Let Me Return To The Moss

And perhaps Xiao indulges a little – just a teensy bit. Surely it isn’t so terrible a thing to glance at his lover, yes? (The word warms his belly. He ignores it.) Surely it’s alright to look at the flex of your arm, the slope of your neck, the little arch that connects it to your jaw.

Except… he can’t see it today. Xiao blinks.

You’re standing by the counter, wrestling with a large and rather sticky wad of dough. He watches your face scrunch up in irritation, and tips his head fondly when you hiss something under your breath – a whispered curse that he hears perfectly well – oblivious to your audience until Xiao speaks.

“Why have you not tied your hair up today?”

You blink up as he pads soundlessly over, and his chest prickles with warmth at the way a smile instantly makes its way on your face. He doesn’t need to get any closer to see the way your pupils dilate in affection, and he rues that you know this, too, or he could have used it as an excuse to lean closer. (And then perhaps you would have stolen a kiss, or two, or three – but it’s no matter.)

“I was so eager to make this…” you gesture vaguely at the mess by means of explanation and he hums – “that I forgot. I do have my hair-tie on me though. It’s right in my pocket!” You smile. “Mind tying my hair up for me?”

He’s unused to denying you these days – and so he says of course before it even occurs to him to say no. 

You turn blithely away and toward the counter, warring once again with your dough. Xiao hangs behind you, wondering if he should first warn you before he sticks his hands in – and if he should even do this at all. He’s about to back away when you toss your head up to let the hair fall away from your face before resuming battle. Might as well. What if you turn to chop something next and cut yourself? Besides, what does a beast care for things like ‘indecency?’ You’re rubbing off on him.

And so shakes his head and slides his hands into your pockets without further preamble. You jolt against him, just the teeniest bit, and he bites his tongue.

You bite yours too.

How could you not? His fingers are gentle, and probing, but what truly makes your breath hitch is the unavoidable drag of his nails against your thighs that reminds you a little of still less indecent times. He’s wrapped around you like this, all warmth and concentration, and you hope he doesn’t find the hair tie soon. 

Celestia grants your wish. Some moments later, he takes a step back, hands leaving your pockets. One of his nails snags on the lip and the fabric snaps softly in place. And then his hands are in your pockets again – warm and clawed and probing, and maybe a little more thorough than they need to be. You hope he can’t feel the thrum of your heart through your ass of all places.

You don’t know if Celestia grants this favour, but soon his hands are gone, leaving only lingering warmth.

“It is not here,” he tells you. There’s a beat of silence, as you say nothing in return in your frazzled state. Then, Xiao continues, perhaps mistaking your shyness for disappointment – “no matter. Wait a moment.”

It really is just a moment.

There’s a soft flurry of anemo as he vanishes. You punch your dough weakly, just to get the feelings out, and Xiao appears to the sound of a resounding wet slap.

“Hm?”

“Just the dough.”

“I see.” Xiao steps behind you again, presumably hair tie in hand, and you return to your dough, both relieved and a bit annoyed his hands aren’t on you anymore. You punch it. It grabs your fist, and you click your tongue angrily as you try to fend it off.

You’re so busy in battle you miss when it happens – but soon enough, your hair is rolled into a bun and, much to your surprise, you feel cool metal slide against your scalp before it warms swiftly up. Xiao lets go of your hair then, and hefts up his polearm.

“I must set off now,” he says, and you turn towards him as you tell him to take care. You feel like he doesn’t quite hear you, though – he eyes you intently with an absent nod. You think his eyes soften a little with fondness, before he turns around, and puts on his mask too for good measure.

“Keep it,” he says. You can’t quite tell if his voice is gentler, or if it’s muffled by the mask. “It suits you well.” He’s gone before you can ask what does.

It’s only later, once you’ve set your dough to rise, and cleaned the kitchen, and overboiled some eggs when you remember to check. You reach up and feel it – an ornamental hairpin, smooth and divinely luxurious, made far lighter than it ought by way of enchantment. A gift.

      Arlecchino – 810

"Your... pocket, you say?" Arlecchino's eyes linger on your expression, then lower, lower, till they reach the curve of your butt. Or – perhaps not. That would be preposterous, wouldn’t it? Surely the Knave herself wouldn’t peer at you like that. Not the way you peer at her. "That's quite the predicament, isn't it?"

If you had a sliver of shame, you would perhaps have considered sounding less petulant. At the moment, however, it is trumped by something much like impudence. "Yes – and I can't seem to remember which. Could you help me find it really quickly? My arms hurt, and there's nowhere to put this."

