyes and the gentle tilt of his lips when his gaze lands on you.)
“Didn’t you say you were curious about my name?”
It is a lazy peaceful day up on Dragonspine when he asks you the question.
You are both lying down on the snow and staring at the sky, content at listening to him make small talk for the both of you. His voice is easy on your ears and you can listen to him ramble on and on about absolutely nothing and still be wholly content. He doesn’t get to do that often, after all. But right now, he does have a good story going, his mind moving quickly and he’s talking with so much energy that you feel like you could go on for days without hearing anything else. Today, he rambles on about the complexity of the spoken tongue. Somehow his musings ended up on the topic of names and whatnot. You’re surprised he even remembers such a passing comment from you, whispered quietly in hollow caves that bring out untold secrets and forgotten dreams.
You nod, all ears for an explanation.
He sits up, dusting snow off his clothes and begins to draw figures on the frost-covered ground with a tiny branch he’s found nearby.
You rise and quietly stare at the complicated lines he’s drawing on the snow. He finishes it all swiftly, his hand steady and firm. He possesses a natural assuredness when he writes, present in a way all those people that grew up with a pen and paper have. They do not doubt that what they’re writing is in accordance with the words flowing from their thoughts. The figures he’s drawn don’t look anything close to the letters your mentor has taught you. Instead of blocky shapes with all kinds of curves accompanying lines to form a letter, it is mostly straight lines on top of one another forming images. They seem like illustrations you can’t fully discern, patterns you can’t quite name. You think there’s two figures he’s drawn, the first one having more lines than the second. He writes down:
重云
“My name,” he says.
You frown, willing yourself to make sense of it. That is his name after all. Chongyun, it apparently says, but all you see are lines incomprehensible to you. It bothers you that your mind cannot look at these shapes carefully written by him and hear the melody of his own name.
You want to kick the snow out of frustration. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s alright,” he says, ever patient. “Learning a new language is never easy, especially if they’re written differently from your native tongue.” You don’t mention that your native tongue doesn’t have any letters. It’s all whistled warnings and throaty growls and pure tempered instinct. Words are not needed amongst wolves.
He nods at the snow and gives you a slight smile that you would almost think of as fond. “In Liyue, this is how we usually write. Symbols that pertain to certain things or concepts. It’s a bit like drawing, I guess, if you want to look at it that way. These ones can be read as ‘layers’ and ‘cloud,’ respectively,” he says, tapping each of the figures in turn. “This is how my name is written.”
He then proceeds to write underneath the figures with letters more familiar to you. C-H-O-N-G then Y-U-N. “If we are to write it out with Mondstadt’s alphabet then this would be a close approximation.”
You try to wrap your head around what he said. “So… your name means ‘layers… of clouds?’”
He nods. “In a way, yes.”
It makes sense when you think about it. He is a boy of smoky frost. His presence, layers upon layers of untouchable fog, heavy and palpable in your waking dreams and wandering thoughts. A layer that wraps itself around you in comforting, protective hands. A layer that envelops the world with its soft embrace, but leaves a distinct impression behind. An impression made all the more distinct when you realize that his touch can be fleeting as well. The gentle pressure of his hand on your shoulder, or his light touches to your back. Like mist, a blanket draped over you, keeping everything hidden from view.
In showing to you his name, he lets you have a glimpse to the very essence of him and you get to know him a little better. (Maybe he isn’t as unreachable as you thought.)
You’re still not entirely sure how it works. You didn’t even know there are more languages out there in the world. You thought there was only one since the people around you didn’t use anything else. Although, you suppose there are indeed countless animals that communicate in different ways compared to you wolves so it was foolish of you to think otherwise. Learning the words of Mondstadt is already giving you a hard enough time. Now here’s another language with its own set of rules, its own set of sounds foreign to you.
重云. A sound that means layers of clouds. Two distinct notes dancing in your head. The melody of his name becomes clearer to you.
Chongyun.
It is a piece of him that he has shared with you yet you still feel like you cannot say it. You dare not. You do not want his name to be tarnished by your clumsy tongue.
“I… still don’t understand much. But thank you. For teaching me. Your name, I will treasure it.”
He stills at that and slowly turns his head to look at you with eyes open comically wide and mouth parted open in silent shock. that you think the cold finally got to him and froze him solid. But then, you’ve never seen his face turn red before. Not like this. It happens so quickly, too. His neck up to the roots of his hair is suddenly flushed pink. And he starts to breathe faster than he did previously, the air coming from his mouth sounding more like gasps and wheezes. He reminds you of a prey caught off guard and it gives you the strong urge to pounce on him. You think you hear him squeak out a faint, “It’s no problem,” before scrambling to take out a popsicle on his person. Those treats apparently help keep his high yang energy in check.
While he’s eating his cold snack, you notice a flicker of movement in your periphery. Cloaked in the same color as the snow, the creature is barely noticeable to the untrained eye but your sharp gaze spots it immediately and seeing it bob its head up and stare back solemnly at you through those large eyes reminds you of a certain someone standing right beside you. An idea pops into mind.
“Snow fox.”
“Huh?” He stops eating and turns to where you’re looking at. “Oh, you mean that one? Yes, they are quite common in Dragonspine. Graceful little creatures, right?”
