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i. blue moon
In the night, there is rustling. Which isn't unusual on its own, but it is worrying considering young Xiao.
Xiao who has learned that he can crawl over the bars of his crib with enough effort. Xiao who, although unable to slide his room's door open, will surely get into something.
A room over, Zhongli wakes up to it, still in a deep drowse. The typical clattering dully bouncing between the walls, his heart heavy with worry. He doesn't huff about being woken up, for he understands.
Xiao is small and scared and hasn't lived here very long just yet—freshly taken in, taken into the home that is gradually being rebuilt up and around him. That stretching adjustment period is always the hardest, so he reads. It’s not a walk along the riverbank. But Zhongli only wishes to be as comforting as possible. A safe place.
With his child no more than three, Zhongli is tired. Understandably so. Dragging himself from the warmth of his empty bed and down the cold hardwood of the hall, quiet, he slides the bedroom door open.
Cross-legged on the floor sits Xiao. Immediately, it is noticeable how his eyelids droop, the hallway light casting along his face. How the poor boy looks almost asleep sitting up in his silence. He's surrounded by toys he's only half-playing with anymore, avoiding Zhongli's gaze and presence all together by a seemingly conscious decision.
And the room is so dark. Darker than Zhongli had really realized.
With a caring sigh, Zhongli crouches next to the child. Looks at the wooden blocks and dolls with hair of yarn spread along the knitted rug. His lips thin into a tight line, eyebrows slightly creased, his hand coming up at grace Xiao's back gently. This time, Xiao does not flinch, does not back away from his touch. 'Progress,' thinks Zhongli.
"What are you playing?" he whispers, trying to make the question easy. The bedroom is only a shadow, everything so still and stagnant. All that can be heard is the slow, deep breathing between them as they both attempt to stay awake.
The thin curtains don't conceal the moonlight, and Zhongli does not want it to. It's the only source of any illumination, despite natural and small. The drowsy light outlines the curve of Xiao's soft face in a pale blue, his cheeks full and lips pouting. His small hand wrapped around a building block before he leans back into Zhongli's hand more, relaxing with time.
"What are you doing out of your bed at this hour, háizi?" he tries again, calling him child as tenderly as he can, softening his voice like that gleam of the moon.
Xiao only lets out one of those noises that small toddlers do. The sound that replaces sentences they want to form but don't have the vocabulary or capacity to do so. Zhongli's heart stutters in his chest, his hand rubbing along Xiao's spine in repetitive motions.
"It's okay," he whispers, hesitating to pull Xiao closer. But as he struggles with the decision, the boy beats him to it, doing so on his own. Zhongli thinks his eyes may have widened, hand paused on Xiao’s back as he nuzzles into his side, tiny, shaking fists gripping onto Zhongli's pajama shirt. He whispers again, a worried flow to his words, "Tell me what is wrong, now."
Xiao shakes his head weakly, still on that brink of falling asleep, fighting it endlessly. Zhongli's frown deepens, beginning to stroke his back again. "I am listening, háizi. It's okay."
Minutes and minutes of rocking pass, and Zhongli just can't coax it out of him.
"Is it too cold?" he murmurs, feeling the way Xiao trembles. "Did you have a bad dream?"
"Dark..." mumbles Xiao, into the fabric of Zhongli's shirt. He works his hand into Xiao’s hair now, curling around his fingers. He hums. At his ripe age, he only expects the worst, perpetually preparing for it. Quickly as he did, Zhongli rushed to Xiao’s nursery, begrudgingly assuming that some sort of harrowing memory or buried trauma had resurfaced at the most unfortunate time.
But instead, it is so soft. The request of any child throughout all of time.
"I know just the solution," he murmurs, pulling back just enough to look at Xiao's face, cheeks and the tip of his nose rosing. "Now, come here."
This time, Zhongli hesitates less to pick up Xiao, holding him to his hip. Walking down the hall, he notices how Xiao's weary eyes dart around, fascinated by his own home now that it is blanketed in darkness. It must all seem so tall and different.
