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So far, it had been another pleasant summer day. With the Traveler off to Liyue and Dvalin saved from his corruption, a lazy afternoon was well-deserved. There was no place Venti preferred over the old oak tree in Windrise. There, he could rest in peace. There, he could be close to a friend that was not lost, despite not truly herself nowadays. It put his mind at ease - he hadn’t lost Dvalin, hadn’t lost Vennessa. Not all bonds were meant to be broken, despite the gnawing, nagging thought at the back of his mind screaming otherwise.
Gods should not be partial to one mortal over another. Gods should be impartial to all. Or, so he was told long ago when he arose from the bloody massacre, face stained with the blood of his companions, and assumed the crooked crown of a devastated land.
A yawn ripped itself from deep inside Venti. The wind was gentle today. It rustled through the leaves and tickled at his face, promising good fortune.
A small falcon lands on the branch beside him. Had it not trilled, he likely would have kept daydreaming, the wine from earlier making his face pleasantly warm with a buzz. When he does decide to open his eyes, he regards the falcon with mild curiosity. This isn’t one of Vennessa's, is it?
My lord, it says, wings tucking against its rather petite body.
“Nah, enough of that,” Venti murmurs, the sting of losing his gnosis still fresh, “Venti is fine, yanno?”
The falcon shifts its weight from one clawed foot to the other. Then, I have a message for you.
Venti tilts his head. The messy bangs, now with a slight curl from the humidity, fall half in his eyes. He lifts a hand to push them to the side, but they defiantly fall back, haphazardly, doggedly, seconds later.
“Well, sure. I’m listening! What’s the news?”
Unease, uncertainty, as the falcon looks over its wing. The Knights are approaching, far-off, Jean at the head. There’s a solemn expression on her face, one that Venti does not think befitting of her, and the few knights behind her look just as uneasy. It’s enough to rip Venti from his levity and make the previous Anemo Archon sit upright on the branch.
His eyes flick back to the falcon, waiting, anticipating.
… The Geo Archon has been assassinated.
The wind stops singing.
* * * * * *
“Venti…”
Jean seems to be struggling to put words together. There’s conflict in her eyes as she looks around her office, anywhere but directly at Venti, refusing to make eye contact. Venti supposes he prefers it that way.
He had been seconds away from disappearing into the winds, to Starsnatch or Cape Oath, the destination he wasn’t sure. All he knew in that moment was that he wanted to be somewhere that wasn’t there. Of course, the bonds of friendship are heavy, and before he could even call the winds to rescue him, Jean had met his gaze from afar, feet firmly planted on the ground, and he had known she was here to deliver the same somber news.
“Hm?” Venti, who is sprawled on the sofa in her office, legs dangling over the arm, cheek resting against the back of his knuckles, risks a glance. “C’mon, don’t gimme that look… He was an old man! A buffoon.”
Jean hesitates, hands restlessly tucking papers into piles. “I — see. I was not aware of the relationship the two of you had,” she begins, formally, before the courtesy slips, “but I thought you would want to know, being the last —”
Venti lifts a hand as if to silence her. The words cut through him and the pang in his chest begs for him to relocate somewhere tropical. “We are. Or, we were. I’m not that anymore, and I guess neither is he. Time is funny that way…”
His words trail off, and not even he believes himself.
Jean’s frown is too sad for her youthful face. The Acting Grand Master sits erect in her chair and dares to clear her throat. “I believe there will be funeral rites in Liyue,” she says. “The Adventurer’s Guild there passed along the intel. If you’d like company,” she says, even more hesitant than before, “I would be happy to join you. That goes for the rest of the knights, and Master Diluc, as well.”
Venti’s gaze is warm, fond. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, braids dangling off his shoulders, as he regards the ceiling blindly. “You guys are really sweet to this old bard,” he laughs, the sound without its unique melody. “But really, I’m okay! Like you said, we were the last. I’ve seen the others fall, probably more gruesomely.”
He tries not to remember, tries not to relive the fear.
So Venti continues, “If you wanted, you should go. I’m sure Master Diluc can keep the city safe while you’re out. Summers in Liyue are beautiful.”
There’s a poignant pause. Venti thinks of osmanthus.
“If… you’re sure.” Another terribly troubled clearing of her throat.
“Sure as rain!” he laughs.
Not even he is convinced of the veracity of it.
* * * * * *
Venti doesn’t go to Liyue. Nor does he ask any of the Winds to go on his behalf.
