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Xiao hears all that happens in Liyue. 

Most prominent are the desperate cries for help– forever at the forefront of his mind, these take priority.

Then come the prayers, although there are not many ordinarily; the majority fall into the lot of the adepti of Jueyun Karst. Even so, there are those that pray to him. They naively murmur their wishes to the wind in the hopes of him receiving them. 

I pray my sister has a safe pregnancy, says one. I hope my child has a good day, says another.

(That is not my domain, Xiao thinks every time. But even so, I hope it for you. And if a gust of wind keeps the woman from falling to the ground when she stumbles, and if a qingxin flower mysteriously descends from the heavens to land atop the child’s head, making them the envy of all their little friends– well.)

Then come the mentions of his name– this he needs to keep an ear out for. Although, not every murmured Xiao is a summons– intent matters, after all. Such passing mentions are commonplace. Although they are littered all over his subconscious like scattered leaves in the wake of a storm, Xiao pays them little heed.

Lastly, Xiao hears all else– if he so wishes. A conversation between two drunk men at Chihu Rock, the furious hisses of a mother-cat unwilling to let anyone near the minuscule flakes of lint she calls her kittens, the soft cheeps of the finches as they return home to roost after a long, dry day of foraging. (They have his sympathy– the fourth month is upon them, and the sun beams smugly upon all the world beneath.)

Then– if he strains his ears enough– your laughter. And, for the past couple weeks, someone else laughs alongside you, when you ought be heading home quite alone. 

And it would mean nothing, nothing at all. If. If.

(He imagines what it would be like, to walk you home, shoulder to shoulder. He dismisses the vision.)

It means nothing even now, he reminds himself, not knowing why he needs reminding. What conceivable reason could there be?

Xiao has known you for a long time. Years of unlikely friendship. Perhaps, he allows, it is precisely because he has few friends that he feels… protective. Yes, that is all. You are deserving of only the best– you are a treasure, after all. Even Rex Lapis said so once, unprompted, fondly casting a glance at your lively eyes, the warm smiles you’d give them as you made your way over. Genial, he had said, when he’d visited the Inn last and found the two of you taking a stroll in the marsh.

Comforting, Xiao had thought. Strange, then, that your smiles have brought him little solace as of late.

Xiao sighs.

It would be a bit naive, he quietly concedes, to pretend he didn’t know why. He is too old, has seen too much– felt too much– to not know what chord his heart strums now. 

He gives it no name. He does not need to, and he’d rather not besides. After all, it is an ugly little thing, and acknowledgement does nothing to loosen its toils from his mind.

Last week, you’d paid him a visit. Your regular comings and goings have been more sporadic as of late, with Cloud Retainer’s recently roused temper sending flurries of icy rain to soak all the harbour, forcing everyone and everything with good sense indoors. It caused no real harm, but did serve to be a wretched nuisance, and no amount of prayers and offerings had done anything to make even the slightest change to the weather. You’d asked Xiao why, and he’d bitten back a smile. Something about her mountain still being “positively bedaubed in mint,” he’d said, privately relishing the fact that you knew precisely what he spoke of. He’d told you what had happened this Lantern Rite, after all, tiptoeing around this detail and that. You hadn’t asked any questions, but he’d seen your focused expression and known you’d guessed the rest on your own.

You’d laughed and laughed when he’d told you about Mountain Shaper seeding all of Mt. Aocang with mint, he fondly recalls. (So these laughs bring him solace– he sees, although he does not wish to.) Your mirth perhaps spelled trouble for you, though, because you’d gone on to tut and call Cloud Retainer a ‘sensitive granny,’ and Miss Xianyun, standing a mere half dozen steps away, had not been amused.

Why punish us for it, you’d groaned, when the skies had torn open to shower some more over the inn, just as you’d gotten up to leave. Xiao had been unsurprised– that much was plain to see– but if a part of him was really quite pleased, he hid it well, even from himself.

No matter was all he had said, stoic as ever, and had held your hand to bring you home. It took scarcely a breath, but the warmth of your fingers had lingered on the leather of his gloves for several moments after.

(And of course– although contact was admittedly a little unnecessary, holding your hand would surely have made you a little more comfortable with something as foreign as teleportation, yes?) 

The evening breeze brings him out of his thoughts by delivering yet another peal of distant laughter to his ears, and he dissipates it with a sullen wave of his hand. The air goes still for a moment, as though insulted. Then it picks up again, reminding Xiao strongly of a rebuked child pretending to not care. It ruffles the leaves of the giant tree, and plays and fools about the Inn’s loose eaves-and-shingles with breezy little whistles. The very vision of liveliness. 

It prances about him, too, and playfully tousles his hair into his face before darting off to bother someone else. Xiao doesn’t look up. Part of him is grateful to be broken out of his reverie, but part of him finds it to be of little use. He is suddenly hyperaware of his muscles– of the arch of his tired shoulders and the ache in his feet. Something heavy sinks to the bottom of his stomach, and twists up coils tightly round his chest. He imagines what it would be like, to have you laugh at something he’d said, instead of your newest coworker, who is all that is charming and vivacious and mortal. 

He got cake for everyone yesterday, you’d cheerily said last week, bringing a spoonful up to Xiao’s lips. He had felt both thrilled and dismayed. In the end he’d schooled his face into neutrality and commanded himself to feel the same, as you obliviously continued– It was to thank everyone for being so welcoming or something. It’s really good– try it.

It’s alright, Xiao had wanted to tell you. In the end, though, all he could force out of was a nod of half dismissal and half (questionable) agreement. Perhaps it was puerile, but he finds he doesn’t regret it.

Xiao stands and shakes his head, thumping his spear into existence. He ought to clear his mind.

✦—————————————✦

Tomorrow comes, as tomorrow always does.

The passage of time means little to Xiao– the hours run by in mere moments and it is morning before he knows it. One instance the night sky blinks meekly at him. When he shuts his eyes, he feels the stars gaze upon his skin; when he opens them, he meets the sun’s glare and scrunches them shut.

How long did he sleep? There’s a dull ache in his arm from the awkward angle– he’d draped it carelessly over the rocky ground and learnt his lesson for the nth time. He cares not– his body aches always regardless, and another dull throb means nothing. Mere tears to the sea.

