Work Text:
Xiao isn’t quite sure how long it’s been since he’s stepped into an airport like this.
It isn’t like he’s never had the opportunity to do so before—plenty, really, with offers thrown around every few months or so for some meeting overseas that he should attend—but he’s never quite seen the need. Work is work, whether in the city he’s (begrudgingly) learned to call home, or miles away in some other equally fast-paced maze of skyscraper and blaring vehicle horns.
So perhaps it wouldn’t be apposite to say he’d never had time to travel to other places. Rather, he’d never quite had the time to travel to where he wanted to go.
Until now, at least. He didn’t actually think his request for leave would be approved, but by some stroke or luck or otherwise, it had. He refuses to mull it over the way he usually does when things take an unexpected turn—he doesn’t need the reason.
The sound of the conveyor belt breaks him out of his thoughts, soft first and then louder, with the first of the suitcases beginning to peek through. The time in white font on his phone is reflected up at him—half past one in the morning—but the weariness hadn’t really settled in yet. A part of him chalks it up to the long hours he’d spend at work, oftentimes ending later than this.
Save from the travellers in his immediate vicinity, all standing around and waiting for their bags, the airport is virtually empty, with the shops having closed hours ago. Briefly, he contemplates stopping by one of the few fast food restaurants for a meal—even from here, he can see a jarringly-lit sign: open 24/7—though it doesn’t take long for him to dismiss the thought.
He’s the last person who should be turned to on issues relating to health, but even he doesn’t fancy the thought of eating oily fries at nearly two in the morning. He’s not hungry, anyway; he can wait until tomorrow.
Surprisingly, his suitcase doesn’t take long to come, and he hoists it off the belt, stepping away from the small crowd of people. The bag is light and easy to wheel as he makes his way toward the gates, thankful that he’d decided to travel light. He could have stayed for a little longer, but that wouldn’t be very responsible of him, not when there’ll almost certainly be a backlog of work waiting for him after he returns.
Besides, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he stayed too long. How many years would it be since he’s visited—he catches himself before he can think the word home—how many years has it been since he’s visited? He still remembers what the place looks like, though he doesn’t know how much it’s changed since he left.
He halts a little distance from the doors and books a cab. The app on his phone tells him to wait seven minutes, and he wraps his jacket a little tighter around himself. It’s noticeably chillier out here than in the city, though not impossibly so. In a way, he thinks he prefers this.
The vehicle arrives in seven and a half minutes. It’s an unassuming shade of black, and Xiao double-checks the numbers on the plate against the ones on his phone. 7511. The driver helps him load his luggage into the trunk and he mutters out a quick thanks before slipping into the back of the car, leaning into the slight comfort the seat offers.
“Visiting family?” the driver asks, shutting his own door behind him and re-fastening his seatbelt. Despite the time, his tone is bright, jovial even, and as Xiao makes fleeting eye contact with him through the rearview mirror he doesn’t catch any hints of exhaustion on the driver’s face.
He knows he must look quite different in comparison, eyebags set like stone against his skin from weeks of overwork and eyebrows half-knotted in displeasure from a less-than-stellar flight over. “Yeah,” he says shortly. He supposes it could be called that.
The driver gets the hint after, offering a kindly smile before beginning to drive. They don’t speak for the rest of the ride, not until the vehicle pulls to a final halt and the driver turns toward Xiao with a nod of his head. “We’ve arrived.”
“Thanks,” he replies, unfastening his seatbelt.
The corners of the driver’s eyes crinkle slightly. “See you, then. Happy holidays.”
“Happy holidays,” Xiao echoes, opening the door. The night breeze hits him instantaneously, but it’s more refreshing than it is chilling, and he doesn’t rush for the doors of the hotel the instant he retrieves his suitcase from the back of the car.
The hotel is warmly-lit from the inside, soft amber-gold casting light against the carpeted floors and marbled decorations. The paintings on the wall are beautiful, if not a little tacky, and the room that he’s promptly shown to smells like lingering cigarette smoke, but he doesn’t mind. He’s lived through worse, and he’ll only be here for one day, anyway.
He’d been told it was an unnecessary move, and that he could just head straight for the house, but he’d decided against it. No trains run at this late of an hour—and he hadn’t been able to book any other flight on such short notice, not without paying an exorbitant amount—and even if they did, it wouldn’t be very respectful to show up in the middle of the night, anyway.
So he goes for a shower, prepares for bed, and tucks himself in shortly after, suitcase sitting by the door, barely touched save for the change of clothes he’d taken from it. All ready to be moved again the next day.