Arlecchino tilts her head. The rest of her is spider-still. Although you’ve been assigned here at the House of the Hearth as a healer for quite some time now, it is difficult to become used to the shadows that linger in the corners, the windows that seem unwilling to let light in or out. The looming hallway behind her serves only to make the Knave seem taller, more imposing – and the effect is decidedly not lost on you. You swallow, drawing your legs closer together. Sometimes, being in her presence feels akin to being shielded by all the world. Her rare smiles and knowing eyes…

Although, sometimes, it feels as though all the world could not shield you from her.

When she speaks, you let out a breath. Softly, so as to hear her clearly. Her voice is low and smooth as spidersilk, and you get the feeling she enjoys it when you lean a little forward to listen. “You know I have a meeting, yes? A rather important one?” 

You swallow again, fingers flexing round the edges of the box. They dig into your skin, and it hurts. 

“Yes,” you say, sounding a little less blithe and a little more apologetic. “I’m so sorry… but if I set these down now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lift them up again.”

"I see."

You shift your weight, hefting the medical supplies further up in your arms. The glass vials clack against one another, and one falls onto a pile of gauze with a soft thump. An edge of the box digs into your collarbone, and you adjust it again. "Yes." You grunt.

You hear the clack of a heel against the cool marble then, and another, and another, until the Knave is right behind you, casting a long shadow in the morning sun. The hallways of the House of the Hearth are not carpeted, after all. Messes on fabric are more difficult to clean.

"If you drop these," Arlecchino murmurs, trailing a hand over your hip and into your left front pocket, "you'll have to scrub the floor on your knees."

Oh dear. You feel a trickle of sweat trail down your neck as she presses her long nails into your thigh. "Ri – right."

"Mhm." She stands still again for what is likely a single moment, yet feels like several. The box grows heavier in your arms as her fingers shift and feel about.

Then, she takes her hand out.

And oh, it is like escaping a spider's web. You press your legs further together as she sidles up closer and slips her hand into the pocket on the right. Out of a blaze and straight into another. You hope she cannot hear the beating of your heart. 

She probes around for longer than she should. 

"Oh dear," she murmurs, the words more endearment than a dismayed interjection. Right into your ear. You bite back a shiver. "Your pockets are quite deep, and my nails, too long. Allow me a moment.”

Your breath hitches. Your voice is quieter than you expect when you say – "take your time." 

In your periphery, you see Arlecchino smile. Just a little.

"I thought your arms hurt?"

Your eyes widen. "I – um."

"Father?" Lyney's voice carries across the hall, accompanied by quick strides, and you let out a shaky breath as she turns, a hand on your hip bracing you against her. Before he can turn around the bend and see you, however, Arlecchino speaks.

"Lyney. No need to come closer." His footsteps come to a sharp halt, and you silently thank every god there is. "Is the Monsieur here?"

"Yes, Father."

"Tell him I shall be there momentarily. And you," she adds, in a quieter voice. "Hold still."

There is the sound of a clip, the feel of her fingers raking quickly through your hair, and suddenly it is tied neatly up again. You blink in confusion and turn around.

"There," Arlecchino says, tossing swathes of loose hair over her shoulder. It tumbles across her back in a smooth, even sheet, glinting in the sunlight that the windows suddenly allow. Your heart feels as though it will burst. "Let us… search for your hair-tie another time.”

      Kinich – 880

“Of COURSE you went and broke your–”

“Shut up for once, Ajaw,” you hiss. Numbness and agony dance about your elbow still, several minutes after your arm has been wrapped up by a healer. For some godforsaken reason, Kinich has vanished to heavens know where, leaving behind… this guy.

For just a moment, he’s uncharacteristically quiet. This is because, for a moment, you were uncharacteristically rude. Ordinarily you take care to be kind to Ajaw – his fall from grace as a dragonlord has left him with many bruised feelings, you’re sure – but today you are sorely lacking in patience.

A thudding sting jolts up your arm and you hiss, trying not to clutch at the cast. 

Ajaw floats sullenly about. You see him glance at you once, twice, then again in poorly hidden concern, and bite back a smile despite yourself.

He’s really cute sometimes.

“I’m okay,” you finally reassure. “It just hurts.”

Ajaw swells pompously up. “HAH! You wish I cared –”

“Shush,” Kinich says, knocking him aside. You reach instinctively up to catch him, and flinch when you realise you can’t.

“Ow. What took you so long?”

“Don’t move, then.” Kinich sighs. “I got you some food. Eat and take your pain meds. I’ll get you home after, then head over to talk to the client.”

“You’d better ask that sodden rag to compensate us!” Ajaw seethes, floating back in a yellow-green flash. “One of our party got hurt! Ours!”

“So much for not caring.” Kinich tsks. Then, turning to you and unwrapping the food – “here. Need me to feed you?”