Xiao blinks at his palm, at the blood encrusted on his glove, and blinks. He’s angry today, he realises– full of vitriol, the whispers in his mind more poisonous– although the reason dodges him.

(Or perhaps, he dodges it.)

Xiao looks blearily around.

The sun is out today. It is low in the sky– dawn. He frowns, registering his surroundings. No, sunset. You must be setting off for home, chattily bidding your friends goodbye. Or perhaps you’ve already reached.

He starts to strain his ears to see if you laugh today too, but stops. He does not wish to make himself angrier. 

It is unfortunate, then, that the weather is just as he likes it. Tiny clouds bumble through the skies like soft lambs. (He is reminded of Ganyu when she was little, and his temper cools slightly.) Moreover, there is a breeze buffeting eagerly at his back, ruffling his hair with its soft, eager fingers and begging him to spread his wings. He’ll hardly have to flap them, he knows, for them to carry him all over Liyue. He pulls off his muck-encrusted gloves, clenches and unclenches his fingers. It isn’t even humid today– the breeze seems to have lifted all the moisture off. 

He sees a fox lapping at a puddle as he hikes down the hill, having pettily decided to walk. How vexing, for Cloud Retainer to have ruined his week to suddenly find herself pleased with all the world. Perhaps he should find the Traveler and ask for every little mint seed found on their travels to scatter all over her mountain. She is not there nowadays; she would never know until the rains arrive once more and there is suddenly nothing but cool green all around.

He sighs. 

He sighs as he plods along, sighs as the finches cheep eagerly at him, and sighs as he hurls his spear into a lawachurl’s back. He sighs again as he bends down to pick it up, then again when he glances over the expanse the dusk-painted marsh, only to see just how far the inn is.

He reluctantly teleports.

Landing on his balcony soothes him slightly. He shakily exhales when he hears familiar laughter arise from the kitchen, along with the smell of oil and scallions. The breeze also carries a certain fragrance up to his nostrils, and he tips his head to smell it better. Some flower he forgets the name of. Or is it a resin? A new varnish to some piece of furniture? No matter. He’s about to make his way to his room when his ears prick up, and his footsteps come to a halt.

“When… think he’ll return?” 

“You can… to him, he’d never… you.”

“...bad for calling…”

“How foolish!” (Verr’s voice is loud here, and incredulous. The last remnants of Xiao’s ire are fast replaced by curiosity when you retort–)

“Not even! I can’t bother him on his special day.”

“Do you even love him?” Huai’an teases, and Xiao’s anger sharply returns and twists itself into something larger and still more bitter. He walks quietly into his room and tosses his gloves into a corner, vowing to set off again as soon as he's changed into fresh clothes

Something tugs at him even as he fumes– and Xiao is no good at understanding his feelings, but this one he knows. It is a mixture of fear and sadness. A certain sort of anxiety, the herald of impending loss. He suddenly remembers you telling him something once– the difference between jealousy and envy.

It had come about in an uneventful way– you’d cast dirty looks at him all afternoon, once. It had been the sunniest day, and you’d been dappled like a fawn in the leaf-filtered light. Something inside of Xiao had been desperate to enjoy today, to remember it well– and so he’d finally asked what made you so furious. You’d laughed then, frown dissolving into playfulness, and told him you were jealous.

No, sorry, you’d said momentarily, looking thoughtful. He’d pulled the leaves off a strawberry and handed it absently to you. You’d held it up for him, and he’d declined, even as his lips brushed against it. You didn’t seem to notice– if you did, you didn’t seem to care. Somehow it had brought him both a sting of pain and immense relief when you’d tossed it carelessly into your own mouth and winced, then shrugged at the sourness, at the accidental kiss shared. I meant envious.

What is the difference? He’d asked, and sighed. What could possibly be the difference? Mortals and their million distinctions.

You’d smiled at him, knowing why he’d huffed. Jealousy is like, when you don’t want someone taking what’s yours, you’d explained. The way you don’t want me taking your food, so you jealously guard it. Envy is what I feel right now, which is wanting something someone else has. And what I want is your clear skin, because I’m breaking out and it looks kinda bad. 

It looks fine, he’d said, handing you another fruit off the platter. The same occurred then– you held it up for him to eat, he shook his head, and you’d popped it into your mouth. A second kiss. You look the same, he’d insisted. Besides, you can have my food if you like.

I always look ugly?

You never look ugly.

Xiao yanks harshly on his sleeve. He first regrets lacing it with care, because all that happens is that he ends up roughly jostling his arm, then regrets it still more sorely a second time, when he recalls who made it.

What happens, he wonders, when you are afraid of someone taking what you do not have?

He’s hardly begun scolding himself for resenting some poor mortal sod before there is a knock on his door.

It is familiar– so familiar, that the moment he hears it, his shoulders soften and he calls out a gentle “enter!” before he knows it. He curses himself, then– his body responded sooner than his brain, when the embers of his temper still glow. (Not that it matters– they would never flare, not at you.)

Whatever twisted worm seethes in his rotten apple heart, though, stops thrashing as soon as you peek in through the door. You do nothing for a moment– just stare at him with narrowed eyes, and he wonders if you are as angry as he was, before he remembers you cannot see in the dark at all. A slim ray of amusement creeps into his heart, and makes itself known on his lips. You’re probably futilely searching for him still.

He draws his curtains open with a sharp flick of his wrist to let in the rapidly dimming light. You blink rapidly, then smile. So relieved and bright, eyes crinkling sweetly at the edges, that he feels something in his throat and turns away, pretending to fix the perfect laces of his sleeve.

He is determined to be angry, but nothing ever goes his way. And so he is unsurprised when his voice is soft as ever when he asks– “did you need something?”

“Woah,” you say, and he drops his sleeve and looks up, nonplussed. What sort of response is woah?

“Hm?”

Then you snort a little half-laugh, and it is like ice to a bruise. “You’re so cold today. Are you mad about something? Is this a bad time?”

Yes, he thinks, and shakes his head. (Then he remembers something you’d said to him once– you lie often– and puts it out of mind. After all, he tells himself, that is neither here nor there.)

“No,” he says, then reconsiders. “Perhaps. I fell asleep in the marsh for too long, and it did not rain again– and so I did not wake up.”