It’s been a long time since he’s travelled like this.
The last time he’d travelled alone to a place far from home had been when he’d travelled to the city, ready for work in a new firm under a new boss. A better one, they’d promised, and while they had been right, it’s funny how quickly things change.
Or perhaps things had changed as slowly as ever, and he just hadn’t been around to notice it, too strapped for time chasing one path and forgetting to look back at the other.
His eyes threaten to close, eyelids heavy with the lack of sleep he’d gotten on the plane. The seat had been far from comfortable, because again, he hadn’t managed to find any better options in the amount of time he had. Unless he booked first class, of course, but he wasn’t paying that kind of price for his own poor planning.
A yawn slips out, unmasked now that there’s no one he feels obliged to hide it from, and he plugs his phone into its charger before allowing his head to hit the pillow.
There’s no use in thinking about this now, of all the gaps in his life that were once filled by being in this same town, all the things that went missing since he left and never looked back.
He’s back now, even if only temporarily, and he’ll have to make peace with that.
Xiao closes his eyes and sleep comes only seconds after.
By the time he wakes up, light is streaming in through the drawn curtains, and there’s a tell-tale ache to his limbs as he sits and stretches. He still has plenty of time before he’s due to leave, thankfully—he’s only planning to reach in the evening—but he can’t remember how long it’s been since he last slept this much. Slept this well, even on this uncomfortably firm mattress that pales in comparison to his own.
Briefly, he toys with the idea of not going. He wouldn’t know what to say—what to do. Some say distance makes the heart grow fonder, but in place of affection there only lies a thick layer of awkwardness, masking everything lying beneath. He’d been the last to leave home, and he’d done so abruptly, packing his things and leaving at the sudden call of better prospects. He supposes that it’s still a habit he has yet to kick; going here and there with a barely-structured plan in place.
It’s not like he had left without warning, of course, and however sudden, he can’t say it was unexpected either. It’s almost like everyone knew he was going to leave, one way or another, like everyone before him, chasing down the horizon in long plane rides and fifty-storey skyscrapers to wrap his fingers around the hope a better life promised.
By better, he means wealthier. More ambitious. He hadn’t had any qualms with his life back—back here—but he’d been told from young that there was more waiting for him out there. For someone like him, who topped the class at every instance, nevermind his (younger) tendencies of skipping school and disappearing whenever his mood got too dark.
He supposes it was only natural for him to grow up believing it.
But now that he’s back, however temporarily, he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to feel. He’s only visiting, he knows, but it’s been years and he’s not blind to see the way things have changed. The convenience store by the airport has been swapped out for an empty lot and the car rental place doesn’t have the same name he remembered. Being at odds with this place would be too extreme of an expression, but he doesn’t really know what else to call it. It feels like home and a strange place. A home from years ago, so different now.
He’s so different now.
Hours pass before he locks his suitcase and wheels it past the door. He’d had lunch shortly after waking, the flavours on his tongue reminiscent of cooking from back then and surprisingly strong compared to the microwavable meals he’s gotten used to having. Out of convenience, he tells himself, and certainly not because his cooking skills are abysmal at best.
The check-out passes smoothly, and he taps his phone screen, squinting at the white numbers that blink up at him. He still has plenty of time to get to the train station.
To his credit, he manages to make his way around the town fairly quickly, relying first on the navigation app on his phone and then, later, following the road signs that are beginning to grow familiar. The train station is the same as he remembers, if not a little cleaner, and he wraps his coat around him as he takes a seat. It’ll be colder out of town.
The train comes, a rush of sound and wind hitting his face, and he only allows himself a moment of hesitation before he steps in, carrying his suitcase with him.
He’s already here, anyway. There’s nowhere else to go but home.
Home.
He doesn’t stop the thought before it comes this time, and Xiao realises, belatedly, that he doesn’t know where home is. He’s been away for too long now to call this home, but his city apartment has never felt like one either, a cold and detached gloom hanging over it that did little to welcome him back each time he stepped through the doors after a long day at work.
The train doors close and the vehicle stirs into motion. The movement is abrupt and the elderly lady sitting next to him apologises as her elbow bumps against his. He nods his head in response, casting a glance out at the passengers. They’re mostly like him, he realises, suitcases in tow and wrapped up in fittingly warmer clothing.
The train passes buildings, shops, stalls. From above, Xiao can see the faint glow of lanterns lining the streets, bright even in the afternoon light. He can almost imagine the shouting of stall vendors, inviting others to have a taste of their festive goodies, play a game or two.
