Archive of Our Own ^beta

The entire month of April is cloudy with rain. As it was last night, it is at its worst this morning. An adeptus observes from a wide window as the night gloom becomes morning fog.

Earlier in the day, with the sun in the middle of the sky, Verr Goldet had come to check on him. She always knocks, an ever polite woman. They didn't share many words, but she never fails to make use of their time, a bowl of almond tofu in her hands on this specific day.

He had thanked her, of course, but she knows not to come back later. She had still lingered in the space for a moment, wringing her hands.

The bowl has sat untouched on the nightstand all day.

It's been a long year since this time last came around, and another one until it comes again. Twelve months of struggle, and sleeplessness, and ache. All that time spent wrestling with grievances and watching seasons pass with its beauty and transience. The silk flowers flourish in the spring cold.

Understandably so, not many people walk the path under Wangshuu Inn when it's bitter and storming. Only cats and weasels.

It is lonely and quiet in the way that Xiao likes. The gray clouds form shapes and stories that he watches closely until they fade into a darkening, distant sky.

The sun has already set when Zhongli makes an appearance to him, dimly illuminated and radiating a concealed power. Xiao can still feel it thrum.

In both of Zhongli's hands, he is clearly concealing an object. And although Xiao has been caught off his guard, he crumbles to kneel in front of his old Archon out of firmly rooted habit.

"Rise." He is told in that familiar, commanding tone. And he does so without hesitation—yet sees no error.

"To what do I owe the occasion?" Xiao stands before Zhongli, small in his shadow.

"To yourself, of course," he says. Xiao looks at him unblinking with an understated confusion. "It is a special day that I know you do not often celebrate. I even brought a gift, if you will allow it."

A gift, thinks Xiao. Morax has already given so much. To Xiao, his very name and a proper place in the world; not to forget Morax has given up his own status. Xiao's hands twitch at his sides.

"I could never accept anything. I have taken enough in my life."

He is as firm as he can be, but Zhongli's face and intentions do not falter—he reveals to Xiao the small pot in his hands. A wispy, short plant, potted in Liyuese ware packed with soft native soil.

With a brief glance, Xiao can forsee it withering under his care. Dying due to the thick death that engulfs him—it would take no time at all. Surely, it would not last, stifled in a room with him like this.

"I know what you are thinking, Xiao," Zhongli starts. He's looking a little too sincere, and Xiao can't meet his gaze because he's zeroed in on the feathery leaves. "But I believe you can take on this task."

He still wants to shake his head, but understands he must follow. Begrudgingly, he takes the plant from Zhongli's hands. Tension builds inside him like the present will wilt and burn into ash upon contact.

It does not. Pressure pushes on his shoulders and the weight sits in his palms, calm and still. Xiao holds it closer to his chest now, deeming it safer.

"Thank you." He bows, knowing there will be consequences to it. When he looks up, Zhongli's face wears a look of seriousness.

"There are many things I could say to you, Xiao," he begins slowly. It sends an unnerving sensation up Xiao's spine, though the feeling has been settled there for weeks.

"Please, speak your mind."

Zhongli's soft, fond smile almost escapes his attention.

"No," he says, detecting Xiao's unease—his restlessness that never seems to go away, or even dull. "It's not like that at all." And Xiao thinks to go and speak, but refrains. "I know this plant will lead you to far greater lessons, which affects will not only be seen in the life around you, but your own."

Xiao stands still and frozen before Zhongli. He is unable to reach a conclusion: whether this makes any real sense to him or not—the analogy, the metaphor, if there even are any at hand at all.

He would sleep this feeling off, but adepti don't need it.

"Thank you," says Xiao when all else fails him. Even in the epilogue of the conversation, he feels words left unsaid hanging about. He sets the plant on a nearby table to free his hands, and feels a heavy gaze on him the entire time.

"Now," Zhongli's voice is still soft. Now the sky has forgotten orange and it darkens, the moon nestling into its perfect place. Now the harbor and all of the land is ungoverned by an Archon. Now Xiao looks into Zhongli's eyes to show he is at ease and listening. Trustful. "You should eat and rest for the small remainder of the day."

It is a human thing to say. A humble request that Xiao would normally scoff at and have something to say with a scowl.

Although, Xiao is familiar with this way of it. The form it takes. Zhongli peering at him, imploring Xiao to for once finish a meal and rest his bones. Sometimes he disguises it, embellishing it with less straightforward words and more mere concepts, but he does not make time for that tonight.

The familiarity faded with the harsh grain of time—the bidding most common when he was new; trembling consistently like a flame in the wind and just adjusting to the comfort, a different life than that he had.

Xiao was always apprehensive then, more than now, but Morax stayed close with an insistent care and infinite patience.

Two thousand years have passed and Xiao has felt every sharp moment of it, but he does not stray far.

He only finds it comical for neither of them need food or sleep. Xiao is reluctant to the customs, but Zhongli, without shame, indulges in the simple pleasure of those human things—hoping it is contagious.

It must be, if only slightly, because as Zhongli bids Xiao a pleasant night, almond tofu and a long rest don't seem as unappealing as before.