Weeks pass, and for a god, it should be mere seconds. It feels like centuries.
Venti takes to playing the lyre only at night. With the moonlight bathing Windrise, he plucks slender fingers at the strings and sings a vigil for his old friend. A ballad meant for a great god, a fearless leader, and a devoted comrade. At night, he struggles to accept the death of his oldest, previously living friend. And at night, he feels himself growing weaker; he can’t even blame it on lack of faith anymore.
He knows better. Perhaps he’s always known better.
* * * * * *
“Tone-death bard!”
Venti is awoken from another cat nap. As before, he’s taken to reposing on a low branch, letting the midday wind lull him to sleep. Gods typically do not need rest like mere mortals, but Venti has found himself finding peace in his dreams as of late. There’s something sweet about the escapism of it all.
Slowly, Venti cracks open an eye and inspects the pink-garbed spirit floating up to him. Its chubby cheeks and bright eyes observe him, just as it clasps its chin pensively. “Paimon thinks you need to stop being so lazy all the time!”
Venti’s grin is lop-sided. “Oh? Is that so…?”
Down on the ground is Aether. His arms are folded and his right hand is fiddling with a stray strand of hair that’s come loose from his braid.
“Yanno, the last time someone visited me in a middle of a nap, they had super bad news. You guys wouldn’t be doing that to me, right? My most trusted of comrades!” he says, almost in song. But that’s not quite right - the wind hasn’t sung in daylight for weeks now.
Venti sits upright, swings his legs off the branch, and remains perched in the tree like a canary.
When his eyes meet Aether’s, the traveler from an antique land immediately flicks his away. How telling.
“… Oh. Well, what is it this time? Don’t tell me we’ve run out of wine!” he gasps, a pale hand flying up to splay over his lips. “I’ll have a lot of words with Master Diluc, if that's the case! He’d be the slacker!”
“Paimon thinks you’re avoiding the topic!” Paimon complains and tugs on one of his braids.
“H-hey! Don’t do that!” Venti says, lightly pushing at the offensive hands. “But okay, tell me the news.”
"You might want to come down here for it,” Aether says, slow, arms unfolding. He spares a nervous glance back over his shoulder before finally settling his gaze squarely on the former Archon. “I hear concussions are pretty bad.”
A bark of a laugh escapes Venti. “Gods can’t get concussions, but good point. Heh, fine.”
Venti delicately conjures up a gale of wind and descends to the ground. His feet barely touch the earth. If anything, these past few weeks have been a good distraction from the lonely fate of a god; the knights and honorary knight have visited him multiple times, each with an informal offering: wine, apples and the occasional tart from the local bakery. With a flick of his wrist, Venti fixes his cape and shirt, the wind helpfully knocking the garments back into place. He then stands akimbo.
“So tell me, weary Traveler,” Venti says, lifting his head up high, “what brings you back to Windrise? Did Liyue not deliver on excitement?”
“Well, actually,” Aether begins but then Paimon buzzes back down to them and slams itself between them.
“We found something that belonged to you, tone-deaf bard!” exclaims Paimon. “Or, maybe, Paimon thinks may belong to you?”
“In Liyue?” Venti clasps his chin. “It’s been a few centuries since I was last there. I don’t think any of my belongings would still be there… but okay! You’ve got me curious. What is it?”
“Wellllll… “ Paimon trails off and then floats back to Aether, beside him.
“It’s more of a who than a what,” Aether admits.
For the second time, a barked laugh spills from the bard. “A person? You should know better. The God of Freedom would never own a person!” he says with amusement, arms folding to his chest. His left hand strays up to fiddle with his bangs, a weakness in his voice, “What makes you think they belong to me, though? Not everyone I give an Anemo Vision to belongs to me, if that’s what you think —”
“It’s Rex Lapis!” Paimon shouts before Aether can wrangle his hands around it.
Aether gives Venti a pitiful look.
“…What?” Venti’s feigned smile fades as quickly as a retreating storm. Slowly, his arms fall and he blinks. It’s a weary look, a far-off one, and flashes of memories invade him without his permission. The taste of the sea, the warmth of friendship, of arguments and conflict and freedom — “That’s impossible. I know I sent you to him, but he’s … well, I’m sure the Knights already told you, if the mourning people of Liyue didn’t.”
“But Paimon saw him!” Paimon shouts, waving arms about.
