nat !

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

“Xiaoooo…”

“What.”

“My feet are killing me.” You groaned, stamping your foot firmly on the ground and coming to a stop.

The soft rustling of grass came to an abrupt halt as Xiao followed suit and stopped a few paces ahead, as your choice of footwear had rendered you unable to keep up with his stride. He turned his head and regarded you with a humorless expression, golden eyes narrowed.

“Again?” Xiao scoffed dramatically, crossing his arms to his chest. “We aren’t even halfway done.” 

You shrugged apologetically, but your face held no remorse, pursing your lips in an awkward, tight lipped smile that screamed ‘sorry not sorry’. Xiao huffed, and the grass resumed its crumpling beneath his boots as he began to march towards you. 

“I have told you time and time again,” He started. “Your attire is unsuitable for adventuring. How can one be so consumed by frivolities such as their appearance even in the face of far more important things?” 

He was right infront of you now, continuing his rant. “Frills and lace offer no protection against enemies.“ The harshness in Xiao’s tone juxtaposed the gentle manner in which he crouched down and lifted you up as if you weighed nothing. You squeaked as he hoisted you over his shoulder, but he paid no mind and kept rambling. “And those shoes, they provide no support and hinder your movement, yet you insist on wearing them knowing the outcome.” 

You smirked against Xiao’s back as he trudged through the terrain, utilizing his anemo abilities to get the two of you across faster. Your feet might ache like hell, but it gave you an excuse to be carried around by the vigilant yaksha like you were a princess and he’s your knight in shining armor (which he technically is already), so a win is a win. 

Xiao came to a stop infront of a boulder. He moved as if he was about to set you down, but suddenly paused as though he were mulling something over, making you lift your head and look back in curiosity. Ever the gentleman, Xiao proceeded to untuck his breechcloth from his belt and lay it over said boulder with his free hand—before carefully placing you down with the other, preventing it from dirtying your dress. Your heart fluttered at the thoughtful gesture in spite of his complaints. Xiao glanced at the hilichurl camp a couple yards ahead before shifting his gaze back to you.

“Stay here,” Xiao ordered. “I will defeat the enemies. If you attempt to follow in those shoes, I will be very displeased.”

“Yes sir,” You jested. Xiao expelled a soft huff through his nose in wry amusement and vanished in a flash of teal light. Not even a minute later, you could faintly hear a combination of swirling wind, the slashing of a spear, and gibbering of hilichurls in the distance before it all dissipated just as quickly. As promised, Xiao swiftly cleared the camp and materialized infront of you. Wordlessly, he knelt down infront of your makeshift seat and reached for your ankle to unbuckle the strap of your shoe. 

“You never seem to listen,” Xiao sighed, carefully setting your shoe aside to unbuckle the other and repeat the same motion. His gloved hand wrapped around your right foot and meticulously worked out a stubborn knot within the ball of it. You sighed in relief as he slid his thumb down to firmly press into the arch of your foot, rubbing out the tension. “The emphasis you place on aesthetics over safety is foolish,” Xiao muttered, releasing your ankle after a few moments to tend to your left foot. “If I hadn’t accompanied you and you tripped and injured yourself, what then? You cannot keep—“  

Xiao cut himself off, becoming aware of the deafening silence on your end. By now, you would’ve offered some witty remark, defense, or even an apology. “Are you even listening?” He scolded—akin to a parent addressing an unruly child, and snapped his head upward. 

You were gazing at him longingly, a fond smile gracing your lips. He could’ve sworn he saw hearts in your eyes. You were captivated by the movement of his lips and the stern tone escaping them to address you, but everything he was actually saying all went through one ear and out the other. You were completely unbothered by his lecture. Not only were you unbothered, it was almost like you orchestrated this entire thing on purpose just to hear him talk. 

“Tch,” Xiao sucked his teeth and whipped his head away fast, warmth instantly rising up his neck and exploding across his face. 

“I looked pretty today though, right?” You grinned mischievously.

The first time you meet Xiao, it is during a storm violent enough to drive ships back toward harbor and send fishermen cursing toward the shore with saltwater dripping from their clothes. You had always loved storms; loved the way the sea seemed to shrug off every soft thing mortals insisted on calling it and become, for a few brief hours, what it truly was. There had always been honesty in rough waters. The ocean was not cruel, no matter how often humans gave it that name, and it was not kind either. It simply was. It consumed and nurtured with the same indifference, and perhaps that was why you had never understood mortals particularly well. You had been resting beneath the surface, drifting lazily through dark currents and listening to whale-song somewhere far beneath you, when you felt something old standing at the shore. Not heard—felt. Something powerful enough that even through layers of sea and rain, your instincts stirred with recognition. Curious, you rose slowly through the water, emerging beneath a sky heavy with clouds and silver rain, and found a young adeptus standing on the cliffs overlooking the sea with a spear already in hand.

Young, of course, was relative. Mortals would never have called him that. Mortals would have looked at him and seen an immortal creature untouched by time, something ancient and untouchable and distant from themselves. But you had lived through wars older than their kingdoms, had watched gods rise and fall and landscapes carve themselves into new shapes beneath centuries of wind and tide. To you, there was something unmistakably young about him. Not in his face, nor in his power, but in the way conviction sat so fiercely inside him, untempered and absolute. His eyes found you immediately and narrowed, and without greeting, without hesitation, without so much as asking your name, he said:

"Stop killing humans."

