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The Conqueror of Demons leads a simple life: he wakes, he fights, he rests.
When his polearm stains, he cleans it; when his blade dulls, he sharpens it. If he should tarnish his clothes, he mends them, and if he should stain them, too, then he may bathe himself in a trickling stream, and watch as the mud washes away.
He does not falter, he does not injure, he does not let his thoughts stray further than his immediate surroundings. Even after the longest nights, he keeps his feelings tightly locked within his ribcage, and does not complain nor hesitate when he opens his eyes the next morning.
He wakes, he fights, he rests.
His day is coloured with anemo tempests and jade whirlwinds, his night is filled with the sounds of weapons sheathed and demons conquered. His mask is adorned sparingly; his armour is removed rarely. If a stranger stops him for idle conversation, he ends it with mere huffs and dismissive words, and when he returns to the inn upon a marsh for rest, the world rings quietly in his ears through the depths of his slumber.
He wakes, he fights, he fights, he rests.
On days when monsters draw upon his territory in greater strengths, he battles them away until well into the night, the sounds of their agony echoing in his skull when he should be resting. It is of no matter, it is his duty and he fulfils it regardless of whether the sun or moon illuminates the sky. When he finally lays upon his simple bed, his body collapses, despite him never having noticed signs of fatigue prior to that moment. It does not matter, he will be fine when morning comes.
He wakes, he fights, he fights, he fights.
His polearm clatters against stubborn shields of wood and stone unendingly, his clothes stain with ichor and blood, his ears fill with the buzzing of a million unseen insects that ring louder and louder until all hears is static, all he sees is slaughter. No matter, it is the same duty he has carried for thousands of years, this is far from the worst he has been through before. His body can handle it. He must.
Failure means breaking the contract that saved his life.
Dawn spills over the distant horizon, painting the sea of decaying corpses the Conqueror of Demons has left in his wake with a hue reminiscent of rotten sunflowers. He dismisses his mask with a shaking exhale, turning away from the proof of his deeds. His jade polearm is heavy in his grasp, his footprints crooked and uneven as they follow him through trampled reeds back to Wangshu Inn. The mattress that greets his body is cold, but at least it soothes his burning limbs.
He fights, he fights, he fights, he fights, he fights.
That is all a weapon is for, after all. To fight ceaselessly, to only stop and hone its blade before diving back into battle once more. To do as it is called for; to protect the land it is contractually obligated to, to swing forth even when it cracks, to ignore the bloodstains for it will only be stained again in due time. Only a useless weapon would stop for any prolonged time when a battle is still to be waged, only a worthless blade would let the chips in its side slow the path of slaughter.
His mask obscures any wince or cry that may sound from his lips, his hand remains firmly around the heavy jade shaft that serves merely as an extension of his own body. The Conqueror of Demons surely must be considered one himself, for only a demon could wreak havoc and slaughter for days and nights on end, faltering but never falling. It must be fate, to become the very thing one sought to vanquish, but it is of no matter.
His limbs threaten to tear themselves from his body, but he ignores it. If his legs should fail, then he will crawl on his arms, even as the unforgiving ground claws through his skin; and if his arms should fail too, then he will fight with his teeth bared until his very last breath. He must go on, and protect Liyue even if it costs his life, for that is his contract, and the only purpose he has.
He is only a weapon, nothing more.
Yet, when he finally drags himself back to his dusty room at the top of Wangshu Inn, opening the door to spill midnight light over the old, cold mattress he calls his own, he finds it already occupied by the one person who has always refused to see him as a weapon. The Conqueror of Demons stares silently at the intruder, at their golden hair that spills over the plain pillows, at the curve of their body that protrudes from under the unpatterned sheets, at the way their arms sling around nothing but thin air, and at the dark circles under their eyes that have been there for weeks.
He clutches his polearm tighter, listening as a thick drop of blood slides off aged jade, falling to the floorboards with a soft plop. His hand trembles, his ears ring, his limbs ache and his clothes are stained.
Somehow, the bed still seems empty with only one body occupying it.
He wakes, he fights, and… he rests.
The clatter of his polearm on the floor does not wake the Traveller, nor does the sinking of the bed as a second body curls up next to his own, bruised and bloodied as it is. No, the Traveller only sighs, and slips his arms around the waist of the Conqueror of Demons, pulling him closer until his heart drums steadily against his back.
And though the bed is unusually warm, it is comfortable;
It feels like home.
•••
The gentle caress of fingers against his waist is how Xiao wakes, still cradled within the arms of the Traveller as morning hues flutter through the curtains. He feels Aether’s sigh against his neck, and the following soft kiss to his nape, flooding his skin with a gentle warmth. Yet, his body turns frigid, and the hands curled around him pause in their ministrations.
I don’t deserve this, he breathes, chest tight and fingers tighter. His clothes reek of rot and he is painted with his sins as nicks and bruises across his skin; how could such a foul thing be worthy of such gentle affections? Surely Aether did not appreciate the blood staining his fingers.
In silent agreement, Aether’s hands slip away from him. Expected, yet… Xiao’s chest clenches at the loss regardless. How futile.
Aether props himself up on his elbows, leaning over until Xiao can make out the drowsy flutter of his eyelashes in the corner of his eye, and presses his face against Xiao’s arm with a sigh. “You do deserve this— all of this.” He mouths sweet kisses through his tattered clothes and into his cold skin to prove as much, his hand quietly resuming its position upon his waist, holding him tighter, holding him gently all the same.