“You… must be mistaken,” Venti says, slow, lips and throat bone-dry. “Um, I actually have to go. There’s a hailstorm up near Old Monstadt that I wanna check on before dear Dvalin gets too fussy—” he lies through his teeth. One foot has edged backwards, digging against the unforgiving earth, before Aether can lightly shove Paimon off to the side and approach him.
“No, Paimon’s… right,” Aether says, as if he’s physically pained to admit as much. “Do you want a drink?”
“Always,” says Venti with a forced laugh. “But I really should…” Go.
“Just one. For old time’s sake?” Aether suggests, eyes pleading, and Venti is no fool; there’s a story hidden in those eyes, those same eyes he trusted with the fate of his country and people. Those eyes that seek and love.
Defeated, Venti sighs. “Just one,” he mumbles.
* * * * * *
Venti nearly slams the door the second he enters Angel’s Share. The only reason he doesn’t, in fact, is because Diluc is standing behind the bar, drying a highball glass, casting a look his way.
“See? Paimon didn’t lie to you!” Paimon insists, floating near Venti.
Aether grabs for Paimon and steers the two of them over to the table tucked away in the corner. Already seated there is a tall gentleman. Long, brown hair falls down his back, neatly cascading over a jacket made of the finest materials. The tips of his hair are tinged a golden hue — orange in some lights, yellow in others — and Venti feels his traitorous heart skip several beats.
Venti’s jaw slacks, then it tightens. With the nobility and grace of a newborn elephant, Venti stomps over and squarely slams his palms down on the table.
“Oh, you’re in trouble now!” Paimon mischievously observes, shrinking back over Aether’s shoulder.
A strong gust of wind blows the napkins off the table, rustles the bangs of each person. Venti’s breathing is as heavy as the pounding of his heart and he fixes the stranger from Liyue with a hardened glare.
“When I said you were a blockhead, I didn’t think you’d pull something this dense!” shouts the bard.
Slowly, the man looks to him. He fixes his bangs, a gloved hand moving elegantly. When he affixes amber eyes to Venti, Venti loses his footing for the second time in weeks.
“Traveler,” says the voice, baritone, “should you explain?”
“No, no you explain!” Venti says childishly, waving a finger offensively at the tanned gentleman. “You old bastard! What were you thinking…?! Not even telling me, and I —”
“Venti,” Aether cuts in, voice steady. “This is Zhongli,” he says, cautiously.
“Zhongli,” Venti tastes the name, wrinkles his nose, and casts a doubtful look to his oldest friend. “What you’re going to be is ten feet in the ground when I’m done with you, you brainless, thick-headed…”
“He lost his Gnosis,” says Aether, barely above a whisper.
Silence befalls them.
Venti slumps down into the vacant chair, knees almost touching the tavern floor. “…You too, huh?” he asks, anger temporarily fading in favor of sympathy.
“That’s correct,” Zhongli says, though he sounds doubtful. “And Traveler has informed me that Azhdaha is—”
“What?”
Venti interjects. His own surprise cuts the Geo Archon short. Now that’s a name he hasn’t heard in centuries. It causes an ugly feeling to root deep in Venti’s gut. The bard clenches his fists by his side, still slouched in the chair, gaze flitting between Aether and Zhongli as if he’s preparing for them to finally explain what in Celestia is going on.
“Venti,” Aether tries again, wetting his lips. “When Zhongli lost his Gnosis,” he says and the words are so carefully chosen that it arouses suspicion in the former Anemo Archon, “he seems to have lost something else.”
“His dignity and self-respect?” grumbles Venti, unhelpfully.
“Is he always like this?” asks Zhongli, plainly.
“Oh, you trunkless legs of stone, did I strike a nerve, did I —” starts Venti but then pointedly clamps his mouth shut. A cold chill races down his spine. “What did you mean?” he asks instead. Swallowing down a lump of nerves, Venti continues, “You know I’m always like this, blockhead.”
“That’s the thing,” Aether says, scratching at his head. “I think the removal of his Gnosis has put a temporary… block on his memories.”
“Oh.” Venti feels another shiver wreck him, shatters his visage. “So, you’re…”
“…Not aware of who you are,” Zhongli supplies, gaze distant. “Though, with that demeanor of yours, I am not sure how well acquainted we are.”
The words cut sharper than the news of the passing of Rex Lapis. “I really need that glass of wine.”