You shake your head. How embarrassing. You’re in view of every Scion there is. “I’ve got it.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, and you smile as you take the wrap from him and bite down. It’s just to your tastes – as you expected. Kinich is quiet and doesn’t argue, but sometimes you can’t help but wish he would. It would have been nice if he’d fed you.

You absently shake your head at the thought, strands of hair swaying this way and that. Ajaw seems to misunderstand.

“Oi, Kinich!” he rasps. “Idiot! If one hand’s full and the other’s swaddled like an infant, how are they supposed to get their hair outta their face?”

You laugh. Sometimes he really is cute. “It’s okay, Ajaw. I have a hair tie in… one of my pockets.”

Kinich doesn’t face you as he checks his supplies. “Oh?”

You hum. “Mind searching for it and tying my hair up?”

He looks now, blinking in surprise. A packet slips loosely out of his hands and right into the bag. Surveying your several pockets full of supplies, he cocks his head and asks – “uh, you sure?”

“Yeah, sure.” You chew blithely. “Whas the problem?”

“The – sure. Get up.” You stand. “Great. Ajaw, why don’t you check their pockets – since they’re your favourite mortal.”

Ajaw reddens and vanishes.

You blink and swallow. “What’s the big idea?”

Kinich steps over his bags towards you, and slides his hands into the pockets on either side of your thigh. You hear a hush fall over the people nearest to you. 

You can’t really see them though, what with Kinich so… close. Close enough for you to have to jerk your food away and hold it aloft over his shoulder – a dizzying mistake, because he only shifts closer. You see every detail in his lovely eyes for a moment that feels longer than it is, before you blink and turn away, face warming. 

“You’re right.” He shrugs, and slips his hands into your back pockets. Your torso is alight where it brushes his. “Not a problem. I found it. Turn around.”

You hurry to obey, and stumble. He hooks his chin over your shoulder. “Don’t wanna turn? Whatever you say,” he breathes. You see a man usher his children away from you and pray Kinich cannot hear the unsteady ba-dump ba-dump of your frenzied heart.

Kinich ties your hair. It is difficult in your awkward position, with the way his arms are uncomfortably angled – but he does it, slowly and carefully, fixated on your hair as you dodge the gaze of every person that walks past. You see the medic from earlier walk out for a break and do a double take. She blinks, then winks, and you scowl at her, futilely hoping she does not notice your embarrassment.

And suddenly, it’s done. Kinich steps away, slipping his hands into his own pockets. You resent it, then resent yourself, then croak out a weak thank you before shoving the food into your mouth again.

If Kinich’s face is more flushed than usual, you do not notice. Or you blame it on the sun. Something like that. And yet, somehow still, he has the gall to be cheeky.

“Remember to pay me back for that,” he says, bending over to zip his bag up. You stare at his ass and try not to ask – how? By groping you in return?

Kinich slings his things over his shoulder and braces them in one hand. He holds the other out for you as you swallow the last of your meal.

Man, you can’t resist. “How?” you say. “Do I grope you back?”

Kinich drops his hand. “I– no. Be more careful out there next time.”

      Varka – 540

“Your pocket? Just a sec, I'll go wash my hands and –” Varka stops, then blinks. You tap a foot impatiently. 

“Yes, where else? Help me out! I'm so sweaty already.” 

“Mhm, I can see that.” He grins. “Those pants sure are clinging to ya.”

You hope he doesn’t notice the embarrassment that softens your glare. You’re unsure of whether to be pleased or irate, which is why you decide to instead be both. “Are you going to help me out, or not?”

Varka’s grins widens.

And you’d think it cute – you really would – if it weren’t so hot and humid already, and if your hands weren’t full of new plants for the flowerbed (bright new varieties from Sumeru and Fontaine, to celebrate his return to Mondstadt for good), and if they weren’t covered in dirt that clung to you like… well, dirt.

Or perhaps, you allow, he still is cute. Just a bit. Dressed in warm pastels, covered till the knees and elbows in muck, a streak of dirt reaching across his neck and cheek like a wannabe scar. You can’t help the smile that unfurls on your face like the flowers in your hands, then – and especially not when he’s so obviously noticed your little trick, and is deliberately playing right into your hands.

Heavens, you love him.

“Say please?”

Perhaps not. You scoff. “Chivalry really is dead.”

Varka laughs then, hearty and warm. You try not to think of how much you’d missed hearing it. “Lemme wash my hands. One sec.”

He doesn't leave you waiting long.

You're standing by the flowerbeds, sectioning them in your mind as he jogs over, shirt bouncing this way and that as he flicks water off of his giant hands. There's a bit of foam caught on his elbow, and you giggle to yourself in lieu of a laugh as you turn away from him, imagining him hurriedly rinsing the soap off, just so he can come stick his probing fingers in your pockets. Your sweet pervert. He amuses you so, and you love him, you do. But you’re not going to relent just yet, for the sake of your little game. And so when you speak, your voice is testy, albeit sodden with affection still.