“Ah,” you say, and the familiar lilt in your voice whispers– how silly. He doesn’t mind– he knows it is an unconvincing lie, but you’re either too civil or too tactful to question it. 

There is a lull in the conversation, then, and he feels something bitter creep onto the edges of his mind once more. This is not the first time he has killed an exchange.

He is about to apologise and turn you away when you start another.

“I bought some nice wines yesterday,” you say, snapping your fingers. He turns around. “That’s why I’m here, actually. Would you like to taste them with me?”

Xiao’s lashes flutter. Yes. No. “When?”

You grin. “Today! But dinner first, I think. I don’t think I should drink on an empty stomach– is it the same for the adepti?”

“A little,” he admits. Then– “When today?”

You tilt your head. “Now today, if you don’t mind. It’s dark out already.” You smile. “Shall we go?”

His heart lurches. He hums, and holds out a bare, clawed hand for you. You stare at it for a long moment before pressing your palm trustingly against his, and he jolts at the warmth– he’d forgotten he’d taken his gloves off. 

His nails brush against your wrist as you pull quickly away. “Sorry,” you blurt, eyebrows furrowing in concern. He feels a flush creep up his neck and is suddenly glad for the dark. “Did I do something?”

“No,” comes his prompt answer, although he cannot tell if he lies now or speaks the truth. “A mere spasm. Shall we go?”

You nod, and cheerily grab onto his hand again. He draws the door shut behind you and locks it. In the next moment, he is with you on your balcony. 

“It’s locked–” you start to say, and he waves his hand. The wind rustles, your door clicks, and Xiao slides it open. He throws you a glance, and you amusedly sigh.

“I had no clue it was that easy for you.”

“It is even easier if I do not care for the state of your carpet.” He nods at his muddy shoes as he slides them off and nudges them into a corner of the balcony with a foot. You carry yours to your perpetually full shoe-rack, eye it critically, then shrug and plop your footwear on the floor.

“You need a bigger rack,” he says. For some reason, you give the most mischievous little snigger, and he tilts his head. “What?”

“Don’t go around telling random women that, now.”

“Pardon?”

“Tsk tsk.”

He huffs, and chuckles despite himself. He cannot help it, not when you look so gleeful. 

“What have I done now?” He asks, with the air of someone that knows they’ve lost.

You laugh in response, and he steps inside, stepping carefully around your carpet. Once he reaches you, you flick his forehead, so gently it is barely a tap.

“Rack can sometimes refer to boobs,” you explain, and his face burns at your nonchalance. He’s unsure of what to say in answer– he simply crosses his arms and attempts a look of disappointment. Whether he succeeds or fails is a mystery– what he does know is that you laugh again, and that something pleasant bubbles in his chest when you do.

“Well,” you finally say, saving him the trouble of responding. “You should put the polearm away and freshen up. I bought some new soap yesteday– it smells really nice. Kind of resin-y.” You hold up your arm for him to smell, then withdraw it, embarrassed. “It’s made of pine amber from Nod Krai.”

“That is a resin,” he murmurs. So that was what he smelled at the Inn before– it is indeed quite pleasant. It is unlike most mortal fragrances; he absently leans a little closer to catch more of the gently lingering scent. As he does so, he notices something– a little red mark on the side of your neck– and brushes his clawed fingers gently against it before he can quite register his actions.

“What is this?” he murmurs.

“Huh?” You clamp a hand over your neck but misjudge the motion, and Xiao’s nails catch against your throat for a moment before he draws them away, alarmed.

“Is there a scratch?” A love-bite?

“No, it’s nothing.” You snort, oblivious. “You didn’t scratch me. Sorry.” You exhale, and your breath brushes his cheek.

And you are suddenly too close– he is too close. Vision or no vision, he never ought to cross the distance between you, this thick yet invisible line– and particularly not in this listless way, inching nearer and nearer as roots to water, as devastation to unsuspecting innocents.

He lowers his lashes and parts his lips, an apology on his tongue–

You speak first. (And, he notices, you do not step away.)

“Anyway, the mark on my neck is from some sort of bug bite.” You wince. “I kept scratching it in my sleep the more it itched and it kind of drew blood– don’t be too mad.”

“Alright,” Xiao says, because he helplessly feels both guilt and anger slip from his fingers like sand the longer he speaks with you, and because he cannot remain angry with you for long regardless, and because he is eager to believe you. 

He’s ashamed of the relief he feels.

He exhales. His heart aches a little as it beats, and he clenches his fist to feel his pulse jump about in his palm. Unclenches it. Blinks at his still-throbbing fingers. You hum to yourself, a refrain from some mortal song he has not heard in full, and suddenly you feel as though you are so far away. 

You sound as though you are very, very near.

Xiao looks up to see you in the kitchen (when did you get there?), lit by a single lamp in the dark as you tip a large pot over a bucket. He wishes to hurry over and do it for you– scalding water is deadly to mortals, isn’t it? – but instead finds himself simply staring at your back as you slide the pot back into its place over the woodstove.

“Go wash up,” you say, cheery and guileless in the face of his bewilderment, and he nods. You do not notice it– do not notice him– and he suddenly feels a pang of the keenest agony. Words race through his throat, to the tip of his tongue– he opens his mouth to tell you, tell you everything, then shuts it. Tell you what? What is there to say? That he is stil possessed by his earlier feelings?

I don’t even know.

But then you speak, and even through the steam from the bucket, the air becomes just a little clearer.

“There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.” You turn to him with a smile, and he remembers again that you cannot see him well at all. If you could, you would note his unhappiness– he hopes. 

“I’ve lit the lamps in there as well, don’t worry,” you continue, “and I’ll light the rest while you freshen up. Oh–” you snap your fingers–  “and heat up dinner. I got us food from Liuli Pavilion, so although it was a bit pricey, it's bound to be good.” You grin. 

There is a lull in the conversation, then, because he simply does not know how to respond. It all feels like too much– spare clothes and a towel, and lit lamps that he does not need. Now that he’s singled out the smell of pine resin, it just won’t leave his nostrils. He finds that he likes it, because you smell of it. He decides he dislikes it, because it smothers your scent. In the end he decides he is simply a fool, and turns his back on your mentions of food and fine wine. His chest constricts when he suddenly recalls Huai’an’s teasing–

Do you even love him?