* * * * * *
After some talk, Venti is caught up to speed. The facts are as follows: Aether had met Zhongli when he arrived at Liyue; Zhongli, that old bastard, had faked his death as a test of his people’s courage and faith; Zhongli had made a deal to hand over his Gnosis; Zhongli, after giving up the one thing that made him the true protector of Liyue, slowly began to lose his memories until the only ones that remained were of the days he’d fly, free, among the skies, and the face of an old passion, buried now deep beneath the surface.
Venti drags his hand slowly down his face. He’s two glasses of wine in; he’s honestly surprised Diluc relented this time.
“I can’t believe you just gave it away,” grouches Venti as he peers at Zhongli with utter disdain. “Do you know how it feels to have it ripped clear away?” What he doesn’t mention is the truth. Only Dvalin knows that.
“Well, it’s getting late,” begins Aether, not immune to the growing tension in the air. “Paimon, we should head back before it gets any darker.”
“But Paimon wants to know more!” Paimon complains, looking between Venti and Zhongli. “It’s not everyday you meet two Archons!”
Aether sighs, rubbing his palm against his temples. “Paimon, I think they need some privacy,” he tries again.
Paimon floats over to Venti and pokes his cheek. It’s enough to tear Venti out of the moroseness that’s momentarily plagued him. “W-will you cut that out?” pouts Venti as he rubs at the spot on his cheek where Paimon’s finger had been.
“You are a curious creature, what are you?” Zhongli presses, lifting a brow.
“Paimon is Paimon!” Paimon declares very proudly with a flourish and twirl.
“I see…” Zhongli seems to take that at face value, nodding. “Azhdaha would,” he starts but Venti unceremoniously interrupts him.
“Heh! Let me know if you need me to send the wind to guide you back to Liyue. You’re headed there, right?” Venti asks, body turned from Zhongli as he stares appraisingly at the traveler and his companion.
“Noooo?” Paimon ventures, tapping its lips. “Paimon thinks we’re going to Inazuma next. Isn’t that right, Traveler?”
“Yeah.” Aether nods, his gaze settling on Zhongli. It lingers, but he does not say any more.
“Oh, Inazuma. Yikes. Have fun with that!” Venti says oh so dramatically, shaking his head. “Tell Baal we say hi! … Or don’t. Maybe don’t tell her that Morax is alive. She’d have both our heads.”
With that, the grand adventurers make their exit, bidding farewell to the fiery barkeep behind the counter. A weighty silence hangs over the little table instantly. Venti keeps his body angled away from Zhongli. What a mess this is, he thinks. Dropping off the old grandpa in Mondstadt so Venti could play babysitter. What was he even supposed to do? What if this was permanent? He couldn’t play keeper of an ancient god. Especially Morax.
“Venti.”
Venti’s eyes rove back over to Zhongli despite himself. “Hm?”
“I am… sorry, if you’re hurt by this,” murmurs the Liyue gentleman and it takes everything inside of Venti not to break. “It was not my intention to forget you. I hope you don’t harbor any ill feelings toward me because of it.”
“Oh, no,” says Venti slowly, tapping a finger to the sticky tabletop, “those feelings are reserved for your stupid, selfish stunt, old man.”
Zhongli wrinkles his nose. “What Traveler mentioned, regarding my Gnosis?”
“Not so dense after all,” grumbles Venti.
Another moment passes. It feels as if he’s reached a roadblock. It feels as if they’re spinning round and round, rehashing the same bitter topics. Rather than stew over it any longer, Venti digs his heel down into the ground and leans his body forward, pivoting partially over the table. “Listen,” starts Venti.
“Will you tell me of the past?” Zhongli instead requests.
“…the past?” asks Venti, voice growing meek. “What about the past?”
“All of it,” says Zhongli, but then seems to adjust to more realistic expectations, “at least, the parts you know. It is rather jarring only remembering pieces.”
Venti tries not to let his expression show vulnerability. He drops his lips back down to a wineglass and chugs a sip not recommended for any human. “I guess I could try, but you really do owe me for all of this.”
“Thank you, I’ll forever be in your debt,” says Zhongli with a reverent look.
Venti feels allergic to it. Especially when Zhongli stares expectantly, silently. “… Oh. Not here. Geez, don’t you have any sense of self-preservation?” laughs Venti as he hops off from the chair, a little gust of wind gathering around him. “You used to go incognito all the time, but you’re doing a pretty cruddy job with it right now.”
