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When the bard ambles into her line of sight, Citlali is already three drinks in.
It’s not a very accurate measure of her inebriation, to be sure, but it’s still something — her cheeks feel a little warm, and her head is in a comfortably fuzzy state, well on the way to turning into the pleasant buzz she seeks and has so much trouble stopping herself from over-indulging in. Then again, who was going to stop her from constantly giving in to the sweet, siren pull of alcohol? She was, after all, Natlan’s very own Granny Itzli — fierce, strong, scary, and possibly immortal. She didn’t know, not really. She wasn’t in any hurry to properly test the limits of her body out, either, besides her vices of choice.
My vices aren’t all unhealthy anyway, she thinks, content to follow her meandering paths of thought. I’d say light novels are perfectly acceptable to get into. She giggles into her hand. And Ororon thinks I’m a helpless case.
Speaking of Ororon… Citlali can’t help but heave a sigh, lips drawing into a disgruntled moue. That brat. Should have at least given his Granny a heads up before he left! For a vacation, nonetheless!
She had heard of a new resort being erected near the northeastern borders of Natlan now that things with the Abyss had calmed down, but she had no idea it was already suitable for guests — nor did she have any interest in going in the first place. But that sneaky little grandson of his had managed to surprise her yet again by disappearing one day, leaving with nothing but a hand-drawn flyer on her doorstep and a note that said he’d gotten a ticket with Ifa. He was lucky to be alive, after all the disrespect the brat dared to treat her with.
Citlali had peered at the flyer, taking note of the attractions the resort advertised with mild interest: rides and water slides enabled by phlogiston; events and activities that could be enjoyed by humans and saurians alike; themed attractions with countless puppets and a rather unique repurposing of the native asha, which had piqued at Citlali’s interest… and concern. The monetoo variant were said to be the remnants of souls, and the area the resort was built on — Tenochzitoc — is one that held high concentrations of spiritual energy. Citlali would have liked to at least scout the area ahead of time and make sure there weren’t anything — or anyone — that lingered, if not for the sake of the resort’s guests and employees, then for Ororon’s.
But no! He left, with nary a heads up. Idiot child. Ifa was going to get scolded too, when she next saw them. True, by normal standards they were both adults, but Citlali wasn’t normal, and she’d expected better of those two. Sure, the note the boy left mentioned how she had rebuked his offer to attend some sort of ceremony, but— well, he could’ve stood to be more upfront about the details! How could she have known that he meant the opening ceremony for this new resort?
Citlali had resolved to give them the tongue-lashing of their lives when the next standing lunch visit rolled around and tried to leave it at that, but concern and interest alternated in her thoughts as she laid in her bed the night of Ororon and Ifa’s supposed departure — so much so that she couldn’t even read her light novel of choice, and in the end, the nagging weight of anxiety and overthinking won out.
By daybreak, she had already managed to wrangle tickets from the disturbingly cheery person who manned the mainland outpost listed in the flyer. The earliest boat out to the new resort was only due to set sail at noon; when she arrived at the resort, it was already mid-afternoon, and she had forgotten to eat lunch, so on top of being mildly overheated and sticky from the humid ocean breeze, she was also grumpy from hunger. On top of that, she learned there had, actually, been something she could have helped with: from the anecdotes of the particularly chatty boatsman that had taken her to the resort, Citlali had gathered that the Traveler had already passed through with Paimon and left their mark on the area.
Apparently, the pair had lent a hand in preparing the rest of the venue for opening day, and, from the boatsman’s chortling retelling of workplace gossip, there’d been a handful of anomalous ashas as well as strange-acting, costume-wearing mascots. The fact that the events were already being spread in the gossip mill could only mean that the Traveler had already solved the issues. Plural.
This… rankled at Citlali, more than she expected. She could have helped. She could have helped even more. She had, after all, already lent her own expertise with the matter of the venue, had, in retrospect, become a consultant of sorts. She had offhandedly cleared Tenochzitoc as an appropriate location to build a resort, though she didn’t realize the significance of the conversation at the time — if she remembered correctly, it was just someone who had asked her outright, casually, what she thought of the region; she’d given her response, and a few weeks later came the announcement of the upcoming holiday destination.
