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A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and followed the outermost curve of his cheek. To a passing eye or untrained glance, it could have been mistaken for a tear, but never had anyone known this man to show the smallest hint of pain. Instead, he straightened his spine, and gripped the spear in his hand that much tighter. The polearm, having been polished mere hours before, seemed to have dulled in the impromptu spar between the two men; the taller of the two, his hair falling into his eyes, exhaled slowly and relaxed his stance. The younger of the two, cautious, but obedient enough to understand when a battle had reached its conclusion, pressed his lips into a tight line and bowed curtly at the waist.
“Whatever troubles your heart has yet to cease, it seems,” The taller man began, letting his feet follow the familiar creaks of the floor below them; in the rack, he returned his polearm, but did not turn until he saw a familiar figure beside him, returning the same weapon.
“It is not troubling,” His fingers carded through his hair, sticky from sweat, “But it is certainly troublesome.”
A knowing smile, “Does the distinction improve your mood or guide your actions in this situation, Xiao?”
“...No. I can’t say that it does.”
“Then, let us not concern ourselves with semantics. We ought to dig to the root of the problem. What is it that bothers you?”
Pinching the front of his shirt, Xiao billowed it out in front of him for a few seconds, if only to buy time under the guise of needing to cool himself down. He glanced to the other man, then, unceremoniously, sat right where he stood and crossed his arms. Amused, but not enough to let even a syllable of laughter escape his lips, Zhongli sat, too, across from his ward.
Every word Xiao ever uttered came from a place of great contemplation, and he had been that way since childhood. In many ways, Zhongli was not sure if Xiao ever grew up, exactly, or if he had an adult mind occupying a child’s body for so many years. Their relationship, although close, had never delved into anything too deeply emotional when it came to conversation. It seemed that, with just actions - standing a hair closer than usual, mirrored stances, remembering to pick up almond tofu on the way home - the two men could communicate a wide variety of intricate emotions. Xiao had no use for words to describe the feelings he felt, and Zhongli made no effort to attempt pulling them out. Like a pair of planets, they revolved around the larger issues at hand.
Zhongli’s patience greatly outlasted Xiao’s irritation. It never took more than a handful of days for Xiao’s aggravated frowns and sharp glowers to take over even his most neutral expressions, and, like he had countless times before, he would formally request to spar with the very man that taught him how to use the polearm in the first place. That familiar path led them there, taking residence on the wood floor of the kwoon, rather than awaiting the inevitable discussion elsewhere.
With his legs folded, Zhongli set his forearms against his thighs and let his eyes try to lure Xiao’s worries forward with a slow quirk to his brow. Xiao, across from him, had a similar position, but his back slouched him forward under Zhongli’s gaze.
“I saw her again,” Measured, Xiao’s golden eyes closed, “But she was dancing to her own music and creating songs from thin air.”
Nearest to the kwoon that both Zhongli and his ward taught at, was a park open to the public. Normally populated by couples on romantic strolls, children playing on the paths, or seniors walking their little, yapping dogs, Xiao had little in common with any of the typical patrons and avoided it. Yet, in the smallest hours of the evening, when the day shifted to the next and he could not bring sleep to his eyes, Xiao’s legs propelled him to the park and the path that bisected the property. For nearly a week, his insomnia fooled him into thinking he was the only one present, that the phantom with the little black hat was merely a hazy figure in his peripheral meant to scare him from the only thing that brought him any reprieve. Instead, by the seventh day, he was no more certain that she was real than the first day; at least, until she began to take something out of the oddly shaped bag on her back.
There, glinting in the light of the rising moon, a polished violin. She touched its deep wood with the reverence of a worshipper, let her fingers glide over the edge of the instrument until she could bring it to the comfortable dip under her chin. Xiao, much further behind her on the path, would watch with, first, begrudging curiosity. He hadn’t desired to stop in his walk, but could not help but admit to himself that it was aimless and just a means of wasting time or tiring himself out until he could find any substantial rest at home. There was no point in confronting her, nor was there any in moving past her, where he might risk an interaction he did not want to have. Rooted in place, he watched her, his painted irritation turning quickly into genuine intrigue.
With her back to him, the young woman raised her bow, and began the night’s concert.
Never had he seen a body reanimate under the night sky, as if electricity had struck from the clouds and founded in her a new set of divine dances. First, her back, then her hips, then her arms, all fluidly following the twang of her violin. If that were not enough to both terrify and appeal him, she turned her body, and the beams of moonlight seemed to illuminate her from the inside out. On her lips, so soft against her tongue that Xiao almost thought he could taste the same sounds, the humming of a song he could not name nor place.
She did not stand in place, her feet took her forward. Each step she took, away from Xiao, and the farther her music became, the more sure Xiao understood her purpose in the world: to play the notes she felt somewhere in her heart, or had been imparted on her by the moon itself, for any that were lucky enough, or wandering enough, to find her. When the phantom faded into the winding path of the park, Xiao raised his palm to his speeding heart and turned, curtly, to retrace his steps and fling himself back into his apartment and not the kwoon. He would not dare bring the vestiges of the holy sound into a place he could not covet them.
But harboring the secret of the woman with the violin bore on him a most heavy responsibility, one he could not keep forever. Or, perhaps, he was itching to speak more about it with anyone that might not think him too insane to be transfixed by a stranger and an instrument.
With the last of Xiao’s explanation leaving him, Zhongli nodded, ever listening and ever understanding. He knew why this sight had shaken Xiao to his core, and it may not be the higher purpose that his ward wanted to give it, exactly. Yet, emotions of that caliber were few and far between for Xiao, and exterminating them now may prevent any new blooms of love and connection from forming in the future.
“I see,” Zhongli held his chin, then raised his eyes to meet Xiao’s, “Why not return to that place and interact with her?”
“I have nothing to say to her,” He retorted, “If she has gone all the way there, in the dead of the night, then she doesn’t want to be bothered, either.”
Releasing a slow breath with a noise of understanding, Zhongli raised his shoulders in a gradual shrug, “I would imagine that you may owe her an explanation if you have seen her so many times. I doubt that she has not seen you in return, and may be wondering why this strange man continues to watch her in dark, lonely park.”
An agitated growl ripped from Xiao as he pushed himself to stand, “I’m going home. Good night.”
“Mn… good night, Xiao.”
Yet, Xiao’s sleep did not come, and with the waning moon as his guide, he swam the ocean of dark night back to the park, where her violin beckoned him.