“Do I have any reason left to remain in hiding?” wonders Zhongli aloud, head tilted to the side.
“Yanno… I always thought you being helpless would be hilarious, but it’s just kind of … wrong.”
And with that, Venti leads them out of Angel’s Share, ducking the tab like an absolute champion.
* * * * * *
Once they reach the hands of the Barbatos statue, the sun has set. It’s comfortable being up this high, with most of Mondstadt retired to their homes by now. Venti comes up here to think, sometimes. When he isn’t perched in a tree, he’s sitting here, looking out upon the windmills and civilization. It reminds him of what he fights for — this beautiful showing of freedom.
“May I ask what the decorations are for?”
Venti turns to look at the former Geo Archon who is surveying the streets. A few vendors are setting up garlands of flowers and balloons along the busier streets. A smile dawns Venti’s lips and the laugh that follows is sweet.
“Sure can. Tomorrow is the start of Windblume.”
“And that is…?”
“Only the most romantic holiday to ever exist,” Venti says, voice dripping with pride. “And I, the most famous bard in all of Mondstadt, will partake in the judging and creation of poems!”
“… Love poems, I take it?” ventures Zhongli, inquisitive and eyes landing back on his comrade.
“Every poem is a love poem, if you think about it,” says Venti before he tucks his knees close to his chest. His chin comes down to rest on them as he allows the sight of his city to wash away the temporary flare of anxiety he had been feeling.
“I see.” Zhongli is quiet, after that.
Venti ignores the stabbing in his heart as he begins, “We met a long time ago. A really long time ago. I had just become the Anemo Archon. I came to visit you in Liyue,” he explains, tone nostalgic. “You threw me out after a day. I think I overstayed my welcome,” he giggles, shaking his head. “You were so hospitable and confused.”
“How could I be both?” Zhongli asks with a frown.
“I think it was a combination of, ‘why is he here, why isn’t he leaving, why must I be such a stick-in-the-mud’.”
“I am sure it wasn’t that.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
Venti’s grin is blindingly bright and for a moment, he forgets that Zhongli has lost his memories. For a moment, it feels like centuries ago, sharing wine and laughter with a table of Archons. For a moment, he doesn’t feel the guilt of seemingly neglecting a nation, causing a friend to suffer and become corrupted, of losing friends and cherished memories. For a moment, he can just be the tiny wind wisp that learned to love in the gentle hands of a bard.
“Anyway, I came to visit every couple of hundred of years,” Venti says, and it’s only a little white lie - the visits had grown in frequency the more he and Morax got to know each other, despite their constant butting of heads on the smallest of ideologies. “And then we used to have wine with the other Archons. It was a nice tradition, for awhile.”
He doesn’t think he needs to explain why it ended.
“And…” Venti begins again, but then is cut-off.
“And what of Azhdaha.”
“You’re really stubborn about this topic, aren’t you,” grumbles Venti, and he tries to quash the ugliest of emotions sprouting in his chest. “That was really early on when I met you. Right around the time you became the Geo Archon, or right before when you were just a super powerful adeptus, I think.”
“I apologize, then. In that case, you wouldn’t know the answers to my questions,” murmurs Zhongli, appearing pensive.
“You can try, I guess,” says Venti and swallows down the lump in his throat. “You’ve brought him up three or four times already. Might as well just say what’s on your mind, old man.”
“What became of him?”
Venti bites his bottom lip. “You did,” he says and then instantly regrets it, the pettiness stinging his own mouth. “I mean, you did what you had to. He was corrupted and threatening Liyue. So you… did what any good leader would do.” Not like Venti would know, not like he’d know what it meant to lead so valiantly.
“So he was banished by my own hands,” concludes Zhongli, a touch forlorn.
Venti feels dizzy at the gravity of it all. “Morax,” he begins, tone uneasy, “you protected Liyue. I know I give you a lot of trouble for how much you like order, but you did the right thing.”
“I may have loved him.”
Venti doesn’t want to hear that, either. His ears bleed from it and he looks back out upon the slumbering city. He doesn’t unpack why that hurts so much, suspects it must just be because as a romantic, he feels the pain of losing a loved one, knows that pain from losing his first friend. He doesn’t analyze why he feels wretched, sick and overheated.
“…You probably did,” Venti says, small. “You remember him, after all. We never forget about the ones we love.”
And it hurts him to