“You're late, Varka.”

When he speaks, his meekness is as faux as your annoyance. “Sorry, my darling.”

Ah, never mind. There's no biting back a laugh this time. You chortle, and he plops his chin atop your head. You smile, relenting. Whatever, who cares about the game? You’re home, and your Varka is home, and that’s all that matters. 

“You're lucky you're cute,” you tell him.

“Really now,” he says, and you can hear his grin as he rummages about in your front pocket with excruciating slowness. You lean back against his chest, uncaring of the dirt and mud and sweat. “If you're hoping the praise might make me speed up… well, you know I'm no good at looking for things.”

“Really?” You ask, and he hums, fingers swiping over your thighs.

“Really. I might be searching for a while.”

You sigh. “Just don't take all day.”

“Day? I might even take all night. Just let me check your breast pocket real quick.”

     Flins – 810

“Do you recall where you put it?”

You flick your wrists, trying to get the dead monster goop off of your hands. It clings spitefully on. Man, they bug you even in death. “Yes,” you say. Then – “wait. No.” You pause. “I already used my spare up. Man, fuck those guys.” You flip the smouldering corpses off, and the man gives a soft, throaty laugh as he strides over, stepping over them as he does. And more than ever, you wish you remembered his name.

You wish you'd listened more carefully when he was first introduced to you, months ago, although not a part of your usual squad. Whenever you'd met him after, you'd addressed him as comrade or sir. To your friends, he was ‘that handsome guy with the cheese wheel eyes,’ for heaven’s sake.

“Is it still possible to have one on you?” He asks, oblivious to your struggles. Although, sometimes, you suspect he teases you on purpose. Not hearing when you call him the first few times, asking you to relay messages across headquarters… you shake the memories off to focus on what he says. “So many coats and layers… hopefully, there is something we can use, however rudimentary.”

You doubt it. You just washed this uniform, and you know you remembered to empty it out beforehand, so there’s likely nothing left inside, be it your wallet or a hair-tie – but wait.

The handsome Ratnik’s eyes twinkle. You blink back at him, hoping you appear the very picture of innocence. Would it be so terrible to say yes?

After all, you’re alone with a handsome man, and it's time to clock out, and you're so tired, and well. Well. It isn’t as though you've also been pining for this particular man for some time now, and it isn’t as though you hissed a happy little yes to yourself when you saw you’d been assigned here with him (you’d hurriedly apologised for this outburst of joy – after all, the reason you were here was to cover for an injured duo). And if he's the one offering to go digging through your clothes for an item that doesn't exist…

“Hopefully,” you hear yourself echo. Too late to back out now, you tell yourself. “Could you check?”

Your comrade blinks. “Your pockets?” 

“Yes, my…” you trail off, face warming. What were you thinking? “Never mi–”

“Of course,” comes his smooth voice, as though from far, far away. You blink in astonishment, and you swear he smiles a little more. Suddenly, you finally process – you are alone somewhere around the Eye of Kratti, and there is a handsome stranger that’s going to stick his hands into your butt pocket. Pockets, actually. Plural. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all, but you have no time to object – in the next second, he says, “hold still.”

And just like that, there is a pair of gloved hands gliding smoothly into your empty pockets. He's careful to not touch you too much – and yet he’s quite thorough, although he’s gentlemanly enough to keep his eyes firmly down the whole time. Or at least, you think it a gallant gesture until he's right behind you. You wonder what he looks at, then try to not think too much of it.

After some minutes, he gives his verdict.

“There is nothing,” he says, “but it is no matter. I just happened to recall something. Do stay still for a moment.”

“Sure,” you say, sounding meeker than you wished to.

You hear his clothes rustle momentarily, and wonder what he's doing, in some alarm. Thankfully, you do not have to wonder long – soon, you feel his fingers snake through your hair, catch on soft tangles and knots that he then carefully undoes. You stand still for what feels like several minutes, heart racing, not knowing what to do with your hands. His fingers are much gentler and defter than you thought they would be. Your face warms again.

Far later and somehow sooner than you expect, or perhaps wish, he gathers up your hair. There is the sound of fabric tying and tightening, and soon, Flins steps away, standing before you instead. He smiles.

“Unsurprisingly, you wear it well.”

You don’t ask what – not until you're home – assuming it to be a bandana or a bandage of some sort. You couldn’t bear to stick around, not when you were dishevelled and shaking, flustered and covered in dead monster goop. It's only once you've undressed and stepped into your bathroom that you see it in the mirror – a delicately embellished satin handkerchief, all elegant whites and lavenders and cool blues.

You scrub your hands thoroughly before you allow yourself to gingerly take it off.