Some things never change, he supposes, and he’s surprised at the comfort the thought gives him.
Next to him, the lady’s body sways; he stiffens as he takes a peek and realises she’s fast asleep. She doesn’t end up leaning against his shoulder, though, and as much as he realises it’s not the most respectful of him to think so, he’s glad. Some things don’t change, and his dislike of having others in his space—harmless old lady or not—won’t.
Her head does end up touching his shoulder. But only for an instant, because in the next the train comes to a halt and the person beside her is shaking her awake. Xiao checks the time on his phone. The journey had taken two hours; faster than he remembered.
Ride-hailing apps don’t work quite as well here, and he settles for the more traditional method of hailing down a cab, masking a snort as he does so. Figures that this place would still be like this—in a way, it’s fitting. He can’t imagine that father figure of his living in any other place. He’d spoken highly of the city and all of its technological advances, of course, but he’d never seemed to think a place like that would suit him.
Xiao takes considerably longer to get a cab as compared to the last, back when he was in the airport, though it’s not something that comes as a surprise to him. He tells the driver the address, sounding near-foreign on his tongue, and fastens his seatbelt.
An odd mix of trepidation and anticipation bubbles against his throat, turning his gaze to the windows, the glass slightly fogged over. Here, miles away from the heart of the town, it’s far quieter, but there is warmth in the way people greet each other outside the train station, wrapped in each other’s arms and lips parted in never-ending conversation.
Even here, the streets are bright with lanterns, even with less street vendors and shops displaying sales and numbers all over their window displays. But he likes it like this, he decides. It’s the closest to the memory he has of Lantern Rite, after all—the last time he’d celebrated it had been right here, in this little place so far from the rest of the world and the blaring billboards and exhaust fumes of the city which never recognised his tradition as one of their own.
The driver pulls into a familiar street and Xiao feels his breath latch in his throat. “You can just drop me off at the house ahead,” he says, his native dialect feeling heavy on his tongue. The driver nods, stopping as per his instructions, and Xiao fumbles for cash.
“Happy Lantern Rite,” the driver tells him as he hands back the change, which Xiao pockets.
This time, he manages a slight smile. “Happy Lantern Rite.”
The driver doesn’t waste much time in leaving after he’s collected his luggage, no doubt on his own way home in preparation for dinner with his family. Xiao treks up the stairs, shivering a little at the cold, and then hesitates.
The exterior of the house hasn’t changed. The door still looks old enough to crumble under a few knocks, but is sturdy as ever under his touch as he reaches out, fingers brushing the wood. There are still plants in the garden, growing determinedly despite the temperature, and there are still patches of dirt on the roof as if Xiao’s footprints from when he’d climbed up years ago were left there as some sort of reminder.
He swallows his rapidly-rising heart rate down and knocks.
In the back of his mind, he thinks of the set of keys sitting in his suitcase.
“Come in!” comes the answering shout. “The door’s open.”
This time, he doesn’t give himself time to think, to stall. He’s already made his presence known, after all, and so he twists the knob and steps in, kicking his shoes off as he does so.
The interior hasn’t changed, either. The rug underfoot in shades of warm red, gold and brown feels the same under his feet as he remembered, the chandelier overhead dappling pale hues of sun-yellow across the table, scents from the kitchen heavy with nostalgia and memories of homecooked food.
It reminds him, startlingly, of home, and he swallows the emotions that arise as a ball in his throat, threatening to spill out of his mouth in words he doesn’t quite know how to say.
There’s the scrape of a chair against the floor. “You’re home,” comes the voice, softer now, the same voice that had shouted for Xiao to come in.
Zhongli looks the same as he did years ago when he saw Xiao off at the airport, and he moves with the same grace and decisiveness as ever, crossing the short distance between them to tug the handle of Xiao’s suitcase away from him. Xiao lets him.
(In the back of his mind, he thinks that maybe he’s the one who looks older now, somehow, aged with the weariness of work and the weight of the bags that have taken a permanent seat below his eyes.)
And then Zhongli smiles his way and he feels a weight lifting off his shoulders, like a sickness he never knew existed tearing itself from his body at long last. “It’s good to see you again,” he tells Xiao, voice warm.
Xiao draws a breath. “Yeah,” he responds, and all of a sudden he feels like a child again, the tables taller than he remembered and the antique decorations expensive and out of reach. He feels like a child again, bare feet against the carpeted floor and reveling in the glow of the lanterns beyond the window, gold and red reflected against fogged glass. “It’s good to be home.”
