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< i >
The first sign of trouble is in the wind.
Venti’s fingers dance nimbly along the holes of his flute, pulling out a lilting thread of song. The breeze weaves in between his fingers, delighted, before curling affectionately against his cheek. His lips curve into a small smile.
It’s been a while since Venti has found himself in Liyue. The osmanthus wine that Morax had so graciously gifted him (or bribed him with in exchange for a moment of peace, as someone a little more lacking in romanticism might say!) sits low and warm in his gut. It wears down Liyue’s harsh, cutting corners, blurs the edges of the glowing eye of the moon — it’s as if Venti had run his thumb along a sketch and smudged out its lines, turning the land of rock and stone into something a little softer, a little looser.
Still, the poet in him thinks, Liyue wears its beauty with such exquisite grace and charm, hazed out or not. He’s happy to be here, once again.
The wind had welcomed him as soon as he’d come, affectionately tousling his braids and fluttering through his cape until he was bent over in laughter. It was endearing, to see himself be missed so fondly. So, later that evening, as the winds braided themselves around his hands, it felt only fitting to play with them the best way he knew how.
He is a bard, after all, and what good is a bard that can’t entertain?
As Venti dips into the crescendo, the breeze abruptly stills in its dance. The suddenness of it causes Venti to skip a beat in surprise. Though he picks the melody back up without much fuss, he leads it down a simpler path, one he can keep as he draws his focus on his surroundings. The gentle and playful air has sharpened, losing its kind temperament to something biting enough to prickle at his skin. Something dark crackles dangerously in the air.
There’s someone here.
The ends of Venti’s braids come aglow, Anemo humming beneath his skin, when a particular whisper of wind catches his attention. It is merely a wisp, thin and threadbare, but it wraps around Venti’s wrist with a timid plea. Venti trills a note in question and it tightens around him beseechingly. Friend, it insists, this is a friend.
The sympathy this sigh of wind carries could flood a city, Venti thinks, if it had the tears to cry.
Venti’s eyes fall shut. He soothes the wind surrounding him, kind and not, and coaxes it to tenderness once more with his song.
This person, whoever they are, they are no threat. The calamity that they wield, sharpened to a blade’s point, only aims at their own neck. A victim of a tragedy in its making.
But tonight, Venti concludes, they were just here to listen to a bard’s song. And if it could ease their suffering, Venti is more than happy to indulge them.
The hatred souring the air thins over time, dissipating to the night sky. Still, the stranger at Venti’s back remains fixed as a statue, not even a twitch of their fingers rippling a current through the wind. Venti can only track their presence by following each breath they take. So labored and heavy at first, like each could be their last. Then, slower. Steadier. Venti’s heart eases with it.
Venti holds out the final note of his song, lets it peter out to brittle silence. A beat passes. He finally turns around.
His audience has other plans, it seems. Venti only manages to catch a glimpse of a black-teal flash of Anemo. Then, nothing. Not even a breath on the wind.
Huh.
“Well,” Venti says, “that’s a bit rude, isn’t it?”
The wind flips the end of his braid.
Later, after dawn breaks over the horizon and Venti finally tucks his flute away, he finds curiosity and intrigue itching incessantly at his thoughts. Before he leaves, he pauses where the stranger had stood. Nearby greenery is trampled through, and streaks of crimson stain the earth. Evidence of a warrior of sorts, perhaps?
Most curiously, a single, golden feather glitters in the sunlight.
Venti brings it to his palm with a bout of wind. He twists it in his fingers, letting the sun peak through the gaps in its vane.
After a moment’s thought, he pockets it. It had become a habit of his, to collect stray feathers. He liked to leave them atop his old friend’s grave, a mismatched bouquet of freedom for the boy who had once dreamed so wistfully to see a bird’s flight.
This feather, though, snags his attention in a way he finds he can’t ignore. He hums to himself.
He may have to ask Morax about a curious little bird.
< ii >
“Xiao!”
Venti’s shoes clatter against the roof tiles of Wangshu Inn as he stumbles to a stop, soles slipping on the rain-slick surface.
Xiao’s hunched in a sitting position, hands working through the golden wings unfurling from his back. He lifts his gaze from its feathers to stare at Venti, eyes narrowed. “What.”