He feels lightheaded, then foolish for feeling so.

In the end, he decides on– “spare clothes?”

“Yes, from last time,” you say, now in the careful fashion of someone attempting to deduce something– someone who will perhaps ask questions later. He pretends not to notice. What use is wanting you to know he’s upset when he runs from your questions anyway?

(You lie often.)

“Are my visits truly that frequent?” He asks instead.

“Not as frequent as I’d like, certainly,” You respond, smiling ruefully, and he wonders if you ever stop. He hopes you do not.

You put the bucket of hot water by his feet then, and pat his shoulder. Then you dart off– presumably to freshen up as well– and he takes the chance to bury his face in his hands and rub it hard.

As he makes his way over to the bathroom, he sees your shoes by the door, and his in the balcony.

✦—————————————✦

The clothes you’d laid out for him are clean and soft and ironed.

Xiao usually does not bother– adeptal commodities do not need the same care as mortal ones. He is used to carelessly scrubbing his garments and tossing them out in the sun to dry– they do not sustain the same damage, nor do they constrict him in any manner, and that is all that matters. Finding a wrinkle or two does not bother him– nearly all that sees him is fated to die by his hand anyhow.

But you’ve taken the care to iron them carefully. Hang them up prettily. He stands in your humid bathroom, nude as a child, and ruefully thinks– he feels like one, too. This is how it must have been, although he cannot (does not) recall his youth.

He reaches for the towel and pats himself dry. He does not need to– anemo is a most useful element– but there is something grounding in the ritual of doing things the manual way– something tender about walking you home instead of teleporting you, of taking the stairs at the inn instead of the lift, of getting to linger a little longer in the cooling shade of your adoring smiles, of your little laughs and mistakes.

He brings the towel to his hair and rubs. Gathers the longer strands in his cloth covered fingers to squeeze the water out of them. The towel feels heavier and limper than before when he hangs it up to tug his clothes on, and once he’s done he turns to the mirror to see someone he knows all too well. 

And yet he looks so… out of place. His downy hair is mussed in the way mortal strands never are. His skin is porcelain, features too perfect. The lamplight catches on his gold eyes.

He looks like no one save for himself. 

Xiao blows out the lamps.

Are my visits truly that frequent?

Not as frequent as I’d like.

He wonders if you lie.

(Do you even love him?)

A throb ghosts its ache-filled lips over the base of his skull, and Xiao weakly wills it away. His shoes are still on your balcony.

He presses his face into his palms, and the scent of pine amber fills his nostrils.

There’s spare clothes in there already– and a towel, of course.

He inhales, then softly exhales, suddenly conscious of his breathing. 

He is in your house, is he not? He thinks back to your enquiring tone, your gentle expression. Scented steam wafts around the bath area still, and Xiao watches it catch the moonlight that just barely creeps in through the tinted window.

You cannot have lied, he hesitantly decides, and something eases in his chest. You cannot have, if you took the time to care for his clothes, making them look as new as when they first came into his possession. When you lit the lamps despite knowing there is no need– when you come to the inn in person whenever you can, despite not having to.

(Perhaps this is all that love is sometimes– a series of unnecessary actions.)

He thinks about his shoes still on the balcony and feels sick to his stomach. He presumes too much.

Xiao steps quietly outside, towel in hand, and pads soundlessly over to where he can hear you. You’re occupied with laying everything out on the coffee table in your living room. When he makes an enquiring hum, you glance back with a smile.

“The dinner table’s a mess right now– I hope you don’t mind us eating here?”

“No,” he affirms, absently surveying the spread. A few expensive dishes to his taste and a few to yours. In the very center you’ve placed the Tianshu meat, and he truly does not know how you’ll finish it all. 

“Can you truly finish all this?” he can’t help but ask, and you whip your head around with an exaggerated frown. And somehow, suddenly, he finds himself biting back an abrupt, tiny smile.

“This is in no way a you situation,” you huff. “This is a we situation. You’re going to finish the things I got for you, alright? Or I’m keeping dessert hostage.”

“Dessert?”

“Your favourite,” you easily supply, taking the towel out of his hands. “What else?” Saying so, you walk over to your balcony to drape the towel over your drying rack.

“I did not think–” he starts to say, then trails off when he notices– his shoes are nowhere to be seen.

“Oh yeah, they don’t have almond tofu,” you say. He barely hears. Where are his shoes?

He turns sharply to the door.

There, wiped clean and nestled against yours–

“–so I made it myself,” you finish, sliding the door shut behind you. The sound of rattling glass panes shakes him out of his reverie, and his lashes flutter rapidly as he looks towards you.

“You did?”

“I did,” you say, looking really quite pleased with yourself. (It is adorable, he thinks, then erases the thought. It’s useless, however– he simply ends up thinking it a second time.) 

“I actually…” you sigh, and plop heavily onto the couch. “I tried making the cake too, but I think I’ll have to stick to unbaked cheesecakes. It’s alright, though.” You shrug. “The baker did a much better job than I could have. And oh!” You exclaim, eyes widening a little, and he hopes he does not look as soft as he feels.

“Yes?” he prompts, and blushes at his own voice. He hopes you do not notice in the lamplight.

“Miss Xianyun offered to bake you a cake, too.” You smile warmly at the thought, and unbeknownst to him, he smiles a little too. “I had no clue she knew you, though! How odd. She offered when we both got caught in the rain when I was on my way to the bakery. It stopped raining soon after, so I was able to go ahead and place my order.”

“I see,” he says. How odd indeed, for her to show you such sudden kindness. But ah, it is likely an apology for having caused trouble for you before. He knows you must have your suspicions, but is glad when you don’t probe further. 

“Oh, and–” you instead say– “my new coworker– do you remember him? The guy who got everyone cake a couple weeks back. He offered to come along to pick a gift, but I said no. I wanted to pick something myself.”

Xiao wonders when he’d begun smiling, because his lips are suddenly keen on settling themselves into a flat line. He forces them to stay as they are and hopes it does not look too maniacal. “I see,” he mutters, and congratulates himself on not sounding too curt. “For whom?”