On the kitchen counter, Zhongli sets down Xiao, steadying him with one hand as his free one roots through the nearby drawers. He cards through unused envelopes and spools of silk ribbons to find what he knew would be there, what he sought after in the first place.
A nightlight. A dainty little thing, perfect for Xiao's unease. Zhongli holds it before the toddler's eyes, and before Zhongli can say even a word, Xiao's little hands wrap around it. He shakes it gently at first, testing what it will do, hoping for noise.
At this, Zhongli breaks out into a fond smile, tired but unable to help himself. He picks Xiao back up from the counter, carrying him down to his room, past all of the darkness of their home.
Once there, Zhongli plucks the nightlight from Xiao's hands, kneeling to the floor at his level yet again. "You are a very good helper," he praises softly, ushering Xiao to look. The boy blinks, his eyes soft and round. Sleepy. But he looks content; soothed compared to the state Zhongli found him in—fearful and desperate to distract himself.
He smiles for the boy, a reassuring look on his face in the still dark room. With Xiao watching close, curious, Zhongli turns on the nightlight.
It isn't very bright. Just barely illuminates that one corner, like a fizzled out flame, pushing back the shadows of the room's rocking chair among other things. The color of the room goes warm, and Xiao studies his own space with a new sense of safety.
"Isn't that nice?" murmurs Zhongli, before yawning. He brings Xiao back in to his chest, holding him with great care, before sitting in the rocking chair. With a whisper, he looks down.
"I am very sleepy myself, you know," he says, softer than the light.
Through the drawing night, Zhongli continues to talk and talk, yawning between every other word. Xiao mimics him, so sleepy and small, but he seems to have been listening intently to his father's wandering tales. Before long, he falls asleep like that, chubby cheek pressed against Zhongli's clavicle. The soft thud of his heartbeat lulls the baby boy to sleep, drooling on his cotton pajama shirt as he is rocked. Held in complete safety, utterly precious.
So deeply asleep, Zhongli thinks. The kind of rest only accessed through a deep comfort and trust. Nothing is able to touch either one of them here, protected by the very soul of domesticity.
Lifting him, careful not to wake, he walks Xiao back over to his crib. Lays him down in the sea of a duvet, painted with delicate qingxins. He throws another blanket over him for good measure as the air begins to chill deeper into the night.
Light warms his face from where it peeks out, Xiao's eyelashes not fluttering in the slightest. Zhongli's not sure he's seen his child so peaceful before.
Daring, he leans over the bar of the crib. Kisses the spot center between the baby's wispy bangs, sealing their nighttime routine; wax on the envelope of Xiao's predictable schedule.
...
ii. unseen dragons
Such a simple, little thing completely restructures their whole bedtime routine. Immediately, Zhongli had made note of how a nightlight has almost fully changed Xiao's outlook on being put to bed altogether. He goes down easy. He doesn't rise every other hour with a cry. Almost always well-rested in the mornings and eager to play.
This makes the life they are learning to share easier on them both. A thing without unnecessary stress or fear—as it is meant to be.
At the end of every slow day, when evening sunlight streams through the obscured windows, Zhongli bathes Xiao in warm water and suds of jasmine flowers. Just the same, the setting sun bathes them both in gentle gold, shimmering across the fine tiles and silver faucets.
But before long, before his fingertips can prune, Xiao is lifted out of the tub. Dried and dressed, his father still toweling off his hair.
"So soft and clean," murmurs Zhongli into the boy's damp, curling hair. "My little dove."
In another corner of the home, it grows quieter. Darker and darker, the moon crescent and cotton outside the nursery’s window, pale light pooling on the floor. Without a thought, Zhongli turns on the nightlight, as it is just another aspect of routine now, another motion to go through. Thin storybooks have already been read aloud to their end, and Xiao knows it is time for bed—for him to actually try this time and shut his eyes, not peeking at the water-color pictures. No longer makes a peep. Easily collapses against Zhongli's chest once more, seeming almost relieved to be rocked to sleep.
It goes by even quicker than usual, Zhongli thinks. After all, all afternoon had been a warm, honeyed blur of the baby rubbing his eyes with a tiny fist, letting out tearful little yawns as Zhongli attempted to play games with him.