You remember staring at him for several long moments afterward, not because you had not heard him, but because your mind genuinely struggled to process what had just happened. Rain slid down your skin and gathered at your jaw before falling back into the sea, and eventually you asked, with complete sincerity:

"...What?"

The expression on his face did not change in the slightest.

"Stop attacking humans," he repeated, with all the certainty of someone stating an obvious truth, and for a second you simply looked at him before laughter burst from you so suddenly you nearly slipped back beneath the water entirely. It was absurd. Entirely absurd. You had expected threats, perhaps violence, perhaps accusations or demands or grand declarations about justice and morality, but there was something almost unbelievable about the simplicity of it. He had walked to the edge of an ocean and asked it not to be an ocean anymore.

You spent the next several minutes tormenting him for your own entertainment. You asked whether he walked into forests and demanded predators stop hunting, whether he intended to lecture every shark and wolf and hawk in Teyvat next, whether he planned on throwing himself into the sea to physically prevent you from feeding if you decided not to listen. The more serious he became, the more delighted you grew, until eventually, after watching irritation gather steadily in his expression, you leaned forward slightly and smiled at him.

"And if I get hungry?" you asked sweetly. "Will you let me eat you instead?"

You had expected anger. Expected threats. Expected some sharp retort. Instead he simply stared at you for a long moment before turning around and walking away entirely, leaving you blinking after him in disbelief before dissolving into laughter hard enough to send ripples through the surrounding waves.

You think, later, that perhaps it should have ended there. Immortal lives crossed paths often enough, and there had been countless people you had known briefly before losing them to time or war or simple distance. Yet somehow he kept returning. At first your conversations remained practical, almost cold in their simplicity. You warned him of dangerous currents and disturbances beneath southern waters; he warned you of monsters in the mountains and remnants of old gods stirring where they should not have been. They were short exchanges spoken out of convenience more than anything else, two ancient creatures sharing information because doing so was useful. But centuries are strange things, and relationships built over centuries do not change suddenly. There was never a moment where you realized you had become friends. There was no grand revelation waiting for you one day. There was simply Xiao sitting beside you on the shoreline longer than usual one evening, staring out toward distant lanterns floating over Liyue Harbor before quietly saying:

"I remember when none of that was there."

You remember turning to look at him then. Really look at him. Moonlight had scattered itself over the sea in broken pieces, and for a moment his expression had softened into something almost distant.

"...I remember too," you had said quietly.

And perhaps that had been the first truly important thing between you, because no mortal could have understood what he meant. No mortal could understand remembering landscapes before they became landscapes, remembering old gods and old wars and old names worn away by time until nothing remained of them. But you understood. You remembered too. Somewhere after that your conversations stopped feeling like conversations between strangers and started feeling like something else entirely.

The trinkets began so quietly that neither of you ever agreed on who had started it, and you suspect now that this was deliberate—that some unspoken rule had decided early on that naming the thing would ruin it. The first was a pearl. You had found it lodged in the ribs of a sunken ship, half-buried in silt that had probably been settling there since before Liyue had a name worth remembering, and when you held it to the light it caught a strange grey-green color that reminded you, absurdly, of the particular shade his eyes turned when he was trying very hard not to look interested in something. You did not think about it for long. You simply pocketed it, found him sometime later sitting on a rock with his spear across his knees like he expected the sky itself to attack him, and dropped it into his palm without explanation.

He looked at it. Looked at you. Looked at it again.

"What is this for?"

"Nothing," you said. "I was bored and it reminded me of you. That's all."

He turned the pearl over in his fingers for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his expression, and then—without any further comment—closed his hand around it and put it away. You did not see it again for years, and you told yourself you had simply forgotten about it, the way you told yourself many things during that century.

Several weeks later he returned with a small carved bird, wings caught mid-motion, the wood worn smooth in places as though he had spent considerable time turning it over in his hands before deciding it was acceptable. He set it down beside you on the rocks with the elaborate casualness of someone who had rehearsed the gesture and was now furious at himself for rehearsing it.

"I happened to pass a market," he said, not looking at you. "It was there."

"You happened to pass a market," you repeated, "and a wooden bird happened to follow you home."

"It is not significant."

"Of course not."

"I am only telling you because you would have asked otherwise."

"I wasn't going to ask anything."

"You were already opening your mouth."

You had, in fact, already been opening your mouth, and the indignation on his face when you laughed at having been caught was worth every second of it. He looked, for one brief moment, genuinely offended—the particular offense of someone who has done something soft and been immediately punished for it with delight—and you had to physically restrain yourself from telling him how endearing he looked when flustered, mostly because you suspected it would end the bird-giving permanently.