There is a long pause, and you blink at him slowly, in the stupidest, sweetest way. He blinks stupidly back into the still air, and an owl screeches outside in the distance somewhere.

You make a sound in the back of your throat then, eyes widening in the loveliest manner. You look so sincerely astonished that he flushes in confusion. Clearly this is a most catastrophic social blunder. There is an obvious answer that he does not yet know.

Is it your birthday? Was this a treat to yourself? For a wretched moment, he racks his mind for an answer, but blanks horrifically.

He is about to resign himself to embarrassment when you laugh, so bright and soft and warm, and say–

“For you, of course!” And it is now Xiao’s turn to be baffled. You giggle helplessly at his expression as you continue. “Huai’an was right, you really– you seriously forgot? Xiao, it’s your birthday tomorrow.” You shake your head, still smiling, eyes aglow with mirth. “Happy birthday eve! Or something like that.”

Not even! rings in his head, louder and louder. I can’t bother him on his special day.

Do you even love him?

Xiao’s face burns.

✦—————————————✦

Dinner is a cheery affair. 

After being the fortunate victim of your endless laughter and affectionate teasing, he finds himself seated beside you on your couch. You’re seated knee to knee at first, thighs brushing as you laugh, as you lean over to pile more food onto his plate and as he does the same for you. You seem to eventually get a bit tired of continually glancing to the side, though, and soon you’re shin to shin, facing one another as you eat with the dishes in hand. This way, when you cover your mouth adorably with your fingers and erupt into laughter, he sees your pretty eyes up close as they crinkle at the ends and sparkle with amusement.

When you pretend to make a grab at his food, he simply puts it on your plate. You protest– of course you do– and he finally agrees to take half. The conversation soon resumes its usual chatter, and Xiao is first amused when he sees you prop the couch cushions behind yourself for more comfort, then flustered when you lean over him to do the same for him.

And as frivolous as mortal conversations may get, he cannot chide them– cannot chide you. In the wake of his realisation, there is renewed hope within him that presents itself as curiosity– he asks a dozen little questions about the things you tell him, prods at length about your thoughts on Xianyun (he hopes he is subtle, and suspects he is not) and smiles when you click your tongue as you recall Xingqiu’s newest prank.

“At least he switched up his targets.” You sigh, but there is affection in your voice and your lips curve into the prettiest smile. His heart hurts. “It was Xiangling this time.”

He hums in response, and you continue.

“Although I think he’ll regret that soon enough. I heard she doesn’t want to cook for him for a while. Poor Xingqiu.”

“Shenhe would deem him richly deserving,” Xiao murmurs, and feels his ears turn warm as you laugh.

“She does! She looked so smug when she told me!” You snicker. “She also wanted to wish you an early happy birthday, by the way. And Xiangling wants to know if you mind a little vanilla in your almond tofu.”

“I do,” he answers truthfully. “Almond tofu ought to taste like itself.”

You snort. “I'd say you remind me of a coffee purist, but vanilla can get pretty overpowering at times. Did you know I drank a spoonful once?”

He grimaces, and you laugh again, and although it is dewy moonlight that creeps in through the tall windows to settle on your skin– so subtle in the lamplight that no mortal would ever see– it feels as though through you, it is the sun that has come out. He watches through his lashes– some things cannot be stared straight at, after all.

You soon bring out the liquor. 

“This one’s just rice wine,” you say, holding up a bottle. “This–” you say, pulling another out of the cabinet, “is dandelion wine– this is what I bought the other day. And here’s some mead– made from zaytun peaches, I think? It was a gift, so I can’t remember where it was purchased,” you muse. “I also have sparkling wine and… uh, some bard gave me this extra sparkling wine, whatever that means. So I don’t really trust it.”

Xiao tilts his head enquiringly. “Some bard?” He echoes.

You nod innocently. “Yes, from Mondstadt. We met at the wineshop– he saw me looking around and told me this is the best, strongest wine Mondstadt has to offer. The staff escorted him out though.” You snort. “I wonder where he is now. Prison, do you think? For just a little while? Since I doubt he’s licensed.”

“Unlikely,” Xiao says, before he can stop himself. When you blink at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity, he sighs. “I may know this bard,” Xiao admits. “He is a little eccentric at times, but ultimately harmless… although his wines may be entirely too strong for your tastes.”

You look up, startled. “Truly?”

He hums. You regard the bottles before you, and he wonders what you are thinking, in the slow, easy way he always does with you. He knows there is no rush– your thoughts will be laid before him soon enough. You’re not in the habit of making him guess, after all.

“Well,” you muse. “In that case– do you want to give his wine a try?”

Xiao hesitates. Barbatos’ wines are potent– dangerously so. Were he to become intoxicated and lose himself… his stomach roils at the thought. He ought to decline.

A glance at you, however, weakens his resolve ever so slightly. The merest splinter. He realises then that declining a drink would mean explaining why– and piqueing your curiosity in a way that pertains to the incognito archon of Mondstadt of all people would be… undesirable at the very least. His resolve begins to crumble.

Perhaps a cup, then. Surely it cannot be enough to intoxicate him so soon– what could, after all? – and particularly not on a full stomach. Besides, Barbatos would not have given you the wine intending for you to drink it– he is well acquainted with mortals and is familiar with their caution. This is, in all likelihood, a present meant for him. And would it not be rude to decline a favour from an archon? 

His resolve dissolves like a block of salt in water.

A cup won’t hurt, he reluctantly decides, and nods.

Mere minutes and just some sips later, Xiao feels himself beginning to sway.

It hits him all at once. Apparently, it can hurt. He has no time to panic, though– one moment he thinks only of how the wine smells a little unusual, and burns his throat with an unexpected ferocity– in the next, his vision narrows, and the inside of the glass is all he sees. The lamplight arcs into it, then through the transparent, wispy wine. The light dashes along the rim and flings itself into his eyes. His lashes are all aflutter, and one falls off. It is suspended in the air one moment– a single dark line against a sparkling background– and suddenly it is inside the glass.

It is overwhelming. 

“I do not want it now,” he says automatically, and sets it down harder than he meant to. When he attempts to recline, his neck slams into the backrest sooner than he expects with a thump. 

You sit up in alarm. He watches through slow, thick blinks as you hurriedly set your glass of harmless zaytun mead aside.