Venti laughs, unfazed. “Can’t I visit my favorite Yaksha?”
Xiao merely shoots him a flat look, unimpressed by his flattery, before casting his attention back to his wings. Venti grins; that certainly hadn’t been a no! Enabled by the unspoken act of permission, he plops himself down by Xiao’s side. Wordlessly, Xiao lifts his other wing over Venti’s head to shelter him from the rain. Venti lets out a small, breathless laugh. An unbearable fondness blooms warm in his heart. Always so kind, Xiao was. He scoots closer to Xiao’s side, gaze flicking up to scan over Xiao’s wing hanging over him.
It’s a rare sight, to see them out in the open like this. Over the years, as the pair of them have built their tentative friendship, Xiao has seldom let them slip out. What a shame it was, really! Such lovely things, always kept hidden from the eye. If Venti hadn’t found that feather that first day (and teased at Xiao with it, of course), he may never have known about them at all. He peers closer.
Like slivers of coal in a sea of gold, black feathers are scattered throughout Xiao’s wings. Evidence of his karmic debt, Venti suspects. Xiao has never told him as much, his expression only growing notably more pinched when Venti had asked. Though Venti often likes to poke and prod, he knows when to let matters drop. While Xiao’s feelings towards Venti initially skewed too near worship for comfort, Venti had taken great care to act just enough like a nuisance to shatter his illusion. Now, they've managed to settle into their comfortable companionship, one that Venti has found he treasures dearly. It's not something he wants to risk breaking just yet. That doesn’t keep him from wondering, though.
While his one wing serves as a makeshift umbrella, Xiao carefully examines his other, methodically running his fingers through his feathers and plucking out those that are broken and damaged with apt precision. Discarded feathers are kept in a neat pile at his side, a mix of black and gold.
Xiao grapples for a feather just beyond the tips of his fingers, and Venti perks up.
“Ah, I can help!” Venti reaches forward, but Xiao sharply jerks his wing back.
“I can do it myself,” he says tersely.
Venti makes a face. So stubborn!
He lets his hand fall back into his lap. When he sees Xiao continue to struggle, Venti silently calls for a whip of wind to wrest it out, and they both watch the feather falls to gently land to the top of Xiao’s pile. Xiao turns to glare at him. Venti just blinks back innocently, feigning confusion.
“...Thank you.” Xiao says it like pulling teeth. Venti smiles anyway.
“You take care of your wings well,” he observes, “but I rarely ever see you use them.”
Xiao decidedly avoids eye contact. “I have no use for wings. I can travel without them.” He pauses to flash his wrist towards Venti, the light glinting off the Anemo Vision tucked in his glove. Venti huffs a laugh. As if Venti of all people needed that reminder.
“Oh, come now, Xiao!” Venti leans forward. “It’s about the journey, not the destination.”
“Your way of doing this is inefficient.”
“No, it’s fun! The feeling of being one with the sky, the wind ruffling through your feathers — the freedom of it all.”
Xiao harshly yanks a feather out. Venti winces, feeling a phantom ache in his own wings. “I have no need for freedom,” Xiao says, voice flat. Like this was a normal confession, like this loss wasn’t something worth mourning. Venti swallows a knot of grief at the back of his throat.
“So bold!” Venti teases instead. “To say that directly to the Anemo Archon’s face!”
For all of Xiao’s honesty, Venti thinks there may be no better liar. The best liars are always those that unfalteringly believe the words they say, after all. Xiao can say as many things as he wants, can insist until his grave that if the Golden-Winged King’s cape was torn off, he would relish in the weight it lifted. But Venti will still see how meticulously he cares for his wings, will still see the way Xiao eases when the wind threads through his feathers. And, in the end, didn’t that sing louder than any of Xiao’s pithy words?
Xiao’s hand is curled rigidly over his broken pinion.
“Xiao,” Venti calls kindly, reaching over with tentative hesitation. When Xiao doesn’t move away, Venti rests his palms on top of Xiao’s, gently prying his fingers open. He takes the feather, smoothening out its edges, tracing a finger over its quill.
“My freedom may be different from yours,” Venti says softly, “and I will not force anything upon you. But, even so, I hope one day the wind can carry your wings again.”
