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Painful.
Painful to be so helpless, so horribly inadequate for the job set before him,
As Barbatos turns from the sea spray and calls his name.
‘Xiao!’
– And he arrives.
Stepping softly, if it can be so, onto the shore that seems to give way beneath his feet, Alatus ducks his head from the overpowering sun.
Mortals once believed that Rex Lapis, first in Their name, drove the solar chariot across the sky each day, greeting the moonlight with a kiss.
A kiss that fell like dust from the lunar palace above, leaving them all, briefly, illuminated.
‘You’re still stuck in your own head, aren’t you? That’s no good!’ proclaims Barbatos, pulling him forward by his arms. Alatus stumbles just as the sea rises, and over him, it cascades.
He does not melt like the last morning light. He is far too burdened with debt to vanish.
‘Hey, blockhead. Care to work your magic?’
‘Perhaps we should allow him to adjust.’
‘Forget that! It’s my birthday, and I want Xiao-Xiao here with us.’
A sigh.
His name, when uttered by Lord Barbatos or the Traveller, sparks like heat against his skin.
Yet, should Rex Lapis do the unthinkable,
His whole being lights up like the War of Funerary Flame.
‘Xiao.’ Morax, standing before him, taking his hands into Theirs. The sun catching upon their ponytail as the wind whips it about, so that They are a moving picture of gold.
‘I am here,’ he says. He can say nothing else.
Morax gazes upon the wretched creature that he is. They press one of his hands to Their chest. ‘Do you feel this, Xiao?’
‘Yes.’
‘Focus on nothing else. Hear the heart that beats within me, and permit it to ground you.’
Is he already grounded? He is wedged beneath a heavy boulder, tunnelled into the earth. He is–
– Disobeying a direct command. Slowly, Alatus looses his breath.
That sacred beat, which has ordered civilisation since the world began its revolution;
(Pain. Painful to be.)
The answering ache in his bones, over and around his body;
(Horrible. Helpless.)
The humming song stretched across their shared pulse as if it were a stanza;
(‘Xiao!’ and ‘Xiao.’)
Alatus, opening eyes that had fallen closed to darkness, meets Morax’s eyes.
He needs say nothing. Morax smiles faintly, the slim line of it a blade upon which Alatus would eagerly open his veins.
Yet, there is no need, this day.
Barbatos ceases his humming; he leaps between the two of them, a grin on his face. His happiness stirs the wind again, which sends his hat sailing away.
‘That–’
‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ says Barbatos, shushing him. He lays himself across their connected arms.
(The sun renders his shirt nearly translucent. The hint of his god’s marks curling, teal, around the flush of his chest. The lace of his cravat brushing the inside of Alatus’ wrist.)
Alatus swallows, completely ruined.
‘It’s not like we see each other every day. Try to relax, Xiao– Or I’ll make you. With my mouth.’
‘Venti,’ scolds Morax, nudging him away.
Cackling, Barbatos kicks into the surf, wet-stockinged toes wiggling deviously.
‘Who’s gonna pretend to be ashamed that his spouses want to ravish him on his birthday? Not me!’
Again, Morax sighs. They turn to Alatus, who arrests his breath to attend Their words.
‘Come, Xiao. Do not let this lustful bard ruin our respite.’
‘Yes… Zhongli.’
‘Hey! Hey! Say my name too!’
‘V-Venti.’
Barbatos hollers in triumph. Morax turns, vacating the surf to go prepare their tea.
Alatus stands transfixed.
For one moment, he is without earthly weight.