And he means it, this time.
The smile doesn’t leave Zhongli’s face. He tips his head towards the kitchen and says, “you’re just in time for dinner. They’ll be done soon.”
Xiao blinks, Zhongli’s words taking a moment to register. “They?” he echoes.
And then, almost as if on cue, the kitchen door swings open.
Purple eyes meet amber, and Xiao is the first one to move.
He takes a step towards her, uncertain, like he isn’t sure whether he’s dreaming or not.
“Xiao?” The absolute delight in her voice breaks him out of his stupor, and she rushes at him, almost dropping the dish she’s carrying as she does so. Zhongli hides a laugh and takes it from her hands, lowering it safely onto the dining table.
The feeling of her arms around him confirms two things—one, that he isn’t dreaming and it really is her, and two, that he’s not the only one who’d returned home for Lantern Rite.
“Indarias,” he says, the strange lump in his throat only growing stronger by the minute. He doesn’t let it show, of course. She’d only tease him if he did. “You’re back.”
She’d been one of the first to leave, ever-independent and wholeheartedly certain of what future she was going to carve out for herself. She hadn’t gone to a city as far away as he had, and from what he’d heard, she still returned every now and then to celebrate Lantern Rite with Zhongli. Not every year, though, and it’s as surprising as it is pleasant that she’d visited the same year he did.
Indarias laughs out loud. “I’m back?” she repeats, reaching out to flick a strand of hair away from Xiao’s face. He scowls at the additional physical contact as he gently detaches himself from her arms, one of them still wrapped loosely around him, but there’s no malice to it. “I’m not the only one back.”
There’s a scramble of footsteps. Xiao can tell who it is before he even hears the voice, sees the face that pops out behind the kitchen door sporting a wide grin and bright eyes. “Xiao’s here?”
“Menogias,” he says. He hadn’t seen the taller male since he left, several years before Xiao did. “You cooked?”
Menogias scoffs, crossing his arms against his chest. “What’s that supposed to imply?”
“Don’t worry, the most we allowed him to do was chop the vegetables.” Another voice joins Menogias, and Bonanus shows herself, brandishing a kitchen knife as if emphasising her point. Menogias eyes it and takes a wary step away, putting some distance between them. “Anyway, dinner’s nearly done. Just take a seat and wait, we won’t be asking for your help either.”
Xiao is torn between gawking at the two, completely taken by surprise at their presences, and defending his cooking skills. He ends up taking a seat as instructed, across the table from Zhongli, who’s returned from putting Xiao’s suitcase away in one of the rooms. His room, Xiao recognises. His old one.
“You’re finally here?” A voice speaks over his shoulder, and he looks up to see a dish being lowered in front of him. “Took you long enough, don’t you think?”
This time, when he speaks, it’s hard to hide the odd tone his voice takes, a little choked up. Just a little. “Bosacius.” He’d been the last to leave before Xiao, and they’d grown close—closer than they already had—in the others’ absences. He hasn’t seen Bosacius since the day he left. “You’re here, too?”
“Why? Missed me?” Bosacius teases lightly. “It’s good to have everyone back once in a while. It’s been so long since we celebrated Lantern Rite together, after all. And we have to keep the old man company, lest he get too lonely.”
Across the table, Zhongli straightens. “I’m not that old,” he objects. Bonanus shoots him an unimpressed glance.
“That’s what old people say,” she shoots back, and Xiao is surprised by the laugh that bubbles to the surface. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed this freely, let himself laugh this freely. He’d made friends over in the city, of course, but he’s never been this ready to let his guard down before.
He realises, a little belatedly, that his walls had come down the instant he stepped into the ones this house had to offer.
“Anyway,” Bosacius says, more sincerely now, hand patting Xiao’s shoulder as he takes a seat next to Xiao, “it’s good to see you again. Glad you made it back.”
The smile that falls against Xiao’s lips is a small one, soft around the edges. “I’m glad to be back, too,” he replies, and there’s something about it that feels like a confession, a secret waiting to be released into the open air. Beyond the windows, the glass is painted over in shades of lantern-gold and festive red, just like before. “It’s good to be home.”
This time, the word leaves him naturally. Home.
It’s good to be back.
And all of a sudden, he doesn’t feel like a child anymore. He becomes acutely aware of the body he’s grown into, slightly taller now, eyes more tired and filled with sights beyond these four walls and this little town he grew up in, of all the longing and homesickness and bittersweetness, wrapped into one, that hadn’t been there when he was still young. Before he grew up and left.