Xiao doesn’t reply. The end of his wing falls over Venti a little tighter.
The rain pitter-patters against the roof.
< iii >
“You made this?”
Xiao’s brows knit together. He crosses his arms, straightening his back. “Is that surprising?”
Venti hums, carefully turning the lantern in his hands. “It certainly looks homemade,” he muses absent-mindedly.
He doesn’t mean it as a slight, but Xiao certainly takes it as one. He huffs, sharply turning his head, and begins to pull himself into a standing position. Venti makes a startled noise of protest, nearly dropping the lantern in his haste.
“Wait, no, no!” Venti springs forward, loosely draping his arms around Xiao’s neck to lock him in place. He slots his chin over Xiao’s shoulder. “Don’t leave! I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, really! I’m sorry, let me explain.”
Xiao doesn’t quite turn around, but his narrowed gaze slides over to meet Venti’s. Despite his disgruntled expression, heat begins to crawl up Xiao’s face, cheeks dusting with a lovely pink. A wide smile splits across Venti’s face.
Xiao’s adorable, especially when flustered (which Venti is exceptional at!). Venti reigns in the desire to poke his nose.
“Homemade isn’t bad! I can tell you put a lot of time, care, and love into it,” Venti tells him sincerely. “It looks like something with a lot of heart and soul, is all.”
“Somehow,” Xiao grumbles, “it still sounds like you’re making fun of me.”
Venti laughs fondly, relinquishing his hold. He hopes he hasn’t bruised Xiao’s ego too badly. Perhaps his tongue had been a little too loose for someone still so sober, letting words slip off a little too carelessly, but it’s certainly not Venti’s fault! His brain just happened to stutter to a total standstill when Xiao handed him the lantern, so his thoughts were left fumbling. He knew of Xiao’s disdain for Lantern Rite. For him, the light that these lanterns brought was eclipsed by the violent shadows of the gods buried in the ground. It served no celebration, only a bitter reminder of the shackles that bound him. A little like unused wings, Venti would think, that never took flight.
Venti’s heart aches terribly at the thought.
When Venti half-jokingly proposed they watch this year’s lanterns together (hoping, maybe, to let the wind blow something a little sweeter into Xiao’s memories), he had nearly toppled over in shock when Xiao had actually agreed. And now, Venti was finding out that Xiao (Xiao, of all people!) had set aside additional time to make a lantern. With his own hands.
Adeptus Xiao. Conqueror of Demons. Vigilant Yaksha.
Something warm takes root in Venti’s chest. He ducks his head, examining the lantern once more.
It’s endearingly misshapen, a lopsided and top-heavy little thing. The wrapping has a crease running along its side, its fibers fraying along the ends. Venti thumbs at the plaustrite collar, watching in glow dimly in the night. He smiles.
The merchants lining along Liyue’s streets could only dream of making something so lovely.
“I never thought you’d make a lantern,” Venti remarks. “It didn’t seem like something you’d like.”
“It’s for you.” The pink still hasn’t left Xiao’s cheeks. “To make a wish.”
Venti blinks.
“Oh,” he says. His voice is so small that the wind can barely carry it. Venti clears his throat. “What about you, then?”
Xiao shakes his head. “I don’t care for mortal traditions.”
The things unsaid dangle in the air, like wind chimes in a still land. Venti blows a breeze to hear them sing.
Xiao may not care for humanity and all its quirks, but he knew Venti did. Knew Venti loved mortals, their festivals, their celebrations, knew he found something beautiful in their hopes and dreams.
Images flicker through Venti’s mind.
Xiao, the fierce demon-slayer, whose fingertips have grown rough and calloused from battle, who dealt in blood and death, all severe lines and harsh edges. Xiao, delicately, carefully trading spear for paper, armor for stone. Xiao, gentle as the beat of a butterfly’s wing, kind as spring, building this lantern in exchange for Venti's smile.
Things like this, Venti thinks idly, suit him far better than a battlefield.
Venti’s heart is stuttering against his ribcage. The tender warmth in his chest unfurls helplessly.
A glint of gold tucked in the lantern’s frame catches Venti’s attention. “Wait.” Venti squints, holding it up to his eye. “Is this your feather?”