“Yes.” You grin wolfishly, your eyes gleaming with latent mischief. “You. Snow fox. Grace...ful. And pretty.”
Just as you thought, pink blooms on his cheeks once again, a wonderful color amidst the whites and blues. It takes a minute for him to answer.
“Razor! You can’t just—”
You hum. “Big bad wolf hunt little snow fox.” Your voice shakes with barely contained amusement.
“Buh— I… What???” he sputters in disbelief. The urge to pounce him comes back to you in full force.
You point at him. “Snow fox.” Then you point at yourself. “Wolf.” You growl in jest. “Very dangerous company for you.”
He lets out a surprised laugh at that and you find yourself brimming with pride at making the ice melt, bit by bit. “No, Razor. I’ve never felt in danger when I’m with you. Wolf you may be, but I know you’d never hurt me.”
Well.
That does it. You pounce on him and tackle him straight to the ground.
The carefree shriek he lets out as you both fall into the snow makes it all worth it.
You may not be able to say his name—not yet—but the harmony you make as his laughter mixes with yours in the bleak caverns of Dragonspine is more than enough.
He slips through your defenses eventually.
Not that it was hard. Not that you weren’t trying hard in the first place. You did try, at first—you really did. You know people are made of hidden intentions and tight-lipped secrets. You know it well like the stinging pain that always comes when steel slices through skin. It is seldom pretty. There is no escaping the darkness and evil that walks amongst this world as long as the abyss feeds on the twisted desires of the mortal heart. Blood falls from gaping wounds and it leaves a permanent mark on the soul. You must learn to fight back, down to the last tooth and bone until you secure total dominance in order to survive. That is why, in the beginning, you would always carry your weapon a little bit closer behind you when the exorcist comes by unannounced, brimming with unseen energy buried in his lean frame and pale complexion. He is strong, you can sense it.
But something about this aloof exorcist and his mesmerizing eyes makes you feel smaller than you actually are and the next thing you know you’re dragging him along to your favorite hunting grounds and your hands itch to hold him tighter in your grasp just to feel the hidden warmth nestled between his fingers. (You want to peel open his frosty layers and unwind them. Then build them up again—into something less wispy, something more solid.)
He is sincere. In almost everything he does. In his unguarded expressions. In the way he tries so hard to contain his vast reserves of yang energy. In the way his breezy laughter brings you to the mellow pitter-patter of rain during the early quiet of dawn.
He is a boy made of unfettered spirit bound by his duty to purify those not laid to rest. That alone speaks volumes of his integrity.
In all the time he spends with you, he does not fail to mention his home. Liyue. The neighboring land down south. You live near the border that melds from green woodlands to lush yellow plains but you haven’t yet crossed over them to travel the far beyond. Why would you? Your family is right here and it’s all you know and will ever need to know.
But one way or another, he tells you all about the countless legends and deities that are entwined deep into the fabric of his home, about adepti that never falter from their duty, about companions that sound as vibrant as the ones you have here in Mondstadt. An itch settles down your gut that can only be satiated through satisfying your growing curiosity. He paints you a picture in your mind’s eye of a bustling harbor where the possibilities of opportunities are endless. So when he suddenly asks you if you’re willing to come along and visit his hometown for a festival they celebrate (you think he calls it the Lantern Rite Festival), what else are you to do but nod your head in acceptance?
That is when your world grew a little bit bigger.
You want to see everything, to take in the view of this city you’ve never seen before but keep hearing so much about from the exorcist. He leads you up through the streets and the many houses built around the harbor. All of the people celebrating give the city its enchanting light. The city has a very unique beauty to it with all of the colors mixed together in such an orderly way that makes the entire place seem magical. You have never felt more alive as you run through the city trying to follow behind his every step. There are people everywhere walking in small groups, children running along the sidewalks while adults laugh among themselves on the street corners. His fingers are linked with yours as you run alongside him until you finally stop at the edge of the city overlooking the sea. The wind pushes back your hair and you feel the soft touch of the salty air against your face as you stare down at all the lanterns being lit throughout the night. He brings you over to a bunch of people waving at him. You think that they are probably the friends he speaks so highly about.
His friends are an interesting bunch.
You find it interesting how they, like him, are all Vision-holders. (Do Visions tend to gravitate to each other? you wonder.) Though, unlike him, most of them are a lively group with all their charming quirks and by the time they’re done introducing themselves to you, you think you have an inkling as to why the exorcist craves peace and quiet. You can barely keep up with their energy by the time they’re done talking. Be that as if may, the fondness in his eyes when they talk of days past and the road ahead is unmistakable. They share a strong bond and seeing them get along so well gives your chest a slight twinge.
You, too, have people that you would fight tooth and claw for, but he talks with them in an ease you’d never felt with your own companions. Because your tongue always fails you.
They chatter on and on and he responds back in equal measure. You are content to let them do most of the talking and they think nothing of your reticent attitude. He has good friends and your heart swells both in equal delight and jealousy because you can never have something like this. Not unless you suddenly gain the ability of eloquence to understand the inner workings of the human mind. (Sometimes, you long for the time when everything you knew was simpler. That it was enough for you to live in the forest, when you didn’t have to deal with pesky villagers intruding your home.)