Not to mention… perhaps she had just wanted to see the Traveler again. This much, she could admit to herself. It wasn’t often that she met someone who could understand her circumstances, someone who didn’t just sympathize with her. It wasn’t often that she could converse with another individual who didn’t need to actively imagine themselves in her shoes, but one who has actually experienced being in those same shoes — Citlali hesitates to call it immortality, but after two or so centuries of life with no signs of aging past what she looks like at present, she’ll call a spade a spade. Her and the Traveler share what looked to be highly similar constitutions; long in lifespan, for one reason or another, and even if they don’t always talk about it, the fact remains that it’s been a long, long while since Citlali has managed to create a new connection that wasn’t tinged with her reputation, or the pressure to put on the facade of Granny Iztli, untouchable and ever-present and strong.
With the Traveler, she could just… be.
And what was worse, becoming friends with the Traveler had thawed her. She found herself feeling emotions she thought she had suppressed long ago, long enough to have had them excised from her. How disappointing — how liberating! — it was to discover that, no, after all these years, she could still feel hope, and optimism, and the warmth of friendship; she could once again experience the willingness to open herself up to people, the ability to work past the fear and trepidation past experiences had drilled into her, and have this courage be rewarded, and rewarded in spades. She even had friends now, friends who checked up on her when she spent too long holed up in her house; friends who invited her to come along with them for journeys, or something trivial like errands; friends who sought her out, for the simple reason of her presence, and not for what she can do or provide for them.
All because of the Traveler!
So when she realized she had missed out on the chance to go on an adventure with them, and missed out on that thrice-damned opening ceremony… Well, sue her for being annoyed.
In her all-consuming grump, she had looked for the nearest place that sold alcohol in this resort, and without much thought for things like food or moderation or, Archons forbid, the sun still being rather high up in the sky, Citlali ordered and downed three whole mugs of the best-seller (aphimead, the bartender had called it as she presented the overflowing glass with a flourish) in almost no time at all.
—
This is how Venti finds her. Or was it her who finds him? Citlali thinks the details are all muddied up by the alcohol, and anyway it doesn’t matter – what matters right now is her proving a point.
That being: no way in hell is some brat from Mondstadt drinking her under the table. They’re in Natlan, drinking Natlantean mead, and no matter Mondstadt’s reputation for producing livers that seemed absolutely resistant to alcohol damage, Citlali simply refuses to give up. After all, what use is her immortal body, if even in alcoholism, she would lose?
“Dearest Tlapalli! Another round, if you would be so kind!”
Citlali snaps her head back to attention. What do you mean—
“Unless my esteemed drinking partner is able and willing to admit her defeat?”
The bard aims this at her, eyes twinkling as bright as the stars that have started to wink into presence above them, and in her intoxicated state, she can only glare in response.
“Hell no. Bring them on, Tlapalli.”
Tlapalli, to her credit, only crinkles her brow in concern, yet moves to prepare the next round anyway. The bard, Venti, looks at her in obvious appraisal, and then in approval. Citlali bristles. She hasn’t had the need for approval in years.
“Don’t be so disgruntled, Lady Itztli! It has been a long time since someone has managed to keep up with me!”
The bard grins, easy and self-assured. Once again it rankles at Citlali. She examines him haughtily.
“You say you… know the Traveler? What kind of bard are you, then?”
“It surprises me not, that the Traveler has made friends and companions all over Teyvat! And what’s more, that an esteemed shaman such as yourself counts amongst them,” he says easily.
Citlali squints at him. It was this – this ease, this comfort with which he spoke of the Traveler, that antagonized her. Ugly, bitter tendrils of jealousy crawl out of her husk of a heart, threatening to wrap around her ribs and lungs, to take control completely in her state of inebriation. She attempts her best at swallowing them down, taking another deep swig from her mug.
Still, the bard seems to await some sort of response.
“The Traveler… is kind.”
Immediately, Citlali frowns, almost turning away. She’s sure her face goes even redder, incriminating her further, exposing her even more to this stranger with a kind voice and a mischievous smile and an easy, enviable dynamic with the Traveler. Fuck.
Venti laughs, sheer delight plainly audible in the tinkling giggles.
“Yes! That she is! Our kind Traveler, always willing to help a hand…”
He sighs then, a sound almost steeped in nostalgia. Citlali only suppresses a flinch at the notion of a Traveler that was ‘theirs’ — his, hers — in any way, shape, or form.
“What a strange mood I seem to have encountered you in, Lady Itztli,” the bard muses. “Perhaps I can ease the burden on your mind and heart?”
You sure are brazen, Citlali thinks disgruntledly, and only when her tablemate giggles gleefully yet again does she realize she had given voice to her thoughts.