Xiao stiffens. He pointedly avoids Venti’s gaze.
Venti grins, eyes sparkling with something part fond, part mischievous. “Oh, it’s quite beautiful!” he says in a sing-song voice. “What a genuinely lovely touch, truly, and my praise, I do not give unduly. But Xiao!” He leans in. “I can’t help wonder, is this a bird-related courting ritual that I should know about — ow!”
Venti yelps as Xiao unceremoniously yanks on his braid, effectively shutting him up. He pouts. He begins to plot his revenge, but before he can act, a glow of moving light illuminates the night.
Venti’s eyes widen.
Like stars journeying back home, the lanterns nobly depart the earth to trek their graceful path back to the sky. A wish is guarded within each one, yearning and light. I hear your pleas, they sigh, and I will keep them safe.
Venti is a being of wind and time, stitched together with threads of Anemo. The breeze at his fingertips is his to sculpt and weave; he wields no weapon more expertly, not even words. Somehow, still, watching this sea of aspiration steals his every breath.
Xiao jostles him lightly with his elbow. He nods towards the lantern at Venti’s side.
Right! His lantern! Venti takes hold of it once more. Its paper wrapping feels oddly heavy now.
Does he have a wish?
Sure — for his land, for his people, for their laughter and freedom. He lives for Mondstadt, after all. But, as Venti looks at the feather entwined in the lantern, barely poking out, a quiet longing flickers to life in his heart. He closes his eyes. Just for tonight, he permits himself to be selfish.
The wind lifts the lantern from his fingers, and Venti watches as the feather takes flight.
He turns to the side to glance at Xiao. Though Xiao was famous for his impassive, stern expression, Venti has come to learn that Xiao wore his heart on his sleeve more often than he’d thought. You just had to know where to look.
Xiao’s eyes, glowing golden in the festival lights, are caught on the lanterns. His lips are parted ever so slightly, weariness and stress washed out by the evening’s shade. Silent wonder carves its way in his expression, subtle and wistful.
Like this, he doesn’t look like a warrior.
Tonight, he’s just Xiao.
A small smile flickers to life on Venti’s lips.
Without warning, Venti’s cape flutters into a pair of white wings in a flurry of feathers and light. He catches Xiao’s gaze, offering a playful wink, and jumps to the sky.
He deftly weaves a path between the lanterns, the wind leading them in a waltz around his form. Laughing, he teases his fingers against the closest ones, stopping their flight just long enough to skim the wishes scrawled on them.
I wish for dad to come home!
Good health and a smooth future.
To pass my entrance exam.
For us to be together forever <3
Beautifully mundane. Wonderfully human. It fills his heart with warmth.
He casts his gaze back down to find Xiao, watching him with wide eyes. He sits like a coiled spring, stiff and tense, like he's afraid of what he might do if he were to let go.
Venti giggles. He dips down to hover until his face is level with Xiao’s.
“How about this,” Venti says, “tonight, I can be your lantern.” He reaches a hand over to cup Xiao’s cheek, gentle, gentle, gentle. “Tell me, Xiao, do you have a wish?”
Xiao stares at him. He lifts a hand, letting it ghost uncertainly over Venti’s. Venti’s thumb strokes his cheek. Xiao’s fingers wrap around Venti’s wrist.
Xiao makes a wish, and Venti grants it with his lips.
< iv >
Venti is so, so tired.
The wind tickles his cheek in an attempt at comfort. It does little to ease the choking weight in his heart, but he offers a thin smile of appreciation nonetheless.
Even here, back propped against a tree at Old Mondstadt, he can almost feel the phantom beat of a dead dragon heart, pulsing erratically in a dead land. When he blinks, he can see its blood still sticking to his hands. Part of him pities the poor thing, the unfortunate pawn shoved into Khaenri’ah’s game. But the other part of him thinks of his burning city, of the lost souls he’s had to guide on, of his poisoned friend forced to slumber, of his people’s cries ringing sharp and loud in his ears.
It’s difficult to muster much regret.
Exhaustion tugs stubbornly at his consciousness. The temptation to sink into darkness is so, so sweet.
The wind flicks him on the head, and he musters a breathy laugh.