He and his friends drag you all across Liyue, taking turns in pointing you to what this bustling harbor has to offer. It is truly overwhelming. The day passes by you in a blur of delicious-smelling food stalls and countless lanterns flying up in the sky.
You watch, mesmerized, as these lanterns float up, up, up, into the gaping maw of the night sky. They look so big down here near the surface where they’re all gathered together, but as they fly higher and higher they turn into fireflies disappearing into tiny pinpricks as the darkness swallows them whole. The hopes and wishes of humanity contained in these flighty little things, insignificant under the night sky. There’s a beauty to it, you suppose, and you think of a long forgotten story your guardian used to tell you—of humans becoming archons then slowly fading into the hands of time.
After everything is said and done, when light is starting to spill forth on the horizon and the festivities are starting to quiet down, the call of home beckons you. You turn to his friends and say, “Thank you. For showing me the wonders of your home. Snow fox has great companions.”
They all whip their head in your direction at that and a cacophony of “Aw!s” and “It’s no problem.” and “We’re happy to show you around!” echo in the crisp summer air.
Meanwhile, his bookworm friend—the young scholar—is quiet. He raises a well-trimmed brow and puts his hand under his chin in deep thought. “Snow fox, hm? Is that what you’re going by nowadays, dear Chongyun? I thought you didn’t like being called nickna—”
The exorcist shushes him and puts his hands on the scholar’s mouth before he can get any further in his sentence and you blink in confusion as his friends throw sneaking glances at each other.
They remind you of older juvenile wolves ganging up on the younger ones in a show of dominance and you feel the need to defend the flustered exorcist. “He is Snow Fox. Cold. Lithe. Pretty.” You pause. “Or am I…wrong?” Were you unknowingly insulting him somehow? Is this his friends telling you of your transgression?
The exorcist turns redder the more you continue and all of his friends laugh. The cook—the one with a red panda for a companion—shakes her head. “No, no! You didn’t say anything wrong. Don’t mind them, it’s all in good fun.”
The fiery musician also chimes in to say, “Just take care of our precious ‘snow fox,’ alright? Keep him out of trouble.” She winks.
You nod solemnly, “My claws and fangs will tear down any danger.”
They laugh harder at that and it fills you with the warmth of a rising dawn.
(That is how your first trip to Liyue went. With the air ripe on untold promises of meeting each once more.)
He brings you keepsakes from his homeland sometimes.
All kinds of things, from tiny trinkets made of amber rocks in the high terrain of Mount Hulao (that you find pretty) to spicy Jueyun chilis (that you almost spat out the first time you tasted it in surprise) to Glaze Lilies (that make your nose itchy) to everything else he can carry with the strength buried in those wiry arms of his. Things you’ve never seen before.
During his visits, he always has something new to give you and, frankly, the space in your crude box of treasures is diminishing in an alarming rate. The pile grows bigger and bigger until you’re having a hard time trying to make it all fit. But you can’t bear to give them away.
(You packmates don’t say anything but you can tell they’re laughing at you behind your back. Razor, the Wolf Boy-turned-dragon, they tease, hoarding his precious treasures. Immature pups, the lot of them.)
The best of the exorcist’s gifts, you think, is the golden crystal born from stone. Cor Lapis, he calls it. You like that one the most. A mesmerizing thing. Its name unfurls on his tongue like a flower in full bloom, vibrant and exquisite. The patterns that adorn the polished gem leaves you captivated and unable to look away. It swirls beneath your gaze and you feel it pulling you to an endless oblivion. It glitters in a way that clenches your heart whenever he’s around. Staring at the gem during stormy nights gives comfort, like the warmth of a fire on a cool moonlit night and a wave of calm envelopes you. It has become a habit at this point. Hands grasping in the dark when the weather is a tad too gloomy, a heavy feeling festering in your stomach until your fingers curl around the familiar weight of smoothened stone.
“Tough. Bright. Like you,” you say to the exorcist when the crystal was first presented to you.
He makes a funny face at that and pulls away from you as if your words burned him. And it would seem that they have. The tips of ears and the skin on his cheeks turned flaming red and he made sure he was eating his popsicles the whole day.
The twisting feeling down your stomach comes back every time you catch him off guard like that and it throws you off balance. You can’t put your finger on why this only happens around him and it bothers you. You don’t react like this to your other friends so why was he different?
Maybe it was time to ask someone for guidance and clarity.
The chat with your guardian is fairly short, as it usually is.
He is an ancient deity who has seen the downfall of evil’s past and has watched the birth of a nation from afar. Has witnessed its archon fight fiercely for his people and easily let them go for the freedom they value so much. The old wolf’s wisdom is vast. You know this better than anyone. He did raise you after all. He is none other than Andrius, Wolf of the North Wind.
You decide to finally confide in your guardian so that you can make heads or tails of these confusing feelings, muddling your brain and clouding your heart.
You care for the exorcist. Deeply.
There is a word for this kind of feeling, you know it. It’s at the tip of your tongue but it escapes you like water slipping through your fingers. You reach for it and yet you never catch those pesky words. You don’t understand. You don’t understand the lightness in your heart when he comes around and makes your day a little brighter, the lingering pang in your chest when he leaves.