As you're admiring it, you notice something embroidered carefully along one side of a dainty lavender border. Your heart skips a beat.

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

𑣲⋆ tysm for reading !! please take care of yourselves esp w the weather and the way things have been recently besides !! ilu <33

“in what way?” you quirk a brow in confusion. “i hardly believe being choked by a fabric no less can be described as comfortable.”

“i like to be a little breathless!” he chirps.

“masochistic thing you are.”

lohen laughs delightfully, now pushing himself to his height and approaching your desk with a pep to his step. a voice at the back of your mind screams at you; this was the consequences of speaking out loud! maybe you should've kept your mouth shut if you wanted to get your piled up work done by the end of the day, but it's too late for regrets–for the biggest regret of your life now sits his pretty little butt at the corner of your desk with an eager (evil) smile.

“you can feel around it if you want!”

what a freak, you thought.

although wrapping your dextrous fingers around his throat to shut him up does sound… appealing, for the lack of better words. there's probably a lot of better words for it, you just prefer to describe it that way, really.

and lohen has a lot of appealing traits, sadomasochism aside not included.

“just say you want me to choke the life out of you.”

“don't tease me with a good time, my captain!”

his pale complexion flushes at the thought and you shudder at what kind of imagery his mind is capable of creating. surely, his deadly creative brain can come up with a lot. his collection of poison will tell you so.

“you're a freak.”

“you like me freaky, admit it. my freaky brings color to your boring reality.” he lowers his upper body to your height, resting all his weight on an arm. “come on, you can give it a tug. i won't bite.”

he will, in every way possible, you're sure of it.

something comes to your mind, an idea that sounds so inappropriate for someone like the two of you, the acting captain and vice captain of the fifth company. before you can even stop yourself, your eyes glimpse at the offending fabric for a millisecond,. a mistake, for you suddenly feel the room become chilly. you immediately tear your gaze away, praying to the sevens that he wasn't paying attention and caught the way your eyes dilated for just a tiny bit.

you knew better though, he definitely saw through it.

“who is the world of fashion even thought of tailoring something that constricts normal human functions?” the hand you use to write resumes its work in an effort to ignore his intense stare. sharp eyes piercing the paper with stellar focus the same way your spear impaled the monster you fought a thousand times before.

but it was meaningless to try and divert your attention, when this menace literally thrives on whatever you give him.

a finger appears in your vision–the lack of urge to smack it away disappointed you, how weak have you become?–lifting your chin up so you are forced to look straight into mischievous teal-crimson eyes, twinkling with too much mirth.

lohen's not gonna let you get away with this at all, isn't he?

“i insist, my dear captain.”

the sound of a thread snapping broke your composure.

try as you might, you knew you wouldn't back down in a fight when it comes to lohen. perhaps he had forgotten that you were as conniving as he is? and possibly more than he is? there was no one who could match his energy other than you, despite the obvious difference in your attitudes. you wouldn't let your vice captain get the upper hand, when you are the one in charge of things. it has been a while since you've reminded him who has the authority between your ranks.

perhaps, you can treat this as a warrant for discipline.

“since you're giving me your utmost permission, vice captain lohen.”

lohen felt the frisson course through his nerves when your voice toned deeper. he's over the moon when your wonderful hand raises itself to his neck, thrilled to the bone he can feel his whole body shake with anticipation.

it's hot, too hot, just the sight of your hand near his skin got him excited. it rivals the adrenaline he gets when he's about to engage in a fight. it shows in the way his cheeks flushed uncontrollably and a small gasp involuntarily escaped from the back of his throat when your skin touched his–almost sounding like a whimper.

except, you didn't just tug at the fabric around his neck.

lohen jolted when he felt your fingers wrap around his neck, pushing the palm against the bulge of his adam's apple and applying pressure around the base of his neck. when you're certain you've got a good grip around him, you tug him lower with no restraint, never mind the strength you were currently applying around his neck. your lips are near touching, and he swears the only oxygen he needs is the one coming out from your mouth.

he can handle a little squeeze, won't he?

“fuck.”

the word slipped out like honey from his curved lips, eyes blown wide.

“i think you could handle something more, hm, tighter, yes?”

he's feeling light headed and it wasn't even just from the way you squeezed your lovely fingers around his neck. you were staring at him like a predator, sharp eyes filled with so much more than you've ever expressed before. you've never been this carefree (sexy) and, archons, he is loving every second of it. he can stay like this all day. after all, every breath he breathes is for you.

“we should include underwater training in our program next, yes? you're breathless, a little too soon for my liking.”

you sound too casual in such an untimely position, like you don't have your fingers wrapped around him like a tool. lohen struggles to nod against your grip when your fingers press against a particular spot at the side of his neck. a loud whimper echoed across the office. he couldn't care less for underwater training, when he can just have your hand just like this.