That’s right. There’s something he should do, first.
His gaze flicks towards Liyue’s direction.
Venti hates to call upon Xiao like this. He fears that it feels too much like tugging on a leash, too much like Xiao's a tool to be used rather than a soul to be loved. Now, especially, with Celestia and Khaenri’ah’s carnage so awfully visceral and raw, it feels particularly precarious. Loyal, loyal Xiao was certainly on the frontlines, risking life and limb for Liyue’s safety.
But, the winds hum to him, the fire of battle is subsiding, in Mondstadt and Liyue both. There’s a lull of peace, now. Physical wounds will heal. The scar Venti would cut if he left without a goodbye might not.
Soft as a dream, Venti whispers a name to the wind.
It’s almost instantaneous. There’s a bright flash of black and teal, and then Venti has an adeptus at his feet.
Xiao looks absolutely terrible. His clothes are littered with tears, the sleeve on his arm nearly shredded entirely. Crimson stains his skin, and there’s a nasty-looking cut on his side. Thankfully, nothing looks particularly fatal, and a cool relief washes over Venti. If Xiao hadn’t shown at all, he’s not sure if he could’ve coped.
Xiao scans the vicinity, searching for an immediate threat. His muscles are still wound tense and battle-ready, fingers gripped tight enough around his polearm that Venti wouldn't be surprised if it snapped in two.
Venti smiles wanly. “Adeptus Xiao,” he greets. He winces when his voice comes out raspy and thin.
Xiao’s gaze locks to Venti’s, and he immediately drops to Venti’s height, dissipating his spear. His brows are furrowed in concern. This close, Venti can see a cut right above his eye; he wishes he could smooth it away.
“Is Liyue all right?” Venti asks instead.
Even as he says it, he knows it’s a pointless question. Xiao’s presence was already answer enough. Venti wasn’t foolish enough to place himself over Liyue’s safety, when it came to Xiao’s priorities.
Xiao nods once, jerky and brisk. “Is Mondstadt?”
Venti hums. He thinks to his grieving city, still reeling from loss, from Rostam’s death, from Durin’s slaughter. It’s difficult to label that as okay. But, he knows, the wind is still blowing, still carrying with it its fragile seeds of hope. To a brighter future, Venti can only pray. “It will survive,” Venti settles on.
Xiao frowns. His hands hover over Venti uncertainly, afraid to touch. “Something’s wrong,” he says, clipped.
Venti can’t help but laugh. “Straight-forward as ever,” he teases lightly.
Xiao doesn’t bite. “Venti.”
Venti’s expression softens. A wisp of wind caresses Xiao’s cheek in apology.
“Don’t worry, Xiao. I’m all right. I think I just... need to sleep, is all.”
Xiao nods, but the frown on his lips deepens. Venti attempts a smile to assuage his nerves. It does very little.
“I don’t know when I will wake,” Venti confesses.
Understanding slowly clicks into place, piece-by-piece.
Venti’s naps were nothing new. He was never suited to be a god, the gnosis in his chest a hollow spoil of war. A single breeze should never have had the power to move mountains, and even the winds could be weighed down. When it was too much, too overwhelming, too draining, Venti would have to hide himself away for days, weeks, years.
But now, he had Xiao. They were each other’s — well, each other’s something. They couldn’t be each other’s everything; they both had too much responsibility to bear for that. Venti had told Xiao as much, once, between the marks Xiao had left pressed against his neck. Feared that Xiao and his devotion would surrender his tripwire heart to Venti’s hands, feared the consequences of the destruction his fingers might trigger. Feared that, in the end, he had nothing to give to Xiao in return. After all, it already all belonged to Mondstadt, to the wind and time, to the bard who died in freedom’s wake — amidst all of that, what was Venti?
(“You’re my wings,” Xiao had murmured against his lips, then. “I feel like I’m flying, with you.” Venti had smiled into the kiss.)
Now, Venti doesn’t want to leave Xiao to fall.
Or, more selfishly, more honestly: he simply hates to leave Xiao's side.
For a few moments, Xiao is still. Then, for a fraction of a second, Xiao’s wings unfurl from his back. They’re gone as quick as they come, only lingering long enough for Xiao to pluck a single loose feather from its edge. He holds it out to Venti. “Here. Take this.”