Why do you care? Why are you so attached to this one person? Is it because he’s kind? Is it because he makes everything better? You don’t know what to call this emotion that bubbles up from within you. It’s not anything you’ve ever felt before. There’s nothing you can tell yourself when you stare into his azure eyes. No matter how hard you try to find an explanation for why you feel something for him, all you find is emptiness. Everything about him makes you want to be closer. To hold him close as if you could keep him safe. As if you could protect him with everything you have.
You tell all this to your guardian and he’s silent the whole time you gather yourself in trying to convey to him your state of perpetual confusion as of late. When you’ve quieted down, he grunts, as if dissatisfied and puts his imposing face close to yours and stares at you until you feel the hairs at the back of your neck stand up. He regards you with a piercing glare before stepping back and grunting again as if he’s found what he’s looking for, his expression unreadable. You don’t really know what’s going on, other than a deep sense of dread settling over you.
After what seems like an eternity, he merely shakes his head and laughs in that deep mellow rumble of his and says They grow up so fast, don’t they? in a soft wistful way that sticks a knife straight through your heart, tearing you apart at how sad he sounds.
That didn’t answer your question at all. You had a feeling he didn’t want to. (He has watched over boys like you before. They always leave in the end. But he can’t lose you yet. Still so young.)
He gives you a begrudging sniff and retreats to become one again with the blue mist of his own design.
Your guardian’s voice suddenly echoes in your head. Razor, I will only say this. This is a human matter. A matter of the heart. You already know what ails you. Do what you must to recover but keep in mind to maintain the integrity of your heart and soul. Leaves fall, songs fade, people come and go. Take care not to rush and do not forget who you are.
He says nothing else, so you leave, more confused than before.
Your feelings come crashing down on you one day in full force, during a single moment when the exorcist is sitting down and talking to you under the shade of a Cuihua tree. The hunt with your pack was bountiful and the boy didn’t have any urgent exorcisms to attend to so you both ended up relaxing as you wind down from the day’s activities.
After a while of pleasant calm, he stands up and stretches before silently offering his hand for you to take. You don’t hesitate, and take his hand as you, too, rise to meet him halfway.
You inhale and let it out. Might as well air out your feelings now. Maybe confronting it head on would sooth the ailment your guardian speaks of.
“Friend.”
Such a simple word. A roll of the tongue at the back of your throat ending up at the top of your mouth in one maneuver. You know this word well enough, have used it countless of times and yet it does not satisfy you. It does not fit the melody his name carved into your heart. Does not even begin to encompass the tide threatening to burst forth inside your lungs each time skin touches skin. But nevertheless, it is more than enough for now.
His eyes widen. You feel like you could drown in them. Pools of blue sucking you in and sinking you in their endless depths.
“You are, friend.” You step closer and wrap your hands around his own. They are warm, so very warm. “I protect friends with my life.”
This time, when he flares up at your declaration, you are ready to catch him when he falls.
Then it happens.
You blink and his face falls close to yours. Too close.
You can feel the uneven breaths he’s taking, yang energy threatening to break free. Your pulse is loud in your ears as he’s staring at you with a dazed look in his eyes. Then his gaze falls below your eyes. That was the only warning you get when he leans closer and presses his lips to yours.
Chongyun is kissing you.
The kiss is soft and feather-light. It lasts no more than a second but it lingers for an eternity in your mind. It makes your heart beat faster than it already has, even with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. It feels familiar, comforting; even though you’ve never kissed him before—let alone kiss anyone before. (You have a feeling it’s the same for him. There was a clumsiness in the way he did it, his nose pressed a bit too heavily on yours and his hands weakly trembling in your arms.)
You’re no stranger to the concept of kissing. Of lips upon lips to convey affection. Being raised in the land of songs and love, where romance and affection are sown into the very foundation of its people, it is not uncommon to see the gentle caress of a lover, the fleeting kiss of a suitor. Kisses were given freely by those who are willing and no one bats an eye when declarations of love are commonly proclaimed right by the public square.
You don’t see why people have to be so blatant. A simple nudge of head against fur or a light nibble would suffice for you wolves. Kissing was never at the forefront of your mind. (Your heart is another matter. It aches whenever you witness families holding their special someone close and not letting go, happiness radiating from the lighthearted smiles they bestow to one another. Longing, your mentor might call it. What is it that you long for, Razor?)
You don’t have much time to think about it, however, because he quickly pulls away and mumbles apologies under his breath.
One thing’s for certain, though—You have never wanted to kiss anyone so much before in your entire life.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he whispers.
You want him. His name is ringing in your skull, a symphony wanting to be set free.
Again.
You want to kiss him again.
“Please don’t hate me.”
You want him. Chongy—
“Goodbye, Razor.”
You want him but you’re just standing there, frozen the entire time, heart beating loudly and head floating atop the clouds as you simply watch him—Watch him as he snaps out of his daze and lets go of your arm, breaking into a run and never looking back.
His name dies out in your throat.
When you finally gather your bearings and settle back into your own skin, he is long gone.
He leaves just like that. (He leaves you just like that.)
It takes you off guard. Way off guard.
That which has become the norm for the two of you—the pleasant days of chasing spirits and the occasional longing glances you throw at each other—has dwindled. So when he slowly stops coming by and tagging you along to whatever plans he’s got for the both of you, it feels as though you’ve suddenly lost footing as the ground beneath you indifferently crumbles away. You feel hollowed out. Empty.