He goes down so easy.
Because he belongs, thinks Zhongli. Living here, quietly. Not that Zhongli would ever mind him being any louder—perhaps even liking the thought of Xiao taking up more space with building blocks, his innocent laughter. The home would be empty without it.
In every mandarin Zhongli peels, it is fully meant as a reminder. Purpose as the bright, rough skin pulls away. Every slice of backyard plum, there is an intention to say 'you are my entire world,' even when Xiao is too young to be reading into these things. He only knows the sweetness of the fruit, and the care, and the nightlight given to him.
With Xiao's designated blanket, Zhongli wraps him with great fondness, the boy too old to be swaddled but just young and soft enough to warrant being snuggled and safe.
He sleeps right through it, despite the jostling. Right through the night, too—meaning Zhongli does as well in his own bed, dreamless.
After the sun well-rises, in the warmth of the morning, Zhongli cracks open the boy's bedroom door. It’s not very common that he has to wake Xiao himself, usually the one to help him out of his crib at daybreak and no more.
So deeply asleep, he notes, standing before the wooden bar. Eyes closed and relaxed without question, his lips parted. Some time in the night, Xiao had kicked away his blankets, pushing them to the end of his mattress. His small hands are reaching out. Looking for something to hold on to, to comfort him. Searching.
Sadness softens Zhongli's face.
Submerged in an almost unbreakable sleep, Xiao is taken into Zhongli's arms. Thumbs his round cheeks and watches the baby's eyelashes flutter until he is blinking up at him, a little teary. He yawns. Zhongli smiles.
"You must have slept well. Look at you," he mumbles as Xiao's hands seek both purpose and purchase; feeling around until his fingers catch on the cotton of Zhongli's pajamas. He hums "You need a friend, don't you, háizi?"
A vague, slight guilt pangs through him. How could a precious child ever sleep so empty-handed, and how could Zhongli have let it happen at all, for so long, he wonders.
Without quite understanding, Xiao doesn't seem any which way about the idea. He looks most keen on simply going back to sleep, laying his head against Zhongli's clavicle. His eyes mostly closed, he presses his thumb softly between his lips, habit and sleepy muscle memory, before he is stopped at the last moment.
"Now, now," says Zhongli, drawing out the words, rubbing the pad of the baby's thumb reassuringly. "Let's get you fed to pull you from that drowse. How does that sound? Food?"
Xiao rubs his droopy eyes, mumbling and whining something that does not sound like protest. So Zhongli takes it as permission, and carries him into the warm kitchen, the morning light waking Xiao completely.
Starting his day, he toddles around as soon as he is set on the floor. His small footsteps map everywhere, but Zhongli steers him in the opposite direction whenever the boy draws too close to the stove. Xiao will then find something else to explore, dragging his toys down the hall and into the sitting room. After toppling over and scattering many times already, Xiao stacks wooden blocks up to his own height before his father calls him into the kitchen.
Swept off of his feet, Zhongli secures the boy in a highchair, doting on him with a bib. He pouts.
"Please, be careful now. Your breakfast is hot," he says slowly, enunciating every word clearly for Xiao's sake and unburnt tongue. The rice porridge’s steam swirls before his curious eyes, smelling of ginger and affection. "What do we say?" Zhongli prompts gently.
"Thank you," Xiao says slowly, wrapped around the syllables. His words are always practice, only a handful of them proper—perfect in their innocence. Zhongli ruffles his hair, fingers tangling in the slight curls.
"Sweet boy," he murmurs as Xiao takes his spoon in a fist, clumsy. "There is a long day ahead of us, dove. For us to go shopping, you must eat."
Glancing out of the window, Zhongli sees what remains of the bushes and leaves rustling, shivering and evergreen in the cold. The grass and sidewalk glazed in wet ice. He sips his tea slowly, looking back at Xiao, the boy’s cheeks filled with rice porridge—his handling a little shaky, despite the small wooden spoon carved perfectly and specifically for his hand. And inevitably, after finishing half of the bowl, some congee slips off from the dip of the spoon and lands on him, dribbling down his bib, luckily missing his pajamas entirely. Zhongli finds it himself to chuckle before Xiao is whimpering and pouting at him.