Venti looks at it curiously, head tipped in question.
“You like feathers.” Xiao says it so matter-of-factly, firm certainty born from intimacy. “Keep it.”
Venti takes the feather, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Shouldn’t I be giving you something? To remember me by?” he asks playfully.
“I wouldn’t forget you.”
The blunt honesty with which he says it startles a laugh out of Venti, his heart warm and fond. He smiles at the feather. He knows it means more than a souvenir. “Thank you, Xiao,” he says earnestly. “I’ll treasure it.”
Xiao’s expression softens. Then, abruptly, he tips forward to bury his head in the crook of Venti’s neck. Venti makes a small noise in surprise.
“...I’ll miss you,” Xiao mutters, breath ghosting along Venti’s collarbone.
Venti swallows. “Oh, Xiao...” Venti’s voice feels thick, heart lodged in his throat. What could he say? I’ll be back soon, or we’ll meet again, or please wait for me — all hollow promises that he isn’t sure he can keep. Time is a merciless thing, and Celestia is forcing Teyvat into change. Venti can’t ask Xiao to tie himself down to such volatile things.
He brings a hand to Xiao’s back, tracing soothing circles. “I’m sorry,” Venti tells him softly, because it’s all he can afford. For once, he's not certain he wants to sleep at all.
Maybe this feather, tucked so tightly against his heart, would flutter its way into his very dreams.
If that could be the case, then...
After Xiao disappears back to Liyue, Venti gently presses a kiss against the feather and begs it for a sweet dream.
< v >
The first sign of trouble is in the wind.
It drops a handful of tar-black feathers into his lap. Venti’s fingers twang a startled, sour note on his lyre. His eyes dart to the golden feather that he keeps dangling from his Vision, then to the feathers on his lap. His heart slams to a painful stop, and Venti’s gone in a blink.
Liyue is tranquil — the mountains are steady, the waters calm, the people happy. It lives in ignorant bliss.
It knows nothing about the vile hatred wrenching apart its loyal warrior.
A small, wounded sound is torn from Venti’s lips when arrives.
The roils of darkness ripping at his feet sting acrid and pungent, a violent torrent of hurt and ire and revenge. The air thins to needles as sharp as the spear that had gutted these gods eons ago. It bites and cuts furiously at Venti’s skin, poisons his veins, hungers for the gaping hole in the core of his chest.
But that wasn’t important right now.
What was important was this:
Xiao, huddled in the eye of its storm.
Xiao, claws digging desperately at his own skin.
Xiao, trying to hold himself together.
Xiao, trying to tear himself further apart.
Xiao.
Over time, Venti has borne witness to the downfall of many. Humans, gods, civilizations — everything comes to an end, eventually.
He had hoped to never see this.
“Xiao!”
Xiao snarls. It stabs a blade into his weeping heart.
Without warning, Xiao’s wings snap out in a cascade of feathers, and what he sees punches Venti’s breath out of his lungs.
Five hundred years have passed. Simultaneously, for Venti, barely any time has passed at all. Thus, his memories still shine crystal clear in his mind.
Venti remembers the king’s cape of feathers, glittering gold and holy as they bloomed from his back. Venti remembers carding his fingers through its plumage, remembers pressing a kiss against the pinions, remembers their warmth and their softness and their love.
Now, nearly half of his feathers have withered to something dark and venomous, ugly malice dripping down their surface like ink. Pinions rot out and fall to the ground, leaving wisps of smoke and karmic debt in their wake. It makes Venti’s stomach churn, to watch something so beautiful turn so wretched.
Xiao forces out a pained groan through gritted teeth. His wings flap harshly against empty air, but his karmic ties bind him too tightly to the ground, too heavy to take off.
Venti takes a step forward.
“Xiao!”
A whip of darkness slams at his feet, cuts into his cheek. Xiao ignores him.
He can’t hear me, Venti realizes. He thinks I’m a stranger.
But there’s one thing that Venti knows can cut through the storm. It had worked once before, though Venti hadn’t known it at the time. Now, it had to work again. Venti wouldn’t — couldn’t — settle for anything less.