“Xiao?” Your fingers grasp at his shoulder and he shoves them off, feeling too much and too little. The whispers that had lain subdued all evening come awake, and he clutches his head with a soft groan, attempting to muffle the cacophony within. 

“Xiao!” Your eyes widen, and suddenly your palms are on his cheek. One cradles his jaw and brings his head up to rest against your chest– the other brushes his bangs out of his face. He sighs– somehow it is a relief to have you so close. He feels as though he's a little bird that has flown for hours in the heat, and finally found a pond full of the coolest water.

You do not seem to feel the same. “Fuck,” you hiss, and he hears your voice in your throat, your chest. He catches a hint of your heartbeat then, and snuggles curiously closer. There it is. Steady as a drum. Fast as one too. He doesn’t think it normal, then remembers drums can be played slow too, and hums to himself. You’ll be fine, like a drum. Flawless logic. He’s a general, after all. He’s supposed to be clever. Strong too, and skilled. And he… he yawns, and slips lower. 

His head flops onto your lap and you cry out again in alarm. Belatedly, he realises you keep telling him to let go. Let go of what? He’s grasping your shirt with one hand and has an arm around your waist. Which is he supposed to let go of?

“Be specific,” he grumbles. 

“Huh?!” 

He sighs. “Mortals… it is neither here nor here.”

“You–!”

And he’s strong too, he thinks, because he doesn’t like when you are afraid, and right now you sound truly worried. He hates it. Being strong means he can quell your anxiety, yes? Eliminate all that hurts you. He shuts his eyes and presses his nose into your thigh. When he inhales, a pleasant smell fills his nostrils– pine sap, or whatever. He huffs. He’s strong. He’s not good for much else, and he is a receptacle for all that is wrong with this world, but he’s– he’s the one with the Primordial Jade Winged Spear, bequeathed to him by the Geo Archon himself. He is Morax’s general, the Vigilant Yaksha. And sure, he’s not as good as Cake Man. He scoffs derisively.

But he’s– he’s. Surely. No, perhaps– perhaps there is something to him that Cake Man lacks. Yes, he remembers, a little smug now. Yes, there is. He can hear all that happens in Liyue. If you need him, you can always call for him, yes?

He realises you’ve stopped moving, stopped talking. It’s late at night, which is when mortals sleep. Good. You’re resting with a hand on his back and the other in his hair. He hates to confess– but that is also good.

There are several seconds of hushedness, then. He hears raucous laughter in the distance. Perhaps a neighbour’s party, or someone all the way across Liyue. The owls grow shriller outside, and he knows a parent has brought the owlets a meal. His fingers twitch. He finds he cannot move them as finely as he ought. 

Into the silence, he whispers– “I may be drunk.” He’s confused, then, because that felt like a thought.

He starts again, louder. “I think–”

“Why does my coworker bother you?” You quietly ask. 

Xiao stiffens. Stupidly, he wonders– when did you wake up? Did you read his mind?

“I…” he starts. He cannot think of a lie fast enough, but a million questions occur to him, chief among them being how did you know? And who told you? And weren’t you asleep? Don’t mortals sleep at night?

Soon after, he wonders– did he spew all his thoughts aloud?

Xiao suspects the answer is yes. He swallows, and tries for a lie anyway. His mind grasps desperately for anything within reach, but it is as drunk as its keeper and just as clumsy. And so all he ends up saying is–

“I lie often.” 

I, he thinks, as soon as the words leave him, have scarce sounded more foolish before.

You laugh then, and he smiles, and you continue to laugh, even though it is a wobbly sort of laugh. An almond tofu of a laugh. As though it could turn to mush with one squish. And just as sweet. Perhaps sweeter. Surely sweeter.

He realises then that the voices in his head have fallen silent.

“I know,” you whisper. Your fingers tremble slightly as they comb through his hair, nails dragging gently against his scalp. He purrs, in the way some birds do, with a soft chirp at the start and at last a little click.

“I…” you start, then sniffle. He wonders if you’re crying, but cannot find the strength to glance up. “I want to ask you so many questions,” you whisper, in that still-shaking voice. Your chest brushes against his hair as you lean lower, and he exhales softly. 

“But you’re drunk,” you say gently, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’re buzzed out of your mind.”

“Then now is a good time,” he answers, deciding to be truthful. His heart soars. It just feels so much nicer, to simply be laid bare before you. “Now is when I will be honest. It will be diffi– difficult later.”

“I know,” you murmur, and with some difficulty, he finally manages to look at you. Your eyes are huge, and gold, like his.

No, he realises. Those eyes are mine.

“But,” you murmur, so close to him he can see iridescence on your every eyelash, smell the zaytun mead on your lips. “When you’ll be honest later, you’ll have chosen it.” You press a kiss to your fingertips, and bring them to his forehead. His eyes sting.

“Let’s head to bed for now,” you say, gentler than gentle. In this moment, you are the very vision of softness, of all that is right in this world. He feels terribly selfish, for bringing his wrongs to you, even though your kindness cannot undo the cruelty he inflicted upon others, the cruelty inflicted upon him in the annals of a nearly forgotten time.

You do not know what you are doing, he wants to whisper. You seem to see the desperate warning in his eyes; gently, firmly, you shake your head.

“Drink some water first,” you softly say. Your hands are warm against his cheeks. “We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.”

✦—————————————✦

When Xiao awakens, it is with your hair in his mouth.

There is a steady ache at the base of his skull. It throbs in beat with his pulse. This is not new; this he barely notices.

What he does notice with the force of a thousand suns however, is that it is early morning and he is in a bed that smells entirely of you– overwhelmingly so. Your scent permeates deep into every fiber of every fabric– the duvet that covers him, the pillow beneath his head.

Your clothes.

And mine, he realises. His racing heart soon outstrips the throb in his head– all else seems to fade in his perception. His senses register only you.

There’s your hair in his mouth, your head directly on his chest. He swallows and hopes you don’t wake up to the beat of his heart against his ribs– not when your legs are wrapped around one of his, and when you have an arm draped comfortably over him. He cannot see it– it is hidden by his duvet– but it is solid against his belly and your fingers nestle by his side. A couple have crept under him. They are warm– as warm as him. You are the same, balmy temperature, twined into one being beneath the blankets. 