You run.
You run and you run and you run and you run until your legs can’t move anymore. You don’t know where you’re going, you just know that you need to get away from here. From everything. When you finally pause to gasp in a lungful of air, you realize that you’ve ended up in Dragonspine.
The view that greets you is achingly familiar.
It’s the spot where he trains. The spot where he first called out your name.
The place where ice met thunder and shook you to your very core.
The snow descends mercilessly and you start to shiver violently. Night begins to fall. Your breath puffs white clouds into the air above you, creating an eerie atmosphere. You watch as snowflakes land on your arms and shoulders. They melt almost instantly upon contact, leaving behind small droplets that freeze upon reaching the ground, turning into snow once more. A low rumble of thunder sounds overhead and lightning flashes across the sky as if warning you of what’s to come. The cold wind picks up speed and the icy rain begins to pour down upon you. It stings against your skin and cuts through your clothes, making you wince.
But it doesn’t matter.
You try not to think about why you’re here. Why you thought running away would work. (Why it didn’t work.)
Later, when you’ve calmed down a bit, you would come back home, shivering uselessly, with a heavy heart underneath clothes dripping wet.
You think he’d come back, at first. That this was all a fever dream your muddled brain concocted and that you’ll wake up and everything will be the way it was before. That you’ll hear the familiar pitter-patter of excited footsteps and the aroma of crisp dew air he brings along with him. You wait for him at the spot under the Cuihua tree that you had made into your own little haven together alongside him. And on the sixth day of each week, the day of Cryo, you stay vigil on the frozen lake where he trains, amidst the unforgiving cold of Dragonspine. You sit there and silently try to bury the longing ache in your chest, hoping that when you turn your head you’ll see the familiar icy depths staring back at you.
But there’s no one there.
His name taunts you. The melody banging relentlessly against your skull. Crushes the air in your lungs and holds your throat in a vice-grip. Layers of cloud, indeed. Layers upon layers stacked up above, insurmountable. Just as you think you've gained hold of one layer, the one below gives way and you fall endlessly away from him. He slipped by your grasp and was gone with the wind. You cannot reach him.
You hadn’t expected it—he didn’t say a goodbye, not even a promise that he’d come back to you again—but that didn’t stop it from hurting any less. He left and took your heart along with him. (For what else could it be but your heart? There is a gaping void in your chest and you don’t bother to fill it up.) But what can you do? You don’t know where he is and you cannot simply abandon your duties to your wolfpack just for a boy that caught your attention. (Wrong. He is not just a boy. He is more than that. He is ice incarnate, terrible and beautiful all at once. He is everything and—) He is gone.
He didn’t even break your skin, didn’t even dig his blade straight down your chest and leave you out to dry, mortally wounded and bleeding, as you had once feared. He is a noble soul and he never was your enemy. You can still stand, can still walk and hunt and do your duties as a pack member with lethal ferocity. Nothing has inherently changed. You are fine without him. You are alive and breathing. You are fine.
And yet, he has killed you all the same.
He left you beaten and broken, without leaving so much a scratch. Amazing, really. How you’ve let yourself go when it comes to him.
He is a ghost that haunts you in your dreams. A spirit of a memory you can’t let go. The space beside you has never felt so empty.
Lately, as you roam Mondstadt, you notice with painful clarity things you’ve never paid attention to before. The countless hands being held dearly, the laughter bubbling up at the barest of efforts, the ballads being sung about spring and yearning. The scent of love permeates Mondstadt and you cannot bear it.
You want that. The easy laughs, the lingering glances, the unsaid devotion. You want that with him.
What is this feeling? It aches and eats you up alive.
You don’t visit Mondstadt for a while.
Your packmates eventually notice the mood you’re in. And if they also notice that it might have something to do with how a certain someone isn’t around much anymore, then it really isn’t any of their business now, is it? They know better than to force you to talk when you don’t want to. Although, that doesn’t stop them from letting you get the meatiest portions of the pack meals lately.
Even your guardian takes pity on you. Andrius takes one good look at you and lets you sleep on his velvety fur whenever you come by. It will be alright, pup, he says. You are built of sterner stuff than most. He sings of strength and healing as you drift into a dreamless slumber. (One time, you think you even catch him murmuring about vengeance and retribution against liars and betrayers as you were falling asleep. Definitely not a good sign. No one messes with Andrius’ pack and comes out unscathed.)
He isn’t coming back.
The fact settles on you like a stone in your stomach. Weeks have passed and while the numbness is still there, it’s more of a dull ache than a raging torrent that once threatened to swallow you whole.
He isn’t coming back.
You know this, but every once in a while, some part of you hopes. For him to come back from wherever he had gone, just so you could see those bright blue eyes look at you again, so you could hear his voice call out your name and know that you are not the only one feeling like this. But nothing ever happens. The days seem endless, the nights colder than they were before, as if they’re mocking you by reminding you of how foolish you’ve been. How you should not have easily let him go.
He isn’t coming back.
