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Tears prick at Xiao’s jade eyes as he grips his pillow like it’s the last piece of something he can hold on to. Every once in a while, he still needs that motivation, that push to keep going—even as Liyue shifts into something unrecognizable. Zhongli had always been the one to provide it, a quiet presence anchoring him in a world that never stopped changing.
But now?
Who would remind him that what he was fighting for all this time was still worth it?
Liquid blurs Xiao’s vision as he blinks against the sting, forcing himself to stay composed. He hadn’t cried since the other Yaksha had passed — hadn’t let himself. Tears made him feel weak. Human. Like someone who didn’t know how to bear the weight of his own soul. Clutching the pillow tighter, he feels the damp heat against his face. The silence around him feels too wide, too loud.
“Damn it.” The words slip out, low and frustrated, clenched between gritted teeth.
This emptiness was unlike anything he’d ever been accustomed to. For the first time in his long, immortal existence, he felt entirely meaningless. Drifting without tether or reason. Even the god who had once enslaved him had given him a purpose, twisted though it was. Now, the one who had taught him freedom, who had shown him a gentler way to live, was simply gone.
His breath catches, and his soft cries unravel into something deeper—raw sobs that shake his frame. Zhongli’s voice, his calm wisdom, that soft, knowing smile he gave the first time they spoke not as Archon and servant, but as equals—all of it flashes in his mind like dying stars.
He hated this. Hated how much he longed for someone else. Hated how much he needed. Usually, he buried sorrow beneath duty until he forgot it. That was the only way to survive. The only way to protect Liyue.
But this grief was louder than silence.
And Xiao knew someone out there might understand. Even... a human.
Kinich was the first to come to mind.
The boy who had spoken of loss not with bitterness, but with quiet strength. Who had shared his story without asking for sympathy. It wasn’t the same experience, not even close, but Xiao had felt something then — like someone had actually seen him, even if only for a moment.
His limbs tremble as he forces himself up from the tear-stained bed, the weight of grief pushing down on him. He knew he couldn’t go through this alone.
---
“Xiao, what brings you here?” Kinich asks, eyes narrowing. “It’s my work hours.”
“I know.” Xiao mutters, barely meeting his gaze. His voice is hoarse, scraped raw.
“Why would you need to commission me for anything?” Kinich asks again, cautious.
“It’s... embarrassing.”
Kinich frowns, confused yet not dismissive. He gestures for Xiao to follow him to a quieter corner of the tribe’s encampment, sensing that something’s different. There’s a tremble in Xiao’s posture that he’s never seen before. A crack in the mask.
Kinich had always wondered how Xiao carried so many significant burdens like karmic debt on his shoulders without crumbling. How he still stood after so many years, so many losses. Maybe now, he would find out.
“Tell me, Alatus,” Kinich says softly, brushing aside a strand of his own hair as if to steady himself. “What is the price you pay to keep standing?”
Xiao’s breath shudders.
“My sanity.” The words come out nearly silent. “Everyone is dead. Even the one… who taught me everything.” He chokes slightly, his voice breaking. “Kinich, I don’t know what to do.”
“Rex Lapis?!”
“Yes.” Xiao’s blood runs cold just saying it, the name slicing through him like a blade. “That’s why I came to you today, Kinich. You won’t judge me… right?”
“Of course not.” Kinich’s expression softens. “I’m not always the best with comfort, but I can assure you. I understand what it means to lose your light.”
There’s a long pause. Xiao's throat tightens.
“Will you… hug me? I’ll pay whatever.” His voice exposes his embarrassment.
The wind stirs between them, rustling the grass with a gentleness that contrasts the heaviness in the air. Embers from a nearby fire drift past like fallen stars. For a long moment, Kinich blankly gazes at him like the request is foreign, unexpected, sacred.
Then, stiffly — tentatively — he steps forward. His arms don’t open wide. The gesture is clumsy. Awkward. But it’s real.
More than a hug, it feels like two souls bruised by the world finally colliding—not with grace, but with a quiet desperation that says “Please, just don’t leave yet.”
And Xiao leans into it. He trembles once beneath Kinich’s hands. Just once. But it’s enough.
Kinich doesn’t pull away.
“…This commission,” he whispers into the stillness, his voice gravelly but warm and genuine, “is on me.”