“I have been told I am so,” Venti agrees pleasantly.
At that moment, Tlapalli appears, arms laden with yet another tray of jugs that were full to the brim of mead. They thank her as she walks away. It was, after all, important to be courteous to one’s bartender — a practice that was sure to be as true in Mondstadt as it is in Natlan.
They sit there, nursing their refilled mugs, and Citlali’s thoughts churn.
Who was this bard, really? He had plopped himself in the seat in front of her with much aplomb as she was ruminating on ways to whack Ororon for his transgressions and possibly roping the Traveler into it, internally (shamefully) relishing in the domesticity of performing such an act with a partner — and perhaps she had been mumbling aloud like she’d been just now, because all of a sudden this tiny fluttery little thing in his green cape and his green cap and his silly green shorts had shown up, cried “The Traveler, you say? Tell me more about their adventures in Natlan!”, sat down at her table, briskly introduced himself as Venti the Bard, and, apparently coming to quick realizations about the combined number of jugs between the two of them, also challenged her to a drinking match.
All in quick succession.
Citlali, who wasn’t really used to people acting around her with any measure of familiarity, let alone strangers from foreign lands, and who was also reeling from the swiftness of it all, had absolute no hope of deterring him.
Thus, here they were, with enough mugs between them to possibly level an entire army. She was vaguely aware of frantic whisperings from the counter that they had to be cut off, otherwise there’d be no alcohol even for tomorrow, but she couldn’t really care much about it.
Venti, who seemed to have accepted that Citlali wouldn’t be pressured into speaking, hums into the crisp night air instead.
“You asked what kind of bard I am,” he says. “And how I know the Traveler. Both are rather complicated to address truthfully, though one has an easy enough response.”
Citlali doesn’t care to reply, so Venti hums again, the sound gentle as a breeze through the night sky.
“In truth, I have heard of you,” he murmurs. “Your reputation, loathe it or not, precedes you, Lady Itztli.”
She swallows, looking away.
“I had only intended to meet with some dear friends during this visit to Natlan, but lo and good tidings! — I was ever so delighted to be in such favor with fortune as to run into someone as esteemed as you as well.”
“Stop it,” Citlali grumbles, “stop with the flowery crap. Just speak plainly.”
“As you command!” Venti replies, bowing a little performer’s bow from his seat. “And yet, do your cheeks not glow red as an embercore flower at easy and honest flattery?”
Again, she doesn’t deign him with a response; she clenches her hands into fists to avoid pressing her fingers to her cheeks, which she knows are as red and hot to the touch as he claims.
“I know the Traveler as one of her companions,” he continues, and once more there is that ease with which he speaks of her, the fondness and affection that bleeds through his voice and tells Citlali nothing and everything at the same time. “We met in Mondstadt, as you may infer, and she has helped me with the… management of the region, I suppose you could say — numerous times, in adventures commonly and uncommonly known.”
Commonly and uncomm— what the hell does that mean?
Venti laughs at the face she must make. “Apologies, apologies! And after you had so passionately beseeched me to speak plainly!”
Citlali gestures at him to go on.
“I only meant — the Traveler, as you very well know, helps. That is what she does. And she has lent her aid to me in the service of Mondstadt, let’s see… near countlessly, at this point.”
Uncommonly known…
Citlali, of course, knows that the Traveler is heralded as an Honorary Knight of Mondstadt. It’s one of her grander titles, one that manages to give people pause in whichever new nation she goes off to. Her contributions to Mondstadt must be common knowledge, then, so what does the opposite mean, in this case?
Acts not officially sanctioned by the Knights of Favonius, then. Acts that… were still in aid of Mondstadt. Mondstadt — a nation not governed by an Archon, but is still obviously favored by one. Things the Traveler could do in service of a nation, that would serve their purpose better hidden and not publicized. A nation without a ruling Archon, but was still served by one…
Citlali shakes her head. She may be getting ahead of herself. She must be. Between the brisk night air and her boatloads of drink — no matter how loudly an answer seems to be making itself known to her, nothing good or beneficial would come from blurting out any random foregone conclusion she had arrived to under the influence of alcohol.
In front of her, Venti smiles.
“And to answer your first question, I am but a simple Mondstadtian bard!” he once again declares with a flourish. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Do you recall what I asked you earlier? Maybe a handful of drinks or so ago…”
Perhaps I can ease the burden on your mind and heart?