You tell yourself this, but you find yourself in the cold embrace of the Dragonspine over and over again. Every sixth day of the week, you never miss coming over to that spot. The day of Cryo held no meaning to you before but now you’ve come to associate it with the stinging chill of disappointment whenever you come across that certain spot in that certain frozen lake to find nobody waiting for you at all. There is no one there to greet you with their half-moon smile and gentle voice.
You sigh, knowing all too well what sight would welcome you when you step onto the lake once again.
He isn’t coming back—
But then.
Sharp blue eyes stare right back at you.
You don’t think. Running on pure instinct, on pure want alone, your body makes a mad dash to where he is standing and you almost fall as you crash into the boy who has made your life so much more confusing—has made your life so much more—than it already was.
You grab his arm. Hard. You will not let him get away from you this time.
For just one moment, everything stops. The world stills, and for that one moment, there’s nothing but you and him and everything else fading into obscurity around you. It could have been seconds or minutes—it could have been an eternity—later when he finally gives in to your hard gaze and opens his mouth to speak.
“Razor.”
Your name is the first thing he says to you after being gone for five moon cycles. Five moon cycles! You should be mad.
“Please let me go.” His voice sounds raw. It doesn’t seem like the words he’s saying are coming from his throat, rather something that has been forced out of him by sheer force of will. Your grip loosens slightly. You should be mad. You should be mad but his voice is trembling and your name is the first thing he says to you after being gone for five whole moon cycles.
Razor. Razor. Razor.
Your name bounces in your head. He says it softly, like a prayer. But you are no benevolent archon and you stamp the blooming hope in your chest. You will yourself to be steel and confront him head on. Sharp, straight, and true. Razor.
“Why did you leave?” you ask him, keeping your eyes trained on his face.
He laughs, but it is a far cry from his real one. Instead of sunlight seeping through there is only an emptiness that sucks out your breath. “What do you mean? I’m here now, aren’t I?”
You say nothing and glare at him. You see his lips move again to try and say something. But you don’t let him. You can tell that they would not be truly sincere. You can see it in the wideness of his eyes, the clenching of his fists. Instead, you grip his hand tighter. (Faintly, he squeezes back and your heart starts to beat again.) You ask again, very quietly, very gently.
“Why did you leave?”
His shoulders slump, but they’re not defeated. There’s something burning in his gaze, something hot and fierce, of clouds parting to a hot fiery day.
“I couldn’t stay with you. Not then,” he says simply, his fingers twitching in yours as he tries to pull them free.
He can’t. No matter how badly he tries to let them go, your grasp remains firm. You stare at each other, and it feels like another eternity passes before you speak again.
“Why? I thought we were… friends.”
The silence stretches between you, and his eyes flicker to the side before returning to meet your own.
You are surprised to find water swimming along the glacier in his eyes.
He’s crying, you realize with a start. This is the first time you’ve seen him cry.
There’s something strange about seeing someone so beautiful, someone like him cry and it reminds you of how fragile ice is. (How it breaks so, so easily. And how it’s your fault. You with your sharp claws and nasty canines, unfit to hold something so precious. You made him cry.) Tears are painting his cheeks with transparent lines that should never belong there in the first place. It mars his features and washes away the harshness of his indifferent gaze. It makes him look young. Younger than you both already are. “I’m so sorry, Razor. Really. I was being selfish. Usually I can keep my constitution in check but lately when I’m with you my yang energy keeps acting up and I don’t know what’s happening to me and I was so scared. But it wasn’t your fault! It really isn’t. I thought that if I stayed away for a while, these conflicting feelings would go away and I’d have some control over my yang energy again. I panicked and I—”
“Will you leave again?” You cut him off. He’s rambling. The words he’s throwing at you in quick succession is flying over your head and you hate that you’re so slow at understanding them.
You feel his hands tremble in your grip. He blinks, tears spilling from his eyes and falling onto your arm. (They are cold against your skin, colder than the wind in Dragonspine. They don’t break skin. They don’t burrow deep in your bones, chilling you to the core. They don’t. You can pretend.)
He takes a while to answer you. Your stomach is currently dropping down an endless chasm. You hate the silence that envelops the entire conversation. Silence has always been your friend, has always been enough between the two of you. But now it works against you, draws you both farther apart even as you stand face-to-face less than a breath away. You hate that you need to hear him answer you. You hate that it’s taking him so long because he looks so lost in thought. (But what you hate even more is the fact that you can’t read the expression on his face.)
Finally, he speaks. “No.”
You should be mad. You should not trust his words after that. But instead of anger you just feel relief. Relief that his answer is so straightforward, so honest. Relieved that he isn’t lying. Relief that he means it.
(Because his eyes have never lied to you before. They are the same eyes that look at you now and before. The same ones that always greet you ever since you met him that fateful night.)
“You will not leave?” you ask, just to be sure, to be clear.
He shakes his head vehemently. “No, Razor. I won’t. I’m sorry.”
You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care. Chongyun is here and that’s what matters. That’s all that matters.
You pull him into a hug, afraid that if you let go he will fully disappear like those spirits he desperately chases after. You bury your nose in his clothes and breathe in his scent. You have never been so glad to smell the familiar scent of cool morning rain. “Lupical. My Lupical.”
He chokes out a tiny laugh at that and knows that he is forgiven. “Thank you.”
He hugs you back just as tight that you can feel his heartbeat. A strong and steady drumming. One steady beat after another. It’s soothing. It’s warm. It’s home.