After that it simply became a habit neither of you acknowledged as a habit. You brought him things from the ocean floor—sea glass worn smooth by decades of tide, shells with strange iridescent insides, a polished black stone you'd found wedged beneath an old anchor that you thought looked like something out of the deep trenches where even you rarely went. He brought you things from the mountains—wildflowers that wilted before you could press them, small carved figures from villages whose names you never quite caught, an old coin once from a kingdom that no longer existed, which he presented to you with the gravity of someone handing over a relic of considerable importance.

"Where did you even find this," you asked, turning the coin over.

"Robbed a tomb," he said.

You stared at him.

"I am joking," he added, after a pause too long to be reassuring.

"Xiao."

"It was already open."

You did not get a clearer answer than that, not that day or any day after, and you decided eventually that you preferred it as a mystery. The shelf in whatever dwelling you kept at the time slowly filled with these small offerings—stones beside carvings, shells beside coins, the pearl eventually reappearing on his side of things tucked into a pouch he thought you didn't know about—and neither of you ever called it anything. You noticed, somewhere along the way, that you had begun choosing things specifically because you thought he would like them, rather than because they simply reminded you of him. You noticed, too, that he had stopped pretending the things he brought you were incidental, though he never said so directly. He simply stopped performing the casualness, and one day handed you a small bundle of qingxin flowers without any preamble at all, watching your face carefully as though gauging whether the gesture had been too much.

It had not been too much. You only wished, looking back, that you had told him so at the time instead of simply tucking the flowers behind your ear and changing the subject, the way you did with anything that threatened to become too sincere too quickly.

Years later, when you finally decided to take human form and live among mortals for a while, you told yourself it had been curiosity that drove you toward Liyue Harbor. Humans had changed so much, after all. They had become clever in ways they once had not been. Their cities had grown larger and brighter and louder. They fascinated you. It had absolutely nothing to do with Xiao spending more time there. Absolutely nothing. You repeated this to yourself while standing in the middle of the harbor feeling utterly overwhelmed by noise and movement and warmth and people brushing against your shoulders every few seconds. You were considering whether dramatically throwing yourself back into the ocean would be excessive when Xiao found you standing there looking vaguely murderous.

His eyes moved slowly over you. Paused. Moved back up again.

"...You look strange."

You stared at him for several seconds.

"That was unbelievably rude," you said, very slowly.

"I meant it as an observation."

"It was an insult dressed up as an observation."

"You have two legs now. I was adjusting."

"You could have adjusted silently."

He opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider whatever he had been about to say, and instead settled on a look that suggested he believed himself to be the wronged party in this exchange, which only made the whole thing funnier. The horrified realization that crossed his face minutes later, once he understood exactly how badly that comment had landed, remained one of your favorite memories for centuries—up there with the wooden bird and the tomb coin and the day he discovered, to his great and lasting dismay, that human food had a tendency to stain.

The assumptions from others began not long after that. You thought they were delightful. Xiao thought they were baffling. Shopkeepers smiled knowingly whenever the two of you entered together; strangers looked at you both with amusement hidden in their expressions; a tea vendor once asked, with no small amount of mischief, how long the two of you had been courting, and watched with open glee as Xiao went rigid trying to formulate an answer to a question that had never occurred to him as a question. The worst of it—the best of it, depending on which of you was asked—came from a bakery owner who pressed a couples' discount on you both without waiting to be corrected, cheerfully referring to Xiao as your husband as though the matter were already settled.

"Husband?" Xiao repeated, as though the word itself required translation.

You did not give him the chance to recover. You grabbed his hand, thanked the woman with entirely too much enthusiasm, and felt him go completely still beside you—the particular stillness of a man encountering a disaster he did not have the tools to address. He stared down at your intertwined hands as though they belonged to someone else entirely, and you spent the remainder of the afternoon refusing to let go, partly to torment him and partly, you admitted only to yourself, because his hand was warmer than you expected and you found you did not especially want to give that up.

He did not pull away. You noticed that, too, and filed it away with everything else you weren't yet ready to examine.

The problem, you would realize much later, was that somewhere along the way it stopped being a joke. Somewhere between centuries of shared conversations and exchanged gifts and familiar footsteps beside you, his hand in yours had begun feeling natural. Somewhere along the way your eyes had started seeking him out automatically in crowded places, picking his stillness out of a sea of motion before you had even consciously decided to look. Somewhere along the way Xiao had become the one constant thing in your life, more permanent than tides, more permanent than the harbor lanterns or the mountains or your own restless wandering. After thousands of years spent watching everything else change, that should have terrified you more than it did.

You only realized the full depth of it in the Chasm, when someone told you Xiao was gone and the world seemed to narrow with sudden terrible clarity around those words. You had lived through wars and destruction and grief beyond counting; you had buried people and watched kingdoms disappear beneath history; you had thought yourself long accustomed to loss. Yet none of it prepared you for the possibility of losing him. Nothing prepared you for seeing him fall, or for the unbearable relief that followed when he was caught before disappearing forever. You barely remembered reaching him afterward. You only remembered pulling him into your arms and holding him with enough force that it almost hurt, remembered your hands shaking against his back and your voice breaking as you called him an idiot over and over again because anything else felt impossible.

Very slowly, almost hesitantly, his arms had lifted around you in return.

"I thought I would never see you again," he said quietly, his forehead resting against your shoulder.