Citlali feels herself flush once more. Then, throwing all caution to the wind, she huffs and puffs and starts talking.
“If you say my reputation precedes me, then I assume you know I am old."
“Dear madame, I may be a drunkard, but I’ll have you know I am polite! It wouldn’t be befitting both your and my dignities to make such brusque comments about a lady’s age.”
“Hmph. Whatever. I said do away with the flowery talk. But I’ll admit, it’s been a long time since a youngster like you was polite enough to shower me in all that flattery.”
“A youngster, eh?”
“Aren’t you? You certainly act like one. Drink, song, adventure — isn’t that the epitome of youth?”
“You know what, Lady Itztli? I do believe you’re right.”
“Hmph. Of course I am.”
So they fall into conversation.
And what pleasant conversation they have, as begrudging as Citlali is to admit it! Venti is quick-witted and easy to laugh, rolling with her knee-jerk sharp tongue and, eventually, blunt humor, and Citlali hasn’t had this much fun in someone’s company in what feels like ages. To her own vague surprise, she finds herself opening up, and opening up with ease.
Venti doesn’t shy away from asking her about her life, her upbringing, her years upon years of experience as a shaman, a records-keeper of her tribe and her nation’s history; he does not hedge around sensitive questions and delicate topics, handling the flow of conversation with the natural ease of a people-person. He asks about the difficulties of being as long-lived as she is and doesn’t push her when she shows hesitancy in her answers, and in return, Citlali trusts; she allows herself to fall into the conversation, to stop thinking and re-thinking and simply talk. She lets herself get reaquainted with the feeling of vulnerability, and Venti accepts it all with a graceful and gentle honesty himself.
You still don’t know who he really is, a voice whispers in her mind, but she is able to shush it, stamp it down. It’s alright. It’ll be alright. She has thawed enough, she thinks, to allow one single night of genuine human connection over good food, good company, and good drink.
—
It was during a lull in their conversation that a shadow falls on their shared table.
She looks up, fully expecting it to be Tlapalli, ready to kick them out. Instead, she sees the black leather and flaming red hair of —
“Mavuika! Finally!”
Citlali’s jaw drops open.
The only other person she knows — besides Citlali herself — that addresses the Pyro Archon in any measure of familiarity was Xilonen, and that’s really only when she gets fed up by the Archon’s rush orders. This, however…
Venti tilts back on his seat, a half-full jug of aphimead dangling haphazardly from one hand and a gesture of beckoning in the other.
“Come, come, join us!”
Mavuika, astoundingly, only rolls her eyes at her tablemate’s antics, before she faces Citlali, inquiring expression seeking confirmation.
“May I, Citlali?”
“Archon,” Citlali stammers, “I — yes, sit down, of course.” She berates herself internally. You two are friends, heaven’s sake. You’re drinking buddies. What is this fluster all of a sudden?
Smiling like she can hear her thoughts directly in her head, Mavuika pulls up a chair of her own and settles in like she was meant to be here, at their table, all along.
“It’s been so long!” Venti cries, face split into a wide smile.
Mavuika rolls her eyes, again. “What are you talking about, you drunkard? We talked earlier.”
“But that was business talk! All serious and official!” He waves his hand dismissively.
Citlali, feeling something like a horrified dawning sensation, realizes maybe Mavuika was meant to be here all along. Maybe she was the one completely out of place, wholly and singularly out of her depth, because with every passing second, it’s becoming increasingly clear that her tablemate was — and pardon her expression — no simple fucking bard.
What was that he had mentioned earlier? I had only intended to meet with some dear friends during this visit to Natlan.
“You’re— oh my Archo— Venti, you—”
“Er,” the bard in question takes pause to scratch his hair, “well. Yes.”
“No wonder I couldn’t outdrink you! You invented alcoholism!”
There is a beat of silence, before Mavuika erupts into uproarious laughter.
Venti blinks rapidly in bemusement. “I’m… sorry?”
Her Archon catches herself on the table before she topples onto the floor, still clutching her stomach in wild guffaws.
“I— well— yeah, you better be sorry! I thought you were some polite young brat from Mondstadt!”
Mavuika positively shrieks. “Oh my goodness, this is amazing. You thought— and he—!”
Citlali can’t even find it in herself to feel awkward over her own lack of formalities. “Mavuika! Calm yourself!”
Mavuika does not calm herself. All traces of tension, of course, had been thoroughly dispersed by this point.