"Oh my," he coos, smiling. Getting to his eye-level, his thumb glides over the boy's chubby cheek, looking into his eyes. "May I feed you now? Or will you only whine more?"
He chuckles again. Xiao does not find his commentary nearly as amusing. Though, as Zhongli takes a spoonful of congee and gestures towards him, Xiao's furrowed expression melts away and his mouth opens easy, eating the big bite. Eats the rest of the porridge, happy to be doing so, to be spoon-fed.
Messy bib now discarded, the bowl is also now empty. Zhongli properly dresses both himself and Xiao, keeping in mind the heavy winds, and they prepare to leave the coziness of their home. Wrapped up in a scarf, Xiao is pressed close to Zhongli's chest, keeping the warmth between them. The walk isn’t very long, a few blocks, but he could fall back asleep like this, cuddled and bounced with the gentle movements of Zhongli's every step. But before Xiao can truly sink into the feeling, relish the repose, they arrive at a small store on the corner. Overhead, a single golden bell rings as the door swings open.
The scarf is peeled back somewhat, and instantly Xiao is staring with a longing gaze at the shelves of soft stuffed toys, cuddly in every way. Bunnies and bears and kitties sitting on the shelves invitingly. Xiao's hand reaches out towards them all, and his father totes him closer.
"Oh, you like that, don't you, dear?" he murmurs, causing Xiao to babble a little.
"Sheep... Sheepy?" His hands make a grabbing motion, leaning over as far as he can, trapped in Zhongli’s arms. He pulls a cream-colored lamb from the shelf closest to him, holding it in his arms. Cuddling it like a test, Zhongli waits for the verdict—Xiao hugging the warm wooly toy that's about the size of his entire torso. Although, after a while, he seems to get bored. Reaches back out to put the sheep back in the line of other sleepy toys.
He has been set down now, Zhongli following him with interest as he toddles around, weaving through the shelves in pursuit of a best friend. Browsing, Xiao passes through many fluffy bunnies and great tigers, some he clutches onto and holds longer than others. But eventually, a little squeal sounds out through the small shop, and Xiao struggles to reach the level of the shelf that his eyes are set upon, up on the tips of his toes with yearning, grabby hands.
Seeing this, Zhongli quickly comes over. Reaches far above both of their heads and the smile on Xiao's face is brighter than any distant sun, moon, or star. For a moment, the boy forgets all of the terrible things he's felt and he is only a baby—nothing past him, his father, and the cuddly dragon his father places in his awaiting arms. The stuffie is almost as big as Xiao is, embracing it as if it has always been in his possession like this, inseparable. Humming a needy, quiet whine, Xiao nuzzles his face into the dragon's neck, and Zhongli simply can't bring himself to mind the costly price tag.
With Xiao huddled in his arms, chunky scarf-wrapped nice and snug, he holds the dragon all the way home, mumbling and babbling his words. Warmth buzzes in Zhongli’s chest, peering down to ask, "Is everything alright?"
"He's cold," murmurs Xiao, clinging to his brand new plushie in an attempt to warm them. "He- he needs a scarf, too."
An amused sigh leaves Zhongli, his lips a smile. "If you asked nicely, I am sure Ms. Ningguang would not mind making another one for your friend here."
"Mh..." says Xiao, in agreement and acceptance, the cold taking over, swaddling him in the blue breeze. The tip of his nose is pink like his cheeks. He sniffles. Sleepier and sleepier, the cold air lulls him along.
When Zhongli pushes open the front door, the creak it makes doesn't cause a single stir. In the time it took to get home, Xiao is out like a light, his breathing soft and grip settled on the plush body of the dragon, price tag still attached. Zhongli feels too guilty to wake him—too fixated on the sense of relief gracing Xiao’s face and body. He is so small, yet always so tense. Shy and rigid, tiptoeing around, awaiting accidents that Zhongli would never mind him making; he has reassurance and carpet cleaner locked away at all hours.