Worse still– when he attempts to shift away, he realises just where his hands are. One of them is beside his torso, warm and comfortable beneath a mess of pillows and old clothes you forgot to toss into the laundry. The other– the other is wrapped firmly round your waist, keeping you snug against him. You’re warm against him– overwarm– and he threatens to grow still warmer with the unyielding flush that smears carelessly across his features.

He shifts a foot up and tries to move the other to no avail. Your thighs resist– they lock tightly around one of his, and his face now feels as though it is truly alight when you hum in annoyance, breath huffing over his neck and collarbones. Your knees tighten round his leg warningly. Even in your sleep you are as firm as a bull, and he gives a shaky exhale along with a prayer to his lord, to extricate him from this position.

Although… he confesses, if only to himself, that he is extremely comfortable. Your steady breaths and warmth… the soft pillows that cradle him carefully. His lashes flutter. His wakefulness is fading softly alongside his surprise– sleep is beginning to tighten round him the way you have. 

He brushes your hair aside with his free hand, and falls asleep.

✦—————————————✦

When he awakens a second time, it is with his hair in your mouth.

He wonders if it is an incorrigible habit of yours, to creep towards the nearest source of warmth. When he blinks, his long lashes brush your neck. You're braced against him, sprawled on your belly, arms spread wide on either side. One tugs him absently closer and for a moment, his mouth lies flush to your collarbones.

He is forcibly reminded of a cormorant seated spread on a rock, damp wings facing the sun. You look a bit like it right now, he decides– eager for warmth, arms wide enough to embrace all the world.

He's unsure of what to think when he realises that includes him, too.

Your breaths tickle his scalp. Your legs are entangled in his, still, and he grimaces when he realises he fell asleep all over in spite of you being so close. He wriggles away, then, ignoring the crack that widens slowly in his chest. Tugs your arm off of him and slips away, then gently shoves your legs off with his hands. 

When he pulls the duvet off himself, though, you sense the sudden movement in your sleep and tug it immediately back up, wrapping an arm tight round his waist. His breath catches in his throat.

He tugs at your elbow. You refuse to let go, and he buries his face in his hands. He can feel his pulse in his head, in the tips of his fingers. If all this were to amount to nothing– as selfish as it would be, he might have to keep his distance from you for a while. 

He is not kind, however– not buoyant like you, not firm enough to brace himself sternly against the tides of his nature. Murmurs mount in his mind again, begging him to lend his mouth to them, his throat. His hands. 

He clenches his fist– these feelings are too much. An old excuse comes along to shield him, then– you'll hurt them if you stay.

The wind cards your curtains aside, and your vision gleams in the morning light.

His breaths still. 

How– how is this little thing meant to protect you? He exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. Your shield, he can't help but think, is softer and feebler than the freshest of leaves.

He's suddenly reminded of Wangshu Inn. Then, as he traces your soft cheek with a single, clawed finger, he remembers– he didn’t even get to try any dessert last night.

And it's because– because. He pauses, then runs his fingers through his hair. His nails dig into his scalp. That wine.

Curse that trickster. Very clever of Barbatos, to give him something that hits all at once. Xiao would never ordinarily drink enough to be even a little tipsy– he must have expected this, wily fiend.

What did he say? What did he reveal? Xiao racks his mind, but most of his recollections are of your soft lap and the too-bright light glinting gaudily off of his glass and– and. He feels his blood turn to ice.

Something about him lying, always. And– he grimaces. Morax. Did he tell you he felt–? 

Envious, he tells himself.

You lie often.

You rouse beside him, and he recoils like a flame from water.

Your fingers twitch first– you shuffle a bit beside him and open your bleary eyes. Blink them slowly at his waist. Xiao observes your clumsy motions, your puffy face. He wonders if it is as puffy every day.

Let’s head to bed for now.

We’ll talk tomorrow, alright? Only if you’d like.

He hopes you've forgotten.

“Good morning,” you mumble. Your breath is warm against his hip. “Awake already?”

“It is well into the morning,” he answers quietly. As though you won't remember if he speaks softly and makes no sudden movements. “Around ten.”

“Oh.” You yawn. There's silence as you play a bit with the fabric of his shirt, then–

“Are you hungover?”

“Hm? No.”

“Oh,” you say again, and draw yourself up to sit on your knees. You're just a bit taller than him like this. Seated this way, with the light streaming in from behind, you look more divine than he is. 

You tower over him, a bit. He feels himself quail ever so slightly.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he does not wish to meet your eyes. “And I apologize for the inconvenience. It should never have been your responsibility; I will take my leave now.”

“No! I mean–” You blink, and put the hand you'd brought to his shoulder back down. “Won't you stay for breakfast?”

Xiao's answer is far more curt than he wished for it to be. “I do not need sustenance.”

In the silence that follows, Xiao finds amazement in how well your sheets are made. The careful embroidery and the sturdy cotton– linen? he cannot tell– is superb in a way that would have pleased his brother, were he here. 

(He wonders if his siblings would have liked you. The thought is quick to vanish– they are not here, and you will be gone before long, and so ruminating on either is foolish when he knows he ought to think instead of the monsters that must crawl all over Mt. Xuanlian at this very moment– although then again, Mt. Aocang is close by.

Perhaps Chiwang Terrace– unless Lingyuan has taken care of it already.

As distress rises inside of him, clinging desperately to his sternum, he inhales and exhales and shushes it. There will be something to do– there is always something to be done.)

He is thinking of what, precisely, when you speak.

“That's fine,” you say, and his lashes lower further when he notes that your voice has lost its usual inflection. It is flatter, controlled. “That's alright. I need to eat though,” you chirp, and his chest aches at the faux cheer, the performance you put forth. Do you always do this? Put on a smile and coax all those around you into something right? He is ashamed to realise he does not know. After all, in every moment of your sadness to which he has borne witness, you have been honest with him. There was no guesswork, no complicated etiquette– he has held you close, and you have cried.

You jump out of bed. “I'll freshen up. You do so, too. And then could you check what fruit I have in the pantry? Or–” you snap your fingers– “we could have last night's leftovers. And dessert!” 