When you part, he smiles. His smile is so genuine, so real, and it’s the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.
Your Lupical.
Eventually, you get to call Chongyun your—
“Mate.”
You take every chance to proclaim this to anyone willing to approach you two during his trips to Monstadt.
(You can tell he doesn’t really understand your excitement at that word, but it makes him smile anyway, so you don’t mind the confusion on his face one bit.)
One of your friends, the other red but-not-so-burny girl, scrunches her eyebrows together when you tell her the endearment you call him and says, “So, are you two… a thing now?”
He turns red at that and besides her, your mentor tilts her head back and lets out an amused laugh. “My, my. How you’ve grown, Razor.”
You nod and beam happily.
“He is my mate,” you say proudly. “My cherished Lupical.” You will live up to his expectations and more. You swear it.
He is yours and you are his.
(You have no clue what “thing” she’s referring to but you suppose the choked noise the exorcist lets out is beside you is probably as good an indication as any.)
+1
It has been a while since your last encounter.
Things in his hometown have been hectic, he somberly says, what with the death of their archon. You can’t quite recall who exactly the Geo Archon is but you know of his long-lasting friendship with the Anemo Archon since the wind whisp’s ascension to godhood. You know of his great importance to Liyue’s history whenever the exorcist mentions him.
He and the whole people of Liyue grieve for their fallen archon and you are left with your own thoughts when he slips through your fingers once again. (But you are not worried, not anymore. You know he will come back to you.) The next time you see him he seems more distant than ever, only speaking when necessary. When he comes to visit, it’s always on business, and then he’s gone again. You miss him terribly, you miss the sun behind the clouds, but you understand and quietly let him be.
In his muted silence, you think how his entire existence could easily pass you by. The spirit he sought after that fateful night might have never been found by a certain exorcist and you would have spent the whole night watching for an intruder that never came. You would have lived your whole lives perfectly content without knowing each other and that simple fact freezes you to your core.
You’re so used to his tiny smiles, his endless chatter filling up the silence in your days that imagining any other reality is almost frightening. If you were to lose him, you don’t know if you’d even be able to handle life without him. But, you’ve grown accustomed to being alone. You are a hunter, a survivor. Surely, you aren’t one to get attached to people like this, right? (Who are you kidding? You would tear the world apart if it means having his presence a steady fixture in your life.)
When you dream about him he walks beside you. His hand is tucked neatly in yours and it feels natural to hold it, familiar even, like you were always meant to intertwine your fingers. Like you are meant to fit together and never part.
They are nice dreams.
There are those times when you wish these dreams would become a little more real. That when you wake up, you are holding onto him. That he’s wrapped around your torso tightly like he does when he sleeps, face buried against your chest, and his hands clutched at the fabric near your heart. He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound when you touch him or sniff him. And yet, when you look down at him, he stirs ever so slightly, like he knows you are here. You hold your breath until he settles back into slumber, and watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest like it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.
You dream and you wish and you ache.
(Your packmates tease you endlessly. They say you are smitten. You ignore them. You think your guardian sighs from above and reminds them to focus on the hunt.)
And so time goes on. The sweltering heat gives way to the cool winds of the later months and as animals start to prepare for their deep slumber, you watch as the life slowly comes back to him. His eyes light up a little more. He starts to smile again, and you can’t help but join him. It’s all the things you have longed to see ever since the death of their archon.
He has come back to you.
You are on the cold mountain, again. But this time it was you who had the initiative to bring the two of you up here. He brightens up a bit at that, and you try not to feel too happy at the sight. Best not to get distracted and forget why you’ve brought him here in the first place.
“Are you here to train with me?” he asks excitedly. He starts to make his way to the frozen lake but you grab his hand, halting him in his tracks. He looks at you questioningly.
“I train with you, if you want. But first—” You tug his hand. “Come.”
You lead him over to a tiny clearing, where the winds are not as harsh. It’s some ways away from the lake, frozen water giving way to frigid ground. There is an empty encampment there you’ve set up days earlier, waiting to be used. You light a fire in its center and pull out some supplies—food, blankets, and water you prepared before embarking on this trip. When the fire is well-lit and steady, you sit cross-legged and you beckon him to do the same.
He sits beside you, watching expectantly. “What a quaint little area! Did you set this all up? You didn’t have to, if you did. I know this mountain isn’t somewhere you frequent. I’m sure we could’ve found somewhere else for us to rest. Is there a special occasion? Or maybe—”
“Yes,” you interrupt, nerves aflame. This mountain is stranger to you no longer, ever since the boy tagged you along his training. You pause and struggle to put your thoughts into words. Talking is hard, but you will try so that he can understand. “This... It felt right. Because... Today is your day. The day you were born. Many moons ago.”
His birthday.
A day when the stars wove into their tapestry the shape of a young child, a boy filled to the brim with yang energy, so full of life and wonder, and decreed that his fate would wind up intertwining with yours. A blessed day.
He opens his mouth to say something but you stand up to heat the meat over the flames before he can utter a word. It was the most tender specimen you can find, obtained from an elusive golden boar. (You hunted it alone, for one week straight, a true test of skill to determine a wolf’s worth as a devoted mate. He does not know this. You pack teases you relentlessly.) When the meat sizzles, you turn towards him and kneel.