He pulls his flute out of a whirl of Anemo. His fingers tremble as it falls in his grip. He takes a deep, steadying breath and plays, just like another night, so, so long ago. Venti can barely hear his own song over the pounding rush in his ears. Bitter acrimony slices shallow wounds in his skin, but he doesn't falter. His melody woven from fragile hope and heartache wobbles and shakes, but it lives, it sings, it cries. The notes unravel straight from his bleeding heart, winding a path to Xiao, begging him hopelessly, desperately, come back, please, come back, I love you, please.
He plays and plays and plays.
Slowly, finally, the resentment around them begins to fade. The dead gods’ anger slides back into the soil, unhanding its prey.
Xiao’s wings suddenly jerk to surround himself, shielding him away from the rest of the world.
Venti casts his flute away, collapsing at Xiao’s side.
“Xiao,” he says again. He brushes the tips of his fingers against Xiao’s feathers. Immediately, Xiao’s wings flinch at Venti’s touch, recoiling to wind tighter around his form. Venti takes an unsteady breath. He tries once more. Fingers against feathers.
A beat.
The wings, thankfully, start to relax into his touch; Venti could almost sob with relief. He runs his hand through them soothingly. “Xiao, can you tell me who I am?”
Silence. Venti’s heart is knotted tight in his chest.
“Lord Barbatos,” Xiao croaks. Wind knocks through Venti’s lungs once more. The voice is scratchy and wrecked, but it’s so, undeniably Xiao.
Tears sting at Venti’s eyes. He smiles wryly, gently brushing his thumb against a patch of bare skin where his feathers had rotted out. “Close.” He pauses. “Xiao, will you let me in?”
Things are still for an awful moment.
Xiao’s wings unfold sharply, nearly tipping Venti over with the force of it. The sight of Xiao, so close, so real, so alive, makes his heart wail something fierce.
Xiao watches him closely through his broken mask, one golden eye widening with clarity.
“Venti,” Xiao gasps, and Venti’s heart falls apart.
He lurches forward, pulling Xiao close to his chest. Xiao is frozen for a moment, limbs limp at his sides. Then, like a flipped switch, his arms snap to encircle Venti tight in his grasp. Xiao’s wings come back around to cover them both, another set of arms to hold him with. It carves out a cocoon in space and time, a sanctuary just for them, just for now.
Venti whispers sweet songs into Xiao’s ear. He tracks every breath Xiao makes, clinging tightly onto each one.
They stay entangled for a long, long time.
Venti stirs awake to the feeling of someone tentatively trailing their finger along the bone of his wing. He blearily opens an eye.
Xiao sits at his side, still mostly blanketed by Venti’s wing. Venti shoots up, wings snapping back, and haphazardly throws himself into Xiao’s arms.
After Xiao had fallen asleep last night, Venti had taken them to his room in Wangshu Inn. Despite technically belonging to Xiao, the space is mostly bare; there’s not a piece of furniture, not even a bed or blankets. Thus, Venti had to improvise. He’s sure he could’ve asked the lovely innkeeper for an extra set, but Venti couldn’t leave Xiao alone for even a second without panic stirring in his gut.
Xiao, to his credit, manages to stay upright despite Venti's sudden weight, though it does force out a strangled sound. Venti hugs Xiao tightly, needing to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat to be at ease. Xiao feels oddly tense in his arms; it’s like he’s almost afraid that if he moves a muscle, it might shatter Venti completely. Silly adeptus, Venti thinks, burying his head in Xiao’s neck. He’s never wanted Xiao’s touch so desperately; it’s only under Xiao’s grip that Venti has ever felt solid, and now he feels so completely unraveled.
“Xiao,” Venti whispers. His voice cracks on the end.
It does the trick; Xiao brings a hand around to Venti’s back, trailing along where wings meet skin. Venti lets out a shuddering breath.
“You’re awake,” Xiao mutters, something awestruck in his tone. As if Venti’s presence here was the miracle. As if Xiao hadn’t danced so close to death the night before. Silly adeptus.
Venti laughs wetly. “I am,” he acknowledges. “Hello, love. It's been a while. I’ve missed you.”
< vi >
“Keep your eyes closed!”