…How foolish that he let such idle thoughts escape him, and contribute to Aether’s already heavy burden. Another sigh coasts over his tender skin, as if his thoughts were loud enough for Aether to hear and frown at, though he makes no further comment; why should he, when his affectionate lips speak for him?
Xiao bites his own tongue, refusing himself the chance to slip up again lest he set Aether’s frown any deeper — even as weathered as Aether looks, the expression does not suit him. Still… he supposes the comforting touches against his hollowed stomach and arms are not so bad.
A finger skirts across a collection of shallow gashes in Xiao’s side, and he winces, hears Aether’s breath hitch in his ear, too. It’s nothing serious — it never is, even if he were to lose a limb, he could handle it just fine — yet it’s not hard to predict how Aether’s hand pauses again, how he then sits up to examine the injuries he has apparently ignored thus far. Perhaps now Aether will find disgust spreading on his fingertips to his shoulders, across all the places he had cradled a tainted body with as he slept unknowing—
Aether’s gaze falls into his own, his eyes softening into a melancholy, an understanding of his bitter isolation, and his hand departs Xiao’s body to dive within his adventurer’s pack.
Xiao wants to reject it, to remind Aether that simple medicinal supplies are of no use to him, but the sombre look he’s bound to receive haunts him, so he allows his lips to seal and his throat to close over words unspoken, words that dissipate from his mind the moment Aether’s hands return to him with bandages and balm in tow. Softly, Aether drags a damp cloth over his arms, some wounds reopening at the faint touch as ointment is massaged gently into them.
Xiao winces; Aether pauses.
“Is it too painful?”
Xiao is quick to shake his head, but quicker to halt Aether’s hands with his own. His throat remains a desert, so simply he filches the cloth from Aether’s fingers, and cleans his own wounds, with Aether’s coated fingers silently following. In fact, he is harsher on himself than Aether had been, but his face dares not show it as he meticulously locates every scratch and tear that tarnishes his flesh.
His gloves are removed, his shirt and boots too, while his pants are merely rolled up to preserve some of his dignity; he appreciates it, even if it is only Aether he bares himself to. Aether learns to follow Xiao’s cloth, even as it hesitates, even as Xiao’s limbs protest when he attempts to attend his back, Aether does not intervene; he appreciates that, too.
Eventually he has to forfeit, returning the cloth back to Aether with a hardly extended hand, yet he trembles nonetheless. Aether’s eyes fixate on his sign of weakness, reaching for the cloth— no, he… cradles Xiao’s hand within his own that remain steady, eyes slowly wandering back to Xiao’s.
Aether swallows; Xiao does too.
Softly, so quiet that even the wind whispers louder than him, Aether speaks. “When your fingers shake, and your body aches… will you allow me to take care of you?”
Instinctually, he wants to shake his head, to dismiss Aether’s kindness as he has all others’ in the past, but… Aether’s hands warm around his own, holding him steady as Xiao’s body wavers under his expecting stare. In his eyes, Xiao finds the sentiments Aether keeps close to his beating heart, his unspoken words that read; Will you allow me to love you?
His chest tightens, lungs depleted and heart yearning to escape into the warm confines of Aether’s ribs for how strongly it beats against its own cage. His body doesn’t just ache, it burns where his limbs had threatened to sever from their joints, and he’s afraid that Aether’s gentle warmth might just melt him.
Perhaps, that would not be so bad.
Finally, Xiao nods, pulse fluttering under his skin for the hands that sweep up his arms, and Aether settles himself by Xiao’s back, gently tending to the wounds he could not reach. Xiao trusts him, more than he trusts himself in this moment, and closes his eyes. The cloth washes over wounds that had never truly closed in the first place; the following ointment seeps into pinpricks and claw marks, stinging yet oddly comforting. Fingertips circle over old scars that both of them know do not need tending anymore, yet Aether professes his mourning for them anyway, confesses that even a torn up monster like Xiao is still beautiful in his eyes. Bandages wrap around his chest and shoulders and waist, the hands that apply them almost circling him in a dozen hugs but skirting away all too soon.
It’s over before Xiao’s thoughts can idle over foolish desires too long, the mattress dipping next to him as Aether returns to his prior position.
He hears Aether’s breath catch, and in the moments before hands return to cradle his face, he realises his cheeks are completely wet. Weakly, he allows himself to drop his head into Aether’s comforting hold, letting out a pathetic sob as fingers brush away the following tearshed, caressing small circles into his damp skin as lips make themselves known against his forehead. Aether murmurs something against the marking he wears, but Xiao can’t make it out over his own choked voice.
Aether kisses him regardless, unbothered by the hundred or so tears that continue to fall, his fingers feather-like as they diligently dry his cheeks.
When the tears finally stop, and Xiao’s throat no longer makes such hideous noises, Aether tilts his chin up to look him in the eyes. He smiles softly, brushing their noses together far too fleetingly, fingers travelling to the mess of his matted hair.
Xiao leans in, pressing their foreheads together as he barely contains another round of tears. His voice is broken, but still, he softly croaks. “Thank you.”
They sit quietly together, heads still connected as Aether softly hums, caressing his neck and jaw as he slowly works out the dried mud and blood from his hair, and Xiao allows himself to close his eyes once more. Wordlessly, Xiao slips his hands around Aether’s waist, and relishes in these moments of serenity.
The life he leads is rather simple: he wakes, he rests;
…He finds himself loved.