“yes, captain.”

the sound was throaty, rough, and all that is not his usual confident voice.

“good, we will discuss it further once i'm done with you.”

“huh?”

You pretend to not hear the question that comes after, or maybe you actually don't. It doesn't matter; you don't want to answer, you will not answer. It is not important. Nothing is.

He then looks at you, really looks at you, before sighing, voice intentionally a little milder. "Let me help you."

You hate it. Hate how he softens his voice to calm you down. Hate how concerned his expression is, so unlike his unhinged smiles and bloodlust filled eyes. Hate how he looks at you like you are a wounded animal that he is trying to calm down. But what you hate the most gotta be the fact that it is working.

The shower ends fast; a little too fast than you would've liked, you were not there for the rest of it, only vaguely aware of the fabric on your lower body being peeled off before everything turned into a blur.

He drags you back to bed, arm planted firmly around your waist, holding you close to himself, probably so you don't escape and pull another concerning stunt, not that you were planning to— you didn't plan the first one either. Your unsalvagable shirt replaced by one of his own. You didn't pay attention at first, but from the feel of the fabric it's your favorite of his.

He doesn't close his eyes, refuses to if you don't sleep first, his lips settling on the top of your head every once in a while for a sweet peck. Maybe to tell you that he is there for you. You don't know, he stopped talking when you made it obvious that you are purposefully ignoring him the first few times.

"Lohen?"

His attention is instantly on you, he tries to not show it, but he is frantic, nervous and uneasy. Those were the first words you spoke since you woke up, the first words he heard from you since he found you in the bathroom looking two seconds away from clawing out your lungs.

"Mhm?"

"I love you." You pause, then continue in a smaller voice. "... I forgive you."

He doesn't understand what he needs your forgiveness for but he is glad to have it. You are already chockingly close, he pulls you closer anyways, impossibly closer. His lips settling on your head again.

"I love you too." He whispers into your hair, soft and gentle and scared and everything that he isn't supposed to be.

You fall asleep eventually, you don't know if he ever follows after.

—

The events of the next day are exactly the same as you remember.

When you try to get out of your shared bed, your husband's grip tightens on your waist. "Where?"

You don't answer, back to silence, it forces him to get up.

He insists you take a bath with him even thought you just took one. You know it's for him to keep watch on you, and you feel his eyes on your body as you try to tend to yourself, looking for signs, is your guess. You want to laugh.

Breakfast comes, you are not allowed near the counter, nor near any of the utensils. He hand feeds you, playfull and jolly and full of childish whimsy in a way the both of you know is fake as fuck.

He does not trust you with yourself. Hypocrite. You want to yell at him.

When you try to separate yourself from him to do your own thing for the rest of the day, he insists you stick to him. You don't fight it. You are done fighting it.

You meet the traveler. You contemplate telling them about the poison your husband keeps injecting himself with. Then you shut up.

The old man greets you, same as always. He pulls you aside, pats your back and thanks you for staying by Lohen's side despite his less than pleasant attitude. You do the polite back and forth, vaguely aware of your husband's eyes drilling holes on your back.

You are dragged with the rest of the group to the testing grounds, where the witch magic thing they were trying to power is, you remember this exact momemt. The fear that gripped you the first time when it happend, the cold embrace of death as warmth seeped out of your body as fast as your blood was.

You feel nothing of it now as he, once again, gets out of control and aims for your heart. You do not try running away, it proved useless.

All you do is watch as consciousness returns to his clouded eyes, immediately widening with fear as he kneels to hug your body.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry sorry sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry I'M SORRY—"

You hand lifts up to hold his face, thumb clumsily brushing stray tears from his cheek.

"Lohen?" You breath out, your chest hurts. "I-I love you."

"D-Don't waste your energy— someone will come soon—"

"I forgive you."

—

You wake up from a nightmare.

You count until the number feels right.

94, you sigh.

There are slight changes everytime, you note, but there is one thing that never truly changes.

You look at your husband. Your murderer. Look at the knife on his nightstand.

Maybe if someone else does the murdering this time, perhaps you will not wake up the next.

You reach out for it.

A hand grasps your wrist.

"Darling...?"

His voice is shaky, full of disbelief and something else you cannot pin down. Aren't bothered enough to try figuring out.

"...[Name]? Can you answer plea..."

You drown out the rest of his words.

—

The exhaustion does not arrive like a wave tonight—it arrives like sediment, the slow accumulation of a hundred small disturbances settling at the bottom of something that used to hold itself together. You've been at the desk for hours, the candle burned low enough that wax has pooled and hardened in uneven rings, and at some point you simply stop. Stop reading, stop writing, stop pretending the words on the page mean anything coherent. You let your forehead drop against your folded arms and stay there, breathing in the smell of old parchment and melted wax, feeling the specific exhaustion of someone who has been performing competence for so long they've forgotten what the alternative feels like.