“Oh my gods, that was the best laugh I’ve had in years. I’m so glad I returned here,” Mavuika gasps a few moments later, having laughed herself down to modest cackling, though she’s still letting out helpless little giggles.
Venti catches Citlali’s gaze and throws her a wink.
“I have never been wrong in my entire life, Haborym,” he tells apparently his fellow Archon, Citlali thinks, and if she seems on the verge of hysteria, then you would simply have to forgive her.
“Sure you haven’t,” the Pyro Archon Haborym in question rolls her eyes once again in good nature. “But,” she muses out loud, “not to bring down the mood, your visit to Natlan? Your intervention with Bennett and the asha? Yeah. I’ll give you that. Great idea, Venti.”
So he’s still called Venti by his colleagues, Citlali acknowledges faintly, and yes, she is definitely a bit hysterical. She’s sure it shows on her face, because Venti starts to shoot her curious little glances even as he and Mavuika discuss… what appears to be the exact nature of the Traveler’s recent adventure here, funnily enough. The same exact reason she, Citlali, had been feeling so pathetically melancholic about missing out on.
She must make some sort of expression then, because Venti clears his throat and neatly changes the subject. She’s under no impression that her Archon doesn’t take note of it, but at this point, Citlali has just enough emotional capacity to be grateful that these two supremely powerful beings (who she’s somehow found herself to be sharing drinks with) have decided to be tactful— merciful— decided to spare her the remnants of her dignity.
“Lady Itztli,” Venti says, voice kind even as it cuts through her tumultuous thoughts. “Perhaps a drink of water?”
Citlali nods, and distantly, she notices her hands are shaking where they are wrapped around the jug. Her drink has long gone lukewarm, and where earlier she would have signalled at Tlapalli for one more round, now she finds her voice seems to have shrank down and disappeared and left her altogether.
Venti notices. She thinks he does.
“Ah, you know what?” he backtracks contemplatively. “What say you come with me for a bit? Let’s get some fresh air instead. We’ve been here for so long, after all.”
Citlali stands up jerkily, sending a questioning look at Mavuika. She raises her own jug in response.
“Take your time. I’ll be here catching up to your drink count.”
You don’t need my permission, is what her nod indicates.
I know and I’m sorry and I don’t know what is up with me right now, is what Citlali hopes to convey with hers.
She follows Venti up, up, just a little ladder climb up to an alcove that overlooked the bar and the rest of the beach, enough distance from the hubbub and the murmur of intoxication to clear her head and absorb the crisp deep-night air and still feel connected to society. Not closed off, but intentionally hidden, like an immortal hermit, surrounded by her alcohol and her stash of light novels.
The two of them sit on the edge of the wooden platform, sipping on water instead of mead, two quiet observers of humanity below.
Gods. Citlali is drunk.
“Mora for your thoughts, Lady Itztli?” Venti asks, perfectly in synch with her thoughts. If she had any doubts left still on his identity, none remain now. She doesn’t even know for certain if Archons could hear people’s thoughts, nor does she care to find out.
“They’re terribly macabre,” she replies, shaking her head. “I’d rather not give voice to them. Tonight has been generally pleasant, after all.”
“Very well,” comes the hum, soft and melodic.
Citlali swivels her head to look at him. Her hair sweeps over her shoulder, cascading down the length of her torso, and she has to suppress the urge to fiddle with it like the teenager she hasn’t been in so, so long.
“Can I—” She snaps her mouth shut, shakes her head, and straightens up. “I’ll be frank.”
“It would be my genuine pleasure.”
“You’ve spent quite a while in my company, Venti the Bard,” she states, and then inhales slowly. “What do you think of me?”
Comes another hum, this time slow and deliberate. A few more beats pass, before —
“I think, Lady Itztli,” he says, almost sings, voice low and lilting, “that you are very brave and very strong, and indeed very wise, and that you have lived beyond your years.”
Citlali exhales sharply.
“And I admit that that wasn’t what I expected you to say.”
She looks at him, eyes narrowed. “What is it, then, that you expected of me?”
“I thought you’d once more ask me who I am,” he murmurs. “Especially after…” Venti inclines his head in the direction of their table.
Overlooking the place as they are, Citlali could clearly see Mavuika chatting enthusiastically with her fellow patrons, who were either too drunk to realize who they were speaking with or too drunk to care.