Xiao grunts in assent. Venti grins, fiddling with the finishing touches.
When he’s content, he sits back to admire his work, then mentally pats himself on the back for a job well done. The wind, sensing his self-satisfaction, playfully tousles the ends of his hair.
Venti leans forward to press a kiss to Xiao’s wing, just to see Xiao squirm. Venti snickers. Xiao opens an eye to glare at him. It’s remarkably unthreatening.
“Cheater,” Venti scolds, sticking his tongue out. “But, luckily for you, it’s all done anyway. You can open your eyes!”
Xiao obeys, turning his head to examine Venti's display. He goes rigid.
Xiao’s wings, still half-black, half-gold, lay resting at his side. However, from the plumage, a garden has begun to sprout and flourish. Venti smiles.
Venti had spent the day collecting flowers around Teyvat, a bouquet of cecilias and qingxin hidden into his bag. After finding Xiao, he insisted that he had a surprise to prepare, but needed Xiao’s wings to do so. Xiao, because he rarely denied Venti anything, had begrudgingly agreed, and Venti had enthusiastically gotten to work.
He’s tucked pure white flower petals in between Xiao’s feathers, light enough for them to stay. He meticulously arranges them artfully throughout, adjusting and readjusting until they met his (very high!) standards. With the help of a little wind and careful positioning, Venti’s arranged whole blossoms to hang in patchier spots where feathers are still regrowing, settling them in place as if they bloom directly from Xiao's veins.
Venti hums in appreciation, leaning back. His gaze falls onto his Vision dangling from his hip, on the golden feather he still keeps there. An idea strikes him.
“Oh, wait! One last touch — “
Venti’s wings flutter out behind him. He snags a stray feather, presses a quick kiss to it, and adds it to the center of one of Xiao's wings. “There! For good measure!” He beams.
Xiao carefully lifts one of his wings to angle a better look.
“Don’t be too rough!” Venti admonishes. “It’ll fall out.” Some pieces were barely staying in the first place; he had to thank the wind for tirelessly holding them up. Xiao only blinks in response.
A full, entire minute passes (Venti counts).
Xiao’s still staring wordlessly at his wings.
The silence crawls unnervingly along Venti's skin.
Okay. Maybe he didn’t like it. Maybe it was terrible.
That’s fine! That’s fine. Okay. Okay!
Venti begins to ramble, needing to fill the silence before his thoughts could continue to spiral.
“I just, I know you have some mixed feelings about your wings, especially recently. And I understand, really, that they can dredge up negative and complex feelings and whatnot. And I'm sorry if this made it worse, or if it's hideous, or if you don't quite like it. But I, I don’t know, I just thought maybe this would show you how I see them.” He gestures weakly. “Just... beautiful.”
Xiao’s expression softens. He gives his wings a small, tentative flap, and Venti squawks as all his carefully woven-in flowers shake.
Okay, Xiao hated it, that’s —
“Venti,” Xiao’s cuts in. A small smile dances on his lips. “Thank you.”
Oh.
“Oh.” Venti clears his throat, feeling inexplicably flustered. “Oh. Um. Of course!”
A pause. “I think,” Xiao says slowly, “I think. I want to try flying, again.”
Oh?
Venti blinks. “Wait. Really?”
Xiao nods. The wind steals a single cecilia petal, bringing it to rest on Venti’s palms. “It’s been a long time,” Xiao adds quietly. “They may no longer be strong enough to carry me.”
Hope bubbles in Venti’s chest. He smiles. “That’s all right,” he says gently. “We can practice. Besides, the wind loves you, you know. It won’t let you fall.”
Xiao reaches to take Venti’s feather from where it's tucked in his wing. He twists it in his fingers, darting a glance to Venti. “You’ll be there?”
“Always.”
Xiao presses the feather to his lips. Venti grins, bringing his wings around to cover them. Xiao mimics him, his wings coming to envelop Venti’s. Unfortunately, the flowers don’t make it out unscathed; Venti can feel loose petals falling against his wings. The winds let out a mournful sigh at their ruined hard work. Xiao’s eyes widen in alarm, but Venti just laughs, cupping Xiao’s chin in his hands.
“Always,” Venti says again, certain as an oath, and seals it with a kiss.