But some things never change, he realises too, like the lanterns on the streets and the joy of families reuniting and the way he flinches away from strangers on the train.
Like home.
“When’s your flight?” Zhongli asks, breaking him out of his thoughts. He stutters, not coming up with a response. Too soon, his mind supplies. He’d intended on stopping by for a short visit and then leaving again, catching a flight back to the hustle and bustle of the city.
The rest come in with the dishes, laying them on the table and taking their seats, and Zhongli dips his gaze away from Xiao for a moment. “You can tell me later,” he says, and Xiao gives him a nod. He’s glad, somehow. As though speaking it aloud would ruin the mood at the dining table, permeate it with the cold sharp knife of goodbye. I’m leaving soon, the date of the flight would say. I’m not staying.
So he doesn’t say it. Doesn’t dare. It would be too cruel, he thinks, to tell them—that it would be all over tomorrow, and that he would be leaving just as quickly as he came, here one moment and then gone the next. Back to the city void of lanterns; the same city he’d left this house for all those years ago.
In his place, the others take over the conversation, and he’s more than happy to let them. They complain about work and talk about what they’ve been up to and how the places they’ve moved to don’t celebrate Lantern Rite the same, and he listens attentively, speaking up whenever they direct questions at him. Bonanus has changed jobs since she’d received her offer to relocate elsewhere, and Menogias has moved house, drifting from a city to a smaller town just off the edge of the city. That suits him better, Xiao thinks, popping a dumpling into his mouth. The flavour floods his mouth and reminds him, achingly, again, of home.
“You’ve been busy?” Indarias asks, and he takes a moment to realise she’s speaking to him. He nods around a mouthful of rice, seeing Zhongli’s lips twitch from his peripheral vision, the same way they did when he was young and immature, tripping over his own two feet and sulking after being scolded for skipping class.
If this were any other time, he might have felt the need to huff at Zhongli—like he did in the past—to remind him that no, he’s not a kid anymore, stop looking at him like that. This time, he chooses to relish in it instead, committing the spark of affection in the elder’s gaze to memory.
“The same old,” he responds once he’s finally swallowed his food down, “work and all. They don’t celebrate Lantern Rite over there, so it’s been business as usual.”
A couple of the others round the table hum in agreement, no doubt facing a similar situation to him. “If only we could all retire and come back here to live,” Bosacius remarks with a teasing grin, “wouldn’t that be nice?”
Zhongli indulges in an amused smile, lifting a hand to take a sip of his tea. “Perhaps you should,” he replies evenly. “It would be quite nostalgic indeed.”
“Retirement?” Bonanus asks, the same time Menogias quips, “with whose Mora, exactly?”
The table dissolves into laughter, a little more boisterous than it had been years ago, but possessing still the same amount of joviality and enthusiasm as Xiao remembered. Zhongli catches his gaze from across the table again and smiles, the chandelier light twinkling gold in his eyes.
“I managed to provide for all of you back when you were living here,” Zhongli reminds, and if not for the steady calm that his voice always seemed to possess, Xiao would have imagined the faintest hint of (entertained) indignance within. “ Even when some of you chose to spend money on foolish consumables. Or sign up for pricey classes only to skip them.”
Xiao makes it a point to ignore the last jab, so clearly aimed at him. Bosacius snickers, and Xiao resists the urge to retort that at least he’d qualified for those pricey classes Zhongli had mentioned.
“And that was while you were still working,” Indarias retorts. “If not for the money we send back home, how would you be affording your bills now?”
Zhongli waves a dismissive hand in the air, lowering his teacup to the table. “Oh, you know,” he says, completely unbothered by the fact that all five—or nearly all five—of the people he’d more or less taken in and raised as his own were taking it upon themselves to tease him endlessly at the dinner table, “I have some good friends here and there.”
“So you’ve become a freeloader,” Xiao deadpans before he can help himself.
His words are met with a pause, and Bosacius is the first to burst out laughing. The rest soon follow, and Xiao can feel his cheeks flushing with colour, but when he offers Zhongli a small grin, the older of the two is quick to smile back.
“I still prefer the term good friend,” Zhongli answers with a shrug, “but you may call it whatever you wish.”
“Alright, freeloader,” Menogias says teasingly, and it doesn’t take long for the table to break out in laughter again.
This time, Xiao joins them, with whatever that was left of the weight on his shoulders lifting away completely.