You take a deep breath. “Eating with you… makes me happy. I wish it makes you happy, too, on your day.”
Your hand is shaking and your cheeks feel hot. You don’t know if it’s due to the cold or the irrational fear of incoming ridicule. (He would never; you know this. But words are never your strong suit.)
Patiently, he waits for you to continue, his gaze soft and encouraging. You take a deep breath to steel yourself in hopefully delivering a coherent talk. You push through and continue. “I know there are others. Who will celebrate your day... And that is good! Very good. But, some of it, I want you to spend, with only me.”
The fire crackles and the air feels heavy around you. You stare resolutely at the coals, waiting for him to reply. The firelight dances across his features, making it difficult to read his expression and you have a fleeting thought of how much you adore him. How you adore every single aspect of him. The way his hair moves in the breeze, how his skin glows, the way he watches everything with such interest. All of it seems to fit perfectly within this moment and you can feel your throat tighten in nervous anticipation.
When you hear the rustling of his clothes, you snap back into reality. You glance up and his hand is on yours, softly caressing. “Razor… I—I would love nothing more.”
You look at him, really look at him, and his eyes are so bright, so blue and yet they are so very warm, filled with such adoration that your insides twist into knots. You take a shuddering breath and you can tell he understands what you meant, by the slight tightening in his grip. Then, he smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds, warming you from the inside out. You lean forward, your forehead resting against his.
“Thank you...” you say, voice thick with emotion. You clear your throat and pause. There is a word you’ve wanted to say, to express how grateful you are, how much you treasure him and everything about him. It sticks to your tongue as you try to force it out.
Days spent in practicing the syllables—those two blessed syllables that plays a never-ending symphony in your head—until the dissonance of the chords in your throat lessen, until the blood flowing from the deepest corners of your heart to the tips of fingers sing the melody that is him, permeating your every being.
It bubbles up inside you. Your mind is swimming. Will it come naturally, pouring from your mouth and falling out of your lips, spilling forth from your soul like a river in the heart of spring? Or will you stumble, stumble and ruin the melody?
And, oh, how he looks at you in this moment, eyes sparkling with excitement and awe. They guide you back to the present and draw the music out as you finally manage to mutter out the words that you’ve wanted to say for so long.
“...Chongyun.”
Like an unused blade, your voice sounds dull to your ears. Unfit to convey anything but stiff responses and demands.
But the word has fallen from your lips, nonetheless.
And his eyes gleam brighter. More beautifully than any jewel you have ever seen. They light up with pure unbridled joy.
(Maybe it is possible to capture sunlight. It’s in the very essence of him.)
“My name,” he says, quietly, reverently. As though he couldn’t believe it was truly his. “That was the first time you’ve said my name.”
Despite yourself, great pride wells up within you and washes away your remaining doubt, seeing as you were able to bring forth such a reaction from him.
“Say it again,” he whispers. “Please.”
So you say it once again. “Chongyun.”
The syllables are still foreign on your tongue but they taste sweet as they settle down your palette. And they linger there, between your teeth as you savor the feeling.
“Razor.”
He says your name better than you ever could have. The sound rolling off his tongue with ease like it belongs there. Like it’s his to take whenever he wishes. As though he was meant to say it for as long as he lives and breathes. He softens the jagged edges of your name and slows the tempo into a soothing rhythm.
(Your name has never sounded so lovely. He makes it sound like home.)
“Chongyun,” you say, again, just because you can, just because you know you will never tire of saying it.
“Razor!”
“Chongyun!”
He beams.
It’s as if a dam has been broken. Now, his name flows from your lips as easily as water flows from a fountain. And it does. It floods from the very core of you, overflowing into the snow. Into the caves, into the ground and into the sky. Until there is no room left in the Dragonspine for any other sound. “Chongyun. Chongyun. Chongyun.”
You both laugh. Tears gather in the corner of his eyes, as he leans closer, lips curving upwards into a brilliant grin. You want to pounce onto him once more.
You like him like this. Happy. Heart open and laid bare in the way he looks at you, in the way he speaks like a torrent of rain on a peaceful day. He smiles so brightly that it hurts your heart. You witness the sun shining through the clouds in the glimmering twinkle of his eyes. The rainbow of colors bursting from him, vibrant as his personality is bright.
He is Frosty Stranger. Snow Fox. Friend. Lupical. Mate.
Chongyun.
“Thank you so much,” he says fervently as he wraps his arms around you. Your heart skips a beat as you hug him back, burying your face in his neck, his scent filling your lungs. “For giving me such a wonderful gift.”
A sliver of possessiveness creeps onto you at his proclamation and you cling tighter. You don’t want to let go of this feeling so you hold onto it like it’s the last thing tethering you to this world, keeping you alive and kicking and breathing.
You easily pick him up and spin him around.
He squeals with laughter and it sounds heavenly. Carefree and unrestrained like an arrow shot free from its quiver, landing straight to your heart. You watch him become undone in your arms, smile wide and unguarded as you spin and spin, his giggles echoing throughout the mountainside.
You laugh along with him. Holding him like this, being close like this—
Being together just like this, makes you feel unstoppable.
You and your Chongyun.