Zhongli slips off his shoes with one hand, and then Xiao’s. Shrugs off his coat without rustling the boy dependent on him, and lays back on the sofa with a deep sigh. It is of fondness, an infectious thing, tangled up in his system.
Against Zhongli’s chest as he lays him there, cheek to his sternum, there is only a sea of clouds and quietness. And it is slow and endless.
...
iii. softness
Adept at observing every last thing, Zhongli can notice the precise moment that young Xiao begins to grow bored. Of his father’s cooking, particularly—soft rice and eggs and bok choy only getting Zhongli so far. And to tell the truth, hidden underneath the cabbage leaves of his Zhongli’s heart, he is anxious to branch out too far. Very often, overwhelming Xiao is the first of his worries. Like he will be washed away in the onslaught of waves of affection. Blown away with the whirlwind. He waits and waits for Xiao to come to him first about these things.
And on occasion, he does.
When it is evening and the smudged sky is the color of mandarins, and Zhongli is bent over a cutting board of greens and warm pork, Xiao clings to his leg. Silent and irritable, he soaks up the lack of sound to soothe his senses, even when he is too young to quite realize that is what he is doing. He knows it makes him feel better. Feels his head being scratched briefly, the smell of broth swirling in the air. And for a moment, he feels far less lonely—closer to something nameless than he ever has before.
Stomach growling, Xiao pouts against Zhongli’s pant leg. He looks up.
“Háizi,” Zhongli says, seeing the pitiful expression as he looks down. “Stay still.”
The little boy frowns when Zhongli’s attention is once again solely focused on the dinner they’re having, that he’s cooking and putting so much care and time into. Xiao doesn’t know how to say it, or what to do, but before he can worry and harbor this sentiment longer, Zhongli blows on the soup spoon and lowers it to Xiao’s lips. It’s hot, steaming slightly in his face. Through his bangs, he looks up at Zhongli, searching for completely expressed permission.
His eyes crinkle when he smiles gently, looking down on him.
Xiao sips from the spoon, as careful as can be. The broth is salty and warm in his mouth, and tastes of the same comfort it always does. Once more, his hair is ruffled by that firm hand on his head, but it causes him to spill some broth. It dribbles from his chin, a spot collecting on the floor between them, thinly sliced green onion swimming. A faint look of fear pools in the boy’s widening eyes, stepping backwards. There is now a distance created between them, one Zhongli does not yet cross. He wipes away the spot on the floor instead, eyes flickering between that and Xiao, whose tiny hands nervously clasp together, letting out the occasional anxious sound.
“Xiao,” he calls softly, immediately grabbing his attention despite the gentle tone. “You’re okay; come here. See?”
Less separates them now, no mess in the way. Xiao steps forwards, for Zhongli to hug him a little with a pat on his back. He shushes the boy.
“How about you help me clean up next time, hm? I think that is only fair.” He moves back only to look at Xiao, his face still regretful and pouting. Quivering, almost. But he nods all the same, slowly, wishing he had been of more help. So he watches carefully instead, as Zhongli pivots around the kitchen with expertise, pulling out and putting away spices and salts and herbs.
Another hour or so passes by them, full of aromatic smells and attentive observation, before Xiao is finally settled into his highchair, tray secured in front of him. Dinner is small and easy to eat, served in little shatter-proof bowls with pretty watercolor patterns. He eats with a spoon; watches in awe of his father and his chopsticks, the deft skill of his hands. Another smile finds him, directed at Xiao and his fond stare.
“I will show you one day, when you are sounder,” he promises, continuing to eat. Extends his arm occasionally, bridging the space just to feed Xiao clumps of pork and rice from the tip of the chopsticks he so admires, his eyes closing with every savory taste.
Quietly, Zhongli laughs. Xiao doesn’t understand why. He continues eating as well, alongside him, the taste peaceful and honeyed. Rice grains stick to the corners of his mouth and the little tips of his small fingers before he rubs his face, waving his hands to get it all off. But there’s no genuine frustration in the act, only a lack of familiarity. To have a hot meal just for him, be fed by hand and ceramic chopsticks, with great love and attention. The food itself is good, slightly spicy to unaccustomed taste buds. Tear-apart pork with a syrupy sauce—rice, broth, cooked vegetables with just the right amount of seasoning.