You don't hear the window. You never do.

But you feel the air change—a faint shift in pressure, the way a room responds to something ancient entering it—and when you lift your head he's already there, perched in the windowsill with one knee drawn up, watching you with that flat unreadable patience that used to unsettle you and now feels like the only steady thing in a week that hasn't given you anything to hold onto.

"You've been sitting like that for an hour," he says.

"Have I."

"You have."

"I didn't notice."

"I know," he says, and there's something underneath the words, some current of worry he won't name directly because naming it would mean acknowledging how closely he's been watching, how long he's been perched out there in the cold dark studying the shape of your exhaustion through glass before deciding to come inside.

He drops down from the sill without sound, the way he does everything, all that violent power folded into something quiet and contained, and crosses the room toward you. You expect him to sit across from you, the way he sometimes does when he's working through what to say. Instead he stops beside your chair, and after a moment of visible deliberation—Xiao does not do casual touch easily, every gesture considered before it's offered—his hand settles against the back of your neck, thumb pressing slow circles into muscle gone rigid with tension you hadn't realized you were carrying.

You make a small sound, something between relief and complaint, and let your eyes close.

"You're tense everywhere," he says, like an accusation.

"I'm aware."

"Your shoulders are by your ears."

"Xiao."

"I'm simply stating the facts."

But his hand doesn't stop. It moves with unexpected care along the line of your shoulder, pressing into the knots gathered there with the kind of precision that suggests he's catalogued the geography of your body's stress responses the way he's catalogued the terrain of every mountain pass he's ever guarded—thoroughly, instinctively, without ever admitting he's done so. You lean into the touch without deciding to, tilting your head until it rests against his forearm, and for a long moment neither of you says anything at all. The candle gutters. Somewhere outside, the wind moves through Liyue's eaves with a sound like something exhaling.

"I had a bad week," you finally say, because the silence has gone soft enough to hold the confession.

"I know."

"You don't have to keep saying you know things."

"I would say it less if it weren't true."

You laugh, a small broken thing, more exhale than sound, and he pauses his hand just long enough to register the sound before resuming, more careful now, as though your laughter were something fragile he didn't want to disturb.

"I don't even know how to explain it," you continue, eyes still closed, voice thinning toward something rawer than you intended. "Nothing went catastrophically wrong. It was just—everything, all at once, none of it large enough to justify how heavy it felt. Does that make sense?"

"It makes sense," he says, and there's something different in his voice now, something lower, older. "Grief doesn't always come from catastrophe. Sometimes it's accumulation. Small weights, stacked carefully enough that no single one seems worth mentioning, until you're carrying something unbearable made entirely of things that individually weren't."

You open your eyes and look up at him. He isn't looking at you—his gaze has drifted toward the window, toward the dark shapes of mountains he's spent six hundred years standing watch over, and you understand without him saying it that he isn't speaking hypothetically. Xiao knows weight. Xiao has spent centuries being weight, has measured his own existence in karmic debt accumulated one small necessary cruelty at a time, has carried more than anyone should ever be asked to carry without once setting it down.

"You'd know," you say quietly.

"I would," he agrees, and something tightens at the corner of his jaw before releasing. "Which is why I'm telling you—you don't have to wait until it's catastrophic to let someone help carry it."

You reach up and find his free hand where it rests against the back of your chair, fingers curling around his with the easy familiarity of centuries you don't yet have between you, though it feels, in moments like this, as though you might. His hand goes still beneath yours, the way it always does, some part of him still faintly disbelieving that you keep choosing to do this, to reach for him without hesitation, without flinching from what he is.

"Come here," he says, and it isn't a question.

He guides you up from the chair with a hand at your elbow, steady, certain, and leads you the short distance to the low cushions by the window where you sometimes sit together watching the lanterns drift over the harbor. He sits first, back against the wall, and after a moment's hesitation—because even now, after everything, some part of you still waits to be sure the invitation is real—you settle yourself against his chest, his arm coming around you with a careful, deliberate weight, as though he's still relearning, every time, how to hold something without breaking it.

His chin finds the top of your head. You feel more than hear the breath he releases.

"You smell like candle smoke and ink," he says, after a while, his voice low enough to feel like vibration against your skull more than sound.

"That's not exactly romantic."

"I wasn't trying to be romantic. I was making an observation."

"You're terrible at this."

"I'm aware," he says, and you can feel the ghost of something almost like amusement in the way his chest moves beneath your cheek. "You'll have to settle for honest instead."