He feels lighter than he’s been in years.
And they’re still a little bit of a raucous and dysfunctional bunch, he thinks, watching on in amusement as their questions and jabs turn into full-blown bickering some fifteen minutes into the dinner, but he likes it this way.
Some things never change, and he’s glad that it could be them.
“Enjoying yourself?” Zhongli asks, minutes after dinner has ended and he’s helping them carry the plates back to the kitchen. The tiles are cool under his feet and he’s reminded of the number of times he’d been scolded for coming in as a child, shooed away by the overprotective rest for fear of him getting too close to the fire.
This time, he doesn’t have to think. The answer comes naturally, settling upon his lips as certainly as the sun does in the sky each morning. “Of course I am.”
Zhongli’s hand rubs his shoulders briefly, tracing the fabric of his clothes in the shape of a wave. “I left your suitcase in your room.”
“I know,” Xiao replies, but he knows what Zhongli is really trying to say.
So he heads there after helping to wash up and put the dishes away, taking a moment to regain his senses as he pushes the door open. Save for the suitcase placed neatly by the wardrobe, his room is just as he left it—plain for the most part, with a few post-its holding reminders no longer useful to him, and a small board above the table with letters pinned to it. Some are farewell letters from friends, others letters the others had sent home in the mail shortly after leaving.
“You should rest early tonight,” Zhongli pipes up from where he’s been sitting, legs crossed as he swivels Xiao’s chair around to face him. “The journey here must have been a long one.”
Xiao takes a seat on the corner of his bed. The mattress is firm, but not uncomfortably so, a close reflection of the one he currently has in his apartment, impossibly far from here. “I slept a lot this morning,” he insists. Even as he says it, he can feel the jetlag creeping up on him, eyelids heavy and words harder to wrangle out. He fights to keep his head clear. “I’ll be fine.”
Zhongli sees right through him, as he always does. No surprises there. He doesn’t force Xiao to go to bed this time, though, instead humming with a soft nod. “You can head to bed whenever you feel like,” he says in response. “But we’re heading out tomorrow afternoon to visit some old friends for lunch, and then heading down to where the street vendors are later in the evening. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.”
And in the unspoken: will you still be there, at that time?
Xiao’s plane ticket becomes a weight that presses the air in the room down, crushing his lungs; it sits innocuously somewhere in his bag, amongst the keys to this home and the ones to his apartment.
I won’t, he thinks of saying, of telling Zhongli the truth, of the train he has to catch and the airport he’ll have to be at.
“If I wake up on time,” he replies instead, a joking lightness tracing his tone.
The corners of Zhongli’s eyes crinkle again. “Alright. I’ll leave you be, then.” He stands from his chair and Xiao’s fingers curl against the sheet, not quite knowing where the urge to reach out to tell Zhongli to stay came from. “Goodnight, Xiao.”
“I’m not going to bed yet,” he answers, the stubbornness in his tone taking him by surprise. And it must have had the same effect on Zhongli, too, for he laughs out loud and shakes his head, just like the time—many years ago—when Xiao had said the same thing, too insistent on staying up late when he had school the next morning.
“Whatever you say.” There’s a fondness to Zhongli’s voice that, perhaps, had always been there before, but it’s all the more prominent now. “See you tomorrow.”
Xiao’s gaze softens, his fingers relaxing and drawing circles against the bedsheets. His room is the same as it had always been, but cleaner, with the sheets freshly changed and the dust wiped from the shelves.
Like they had been expecting him, Xiao realises, waiting for him.
“See you tomorrow,” he vocalises, watching as Zhongli shoots him another smile before closing the door behind him.
Xiao sticks to his word. He refuses to fall asleep, not immediately, not while the rest are still wide awake and laughing just a wall away. He does succumb two or so hours after, though—his body clock is one tick away from imploding altogether, he’s sure—phone gripped in his hand and pale light reflected on his face as he plugs it into its charger and leaves it by the bedside.
The air feels lighter, somehow. Xiao still dreads the flight home all the same—dreads the less-than-comfortable seats and the long, long flight with nothing to stave off the boredom but free snacks and a list of movies he doesn’t have any real interest in—but it’s better now.
He still thinks he should kick the habit of making impulse decisions (most of the time in the middle of the night), but he supposes that it can lead to better things sometimes.
The reminder lights his phone screen up, one he’d saved to his calendar only minutes ago when he’d made the booking: flight home, the reminder says, be at the airport by 6pm.
And then, in smaller text above: three days from now.