“I wanted to,” Citlali admits, “but I think I’ve figured it out for myself. And besides, I figured if it were me, I’d rather not talk about it anymore, as blatantly as you’ve already made it.”
Venti laughs, a thread of delight once more woven in the sound. “I’m grateful for your consideration of this ‘it’ you speak of so underhandedly, then! After all, you, more than most, have the lived experience to draw from.”
“Yes, yes, I’m old, a topic we’ve already discussed extensively,” Citlali rolls her eyes, making to slap him on the arm in fake annoyance. Venti doesn’t make any attempt to avoid it. A part of Citlali marvels at the ease with which she can treat someone she had only met a handful of hours ago.
Something about this thought sparks an association, though, and she can’t help the squeak of surprise she makes. Venti responds with a questioning noise of his own, curiousity coloring his face.
“I just realized… oh, this will sound so pathetic.”
“Go on, now I’m really curious.”
“I… I haven’t thought about the Traveler since we started–”
She can’t finish the sentence. Her cheeks are back to flaming hot red despite herself.
“Ah!” Venti perks up. “Do you think of her often?”
Citlali can only squeak at how plainly he states it, and she buries her face in her palms. Her ears feel warm to her own touch. She imagines steam rising from the top of her head.
“I’ll take that for a yes,” and she can hear the smile in his voice.
“It’s– It’s not like that!” she manages to force out, voice high-pitched and desperate. Weren’t they here for her to calm down? If only she’d shut her mouth—
“Oh?” Venti sounds genuinely intrigued, and despite herself, despite herself, Citlali feels the urge to answer honestly and doesn’t suppress it.
“It’s— I’m— ugh!” With a resounding smack, she slaps her palms to both of her cheeks and forces herself to look up.
“I’m not… in love with her or anything,” she spits out of clenched teeth. “I’m not. I’m just… really grateful, and really smitten, and it’s been so long since I’ve had a– a real connection with anyone who didn’t see me as a bogeyman or a, a novelty, or a historical figure, or—”
She cuts herself off; enough, enough. She takes a breath and tries again.
“I have lived for so long, and lost so many people over the course of my life. I’m sure you know as well as I do that that… changes you. You learn to numb yourself. There’s only so much damage you can take before it kills you, one way or another. And I haven’t died the real way, the only way that matters, so… so.”
She tries to shrug in an attempt to compose herself, but she’s sure she doesn’t succeed. She takes another deep breath and forges on anyway.
“The Traveler is… the first friend I’ve made in a while. I haven’t felt human in so long, and I owe that to her.”
Venti has gone silent, but his eyes look almost aglow with the moonlight. Citlali doesn’t flinch away from the sight of it.
“I’m not in love with her, but I do hold her in deep affection. I’ve learned to regard only a handful of people as mine, you know? And she’s become one of them. And… every day I grow more used to the idea of even more of those. So I’m thankful to her for helping me become that kind of person again, a person who has other people.”
Citlali exhales, stretching her gaze over the ocean, the moon, the stars before her.
“Does that make sense?”
“Perfectly,” Venti responds instantly. Citlali snaps her attention back to him. “Perfect, irrefutable sense, dear Citlali.”
“Oh,” she exhales. “That’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.”
“It will not be the last,” Venti replies.
Citlali pauses, studying the look on Venti’s face. His eyes are a deep, almost luminescent green, and if she isn’t careful, if she isn’t as careful as she is with the Traveler, she knows with certainty that she might find herself entranced by them, utterly captivated by this strange bard’s gaze, possibly forever and ever.
“You meant what you said? Earlier? About me?” she breathes.
“Every word.”
Citlali pulls back. Back, back, back, slowly but far enough away again that the pull of that glowing teal gaze over her snaps and disperses into the cold, silent night. She stands up, stretches, inhales deep and lets the little breeze permeate her lungs, invigorating her and clearing the last of the intoxication from her mind. She feels her companion’s gaze follow her, track her movement, a weight that shouldn’t feel heavy but does anyway. She leans down and offers a hand. Venti looks at it, then back up at her.
“Thank you. Stuff like that does feel nice to hear once in a while,” she says, the beginnings of a smile dancing around her lips.
He takes her hand and lets himself get drawn up, up, so they’re standing shoulder to shoulder and looking out into the ocean.
“I’ll be glad to say it to you should you need to hear it.” Simply offered, with no underlying expectations.
Citlali lets the smile spread over her face. It feels genuine.
“Nice to meet you, Venti.”
Venti smiles back.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Citlali.”