You settle. You always settle, with him, into something that doesn't ask you to perform ease you don't feel, doesn't require you to narrate your exhaustion into something palatable. His fingers find the ends of your hair and begin, slowly, methodically, working through the small tangles there, the same patient focus he brings to sharpening Primordial Jade Winged-Spear, the same care he brings to everything fragile enough to require it.

"I keep thinking I should be handling all of this better," you admit, into the quiet. "Everyone else seems to manage."

"Everyone else is lying to you, or lying to themselves," he says, without hesitation. "There is no version of carrying weight that doesn't eventually bend something. I would know."

"That's not comforting."

"I'm not finished," he says, and his hand stills against your hair, settling instead at the curve of your shoulder, thumb tracing slow absent patterns against your collarbone. "What I mean is—bending isn't failure. I bent for six hundred years and I am still here. Still standing. Still capable of this." His arm tightens, fractionally, around you. "You are allowed to bend. You are not required to break simply because the weight is heavy."

You turn your face into his chest, breathing in the particular scent of him—something like mountain wind and old parchment and faintly, beneath it, the green tea he drinks too much of when he thinks no one's counting—and feel something in your chest finally, finally loosen. Not solved. Not fixed. Just loosened, the way a held breath finally releases, the way a clenched hand finally opens.

"Stay," you say, quiet, almost embarrassed by how much you need it.

"I wasn't planning on leaving," he says, immediate, certain, no hesitation at all in it. "I told you. You don't have to hold it all tonight. I'll keep watch over what's left."

"You say that like it's simple."

"It is simple," he says. "I've spent centuries standing guard over things infinitely less important than this. You, asking me to stay—that's not a burden, little one. That's the easiest thing anyone's asked of me in six hundred years."

The endearment lands somewhere soft and unguarded in you, and you feel your eyes go warm and stinging, the exhaustion of the week finally finding an exit it's been searching for since morning. You don't sob. It isn't dramatic. It's just a few tears, slow and silent, slipping free while his hand moves steady circles against your back, while his chin rests against your hair, while outside the lanterns continue their slow drift over a harbor that has stood for centuries and will likely stand for centuries more, indifferent and beautiful and entirely unbothered by the small private collapse happening in this room.

"I've got you," he says, once, quietly, into the dark.

And for the first time in days, you believe it enough to let yourself rest.

You don't know how long you stay like that—folded into him, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear, the candle finally guttering out somewhere behind you and leaving the room lit only by moonlight and the faint glow of distant lanterns. Time moves strangely around Xiao. It always has. He exists slightly outside its usual current, six hundred years of accumulated patience giving him a stillness that makes minutes feel longer and somehow gentler, and you let yourself drift in that stillness without trying to measure it.

At some point his hand stops moving against your hair, not from inattention but from something quieter—you realize, when you finally tilt your head to look up at him, that he's simply watching you. Not with concern anymore, not entirely. Something softer than that. Something he doesn't often let surface, careful as he is about armor, about distance, about the centuries of instinct telling him that wanting things, keeping things, loving things, only ever ends in losing them.

"What?" you ask, voice rough with the remnants of crying.

"Nothing," he says, which is a lie, and you both know it's a lie, and for once he doesn't try particularly hard to make it convincing.

"Xiao."

"I'm only thinking that you look less like you're carrying the weight of Teyvat than you did an hour ago," he says finally, reluctant, like the admission costs him something. "I prefer you like this."

"Tear-stained and pathetic?"

"Soft," he corrects, with more conviction than the word seems to warrant from someone who uses so few of them. "You're allowed to be soft around me. I won't think less of you for it. I think—" he pauses, jaw tightening slightly, the particular discomfort of a man unused to articulating tenderness, "—I think it might be the only time I see you as you actually are, underneath everything you carry for everyone else."

You don't have a response for that. You're not sure one exists. So instead you simply press closer, tucking yourself more fully against him, and feel his arm tighten in response, an answer offered in pressure rather than words, which has always been more his language anyway.

The candle is gone now. The room exists in blue-grey moonlight, the lanterns of Liyue glowing faint and distant through the window, and somewhere in the stillness you feel your breathing finally even out, your shoulders finally drop from where they've lived by your ears for days, your mind finally quiet enough to simply exist in a body that is, for the first time in a long while, not bracing for the next demand.

"Thank you," you murmur, half-asleep already, the words slurring slightly with exhaustion finally allowed to be exhaustion instead of something to push through.

"You don't need to thank me for this," he says, low, almost rough. "Just rest. I'll still be here when you wake."

And he is. Through the slow turning of the night, through the lanterns burning down to embers and the moon shifting position across the floor, through whatever small movements you make in sleep that have him adjusting his arm without waking you—he stays, unmoving, immovable, a yaksha who has spent six centuries learning that vigilance over something this fragile, this human, this entirely undeserving of the violence the world keeps offering it, is not a burden at all.

It's the easiest thing he's ever done.