Zhongli pats his head when the plate is empty. A thing, a habit, he would have done regardless, but he seems especially happy tonight. He takes away all of the dishes, stacking them inside of each other and placing them into the sink to run warm water over them. Proper washing can come later. For now, something else. Like small chilled dishes of white porcelain, two fitting into the palms of Zhongli’s hand as he walks back over to the table.
As when he first saw the plush dragon, Xiao’s eyes shine with excitement, trying to peer at what lies inside. Pure curiosity only found in children, a small, lingering sense of wonder and amazement at a mere dessert.
Almond tofu, Zhongli says. Xiao thinks he’s heard both of these words in passing, but never strung together. Not soft and syrupy in a bowl on the tray of his highchair. Eyes curious, he tries to go in with his hands first before his father stops him with a swift, gentle movement. Guiding and attentive.
Before handing it to Xiao, Zhongli first uses the small dessert spoon in his hand to feed him the first bite, nudging his bottom lip with it.
It makes the boy giggle, the angelic sound a soft echo around the otherwise full kitchen. All china cabinet clutter and vases of weeds and flowers brought inside with a rush from the side garden. Xiao’s lips curl into a little smile as he gets his first taste. He looks almost surprised by pleasantness, the texture of compacted dreams melting hazy. With quiet steps, Zhongli backs away, as if from a soothed animal that was once agitated, or a small bird. Desperately, like the father he is, he wants that peace of mind and state of calm to continue circling Xiao, the boy nibbling at spoonful after spoonful of jelly without any other stimuli. He is scarcely so calm, sweetly empty-headed and glassy in a way that is usually only reached through his deepest sleeps against Zhongli’s clavicle. But instead, he is wide awake, digging in, looking between both his dessert and his father with a thankful, but silent, gaze.
Almond tofu becomes a favorite from there on out. Nuzzles his father’s hip some nights a week as dinner is fixed, arms wrapped around the leg and a little please dissipating into the air alongside the steam of hot dumplings. And so often, Zhongli cannot help but comply, mixing sugar and milk as Xiao asks quietly about the process, fluffy dragon tucked under his arm.
“Háizi,” Zhongli warns with a quiet voice, a little shake to his head, a little insistent. “Your friend there may get dirty in the kitchen with us. Don’t you think it would be best to set them down somewhere safe?”
Consideration makes Xiao pause, looking at his stuffie cuddled in his arms; clean, soft, dark-brown fur and golden amber details down its long back—wispy whiskers and a swishy tail. He studies it for a drawing moment, lulling like gelatin. His smooth forehead creases.
“Outside?”
“‘Outside’?” Zhongli repeats, amused. “This weather is no good for you and your little friend, I’m afraid.”
The boy glances off to the side, grasping at solutions or a possible rebuttal, but none are to be found. He sways slightly on his eager feet. “Just… a minute.”
“A moment, perhaps. But you must stay on the porch. Can you agree, dove?”
Xiao nods, but Zhongli kneels to his level, kisses the center of his forehead. “What do we say?”
“Yes…” he says, voice quiet with shyness. Unhurried, he leaves his stuffed animal seated politely in a dining chair and fumbles with the handle of the side door. Eventually lets himself out into the dusk wind, his independence and confidence clearly having grown substantially though slowly in the presence of an active, loving father. Thus, Zhongli eyes him protectively out the window above the sink, to the side of where he stands at the stove, keeping the milk from boiling over. Bubbling like his love and spirit, his sheer pride.
Under the cover of the porch, Xiao obediently wanders the wide tile slabs, slippery around the edges with old rain. Crouches next to the pots of soil bunched in corners before moving onto the next with intent. Zhongli can’t help but chuckle to himself at the sort of dedication to whatever he is doing.
Soon the side door opens again, even slower, a bundle of floppy, half-grown flowers in his balled fist, a little shaky from the dim weather. Pink in the knuckles. Xiao holds them up proudly to his father—a gift, an offering, a thank you.