Xiao blinks up at you, nonplussed, as you smile. Privately, he wonders why a smile is always deemed an expression of joy. As it rests on your lips now, it bleeds only rue. 

“I–” he begins, then stops when he sees your fingers twitch. He nods. “Very well. But I will leave soon after.”

Your eyes widen for the briefest of moments, and then you are all sad smiles once more. “Sure.”

✦—————————————✦

Xiao does not know how the minutes pass, but he soon hears your door creak open. Your kitchen window is open, and so Xiao absently predicts what happens next– the way your home is ventilated lets the wind rustle into the hallway and slam your door shut behind you. It gives a soft, dismayed roar, and the house stills once more.

He hears you click your tongue. Some moments pass before you emerge, and he shuffles aside to let you lean against your counter and reach over for whatever it is that you’d like. You brace yourself against it, fingers gripping the granite. As you survey your kitchen, Xiao surveys you.

You freshened up rather quickly today. He can see a damp spot of perfume on your shoulder from your unusually clumsy fingers, and the strands of hair that frame your face are a little damp still. You do not look as composed as before. It is a bit ironic– you’ve had more time to steel yourself, and yet.

“I’m not really hungry right now,” you say, after a pause. “Last night’s dinner was pretty heavy.”

“Mhm.”

A beat again. Then–

“Did you enjoy it?” You ask.

“The dinner?” he returns, and stiffens when your lashes lower. The question has left you with an opening to direct the conversation elsewhere, into territories that worry him more than they should.

It ought to matter little to Xiao– in fact, a mortal's lost company ought not matter at all. But he has softened more than he'd realised– something gentle has worn away at his hardness, and he feels a little ashamed, and then a bit defiant, for wanting something tender to lean against, for once.

His heart speeds in his chest, purrs against his ribs like a cat attempting to soothe itself. It is not your fault that Xiao is quick to cling– quick to latch onto any softness offered, naively press his palms to warmth and let it creep up his arms to his chest. He has done it before– many times, in truth.

And, he reassures himself, those losses shall prove to be far heftier in time. 

Something quiet and reasonable asks– what is there to lose today? It is squashed by his fear that says– something, something. Something.

He watches through unwittingly narrowed eyes as you part your lips, then lick them. You do not meet his gaze. Yours strays lower instead, to his waist. 

My hands, he registers, when you sidle closer to take one of them into both yours, your callouses brushing against his. You squeeze. Gentle at first, then tighter.

“If you teleport away,” you whisper, “I'll scream. Really loud, okay?”

He's not sure what to do with that. When he tells you this, you meet his eyes and smile, and his heart slows ever so slightly, more drum than cat. 

Yours, he remembers, had sounded a little like that too.

“Last night,” you say, looking earnestly at his face, “you said some things. You don't have to tell me about them again if you want, but if you would, it would– it would be nice.”

“Nice?” Xiao echoes. You nod.

“You said something about hating my coworker. And you mumbled a bit when I took you to my bedroom.” His face ears turn pink, but you plow on. 

“And– and. I'm starting to realise I'll have to do this myself.” Your lips part round a nervous little laugh, and your breath fans against his cheek. Your eyes glimmer in a way that suggests they wish to sorely turn away– to look anywhere but at him– and for the first time, Xiao feels a sense of camaraderie with you. “And… it should be fine as long as you don't run off. We'll be fine. Yes? Yes.” You let out a shaky exhale. 

His voice splinters when he starts to speak, burdened by the hope it bears. It would embarrass him, but only if anything could draw attention away from your anxious, eager expression. Your eyes crinkle in worry but a small smile plays shyly on your lips, and Xiao suddenly wishes words did not exist, so he could simply kiss you and be done with it.

“What?” He breathes, and you huff and dig your nails into his gloves, fingers trembling. 

Something seems to thrum inside of him and inside you, and resonate impatiently into the room. The kitchen seems a little brighter when you shake your head and steel yourself.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “At least I'll be the first to go. I'm going to tell everyone you're a coward, mind you.”

“You won't,” he replies. “You don’t.” You never do, and you never leave him hanging, or make him guess, and he frees his fingers then to wrap his hands round yours instead. 

His heart soars. This is assurance– this is a guarantee. And if you intend to bear him, to let him be your ruin–

Xiao does not know whether to first apologise or confess. It matters not, though, because you resolve even this trouble.

“Yes,” you say, and he swears he feels his chest giddily expand like a balloon. When a gust of wind billows round him, he lets his buoyant heart be pushed closer to yours. When your smile turns bolder, warmer, he knows he's lost whatever game he didn't know he was playing. And– it's alright if you win always, so long as he gets to see your smiles. 

“Yes,” you say, and he brings his fingers up to your cheek, because you are real, and you are here. His breath hitches. “Because I love you. And I said it first.”

There is no stopping his smiles now. He huffs a laugh, first relieved, then joyous (perhaps a bit triumphant, too) and stops suddenly, when he sees you've drawn even closer. His palm fits snugly against your cheek as his claws settle in your hair.

Would that he could halt this moment, to look at you carefully. Engrave this instant into his lungs so he can feel it with every breath. For the first time in a long time, things have gone his way without the slightest price to pay– without even the slightest fear of all going to ruin. Things are just easier with you, he realises. 

Time is her own master, though, and does not deign to even slow for him (and he is half amused and half irked by the fact that he can find something to rue even now). Perhaps, he muses, this is the small price she demands in exchange for the years of comfort to come. She makes no compromises– she is difficult that way– and disagreeable often.

What is most agreeable, though, is the first brush of your lips against his.

"Is this okay?" You whisper, right against his mouth. And oh, now time slows, somewhere deep in your eyes. It is no wonder that it stops for you and not him– you are so lovely that the morning sun itself seems to bend its rays as it casts them, so they twist and squirm to engulf you. You are so bright, and so warm against his hand, and your body is flush against his. 

"Yes," he breathes. There was nothing else to say. And because he is impatient, and a little afraid of waking up– and because, he reasons, you have asked him in the past to let himself be selfish– he kisses you.

(And if he smiles when he does so, you do not point it out. When his eyes are slow to open once it is over– once you have drawn away from his insistent lips and turned warm at the brushes of his fingers against your hips– a look at him is all it takes to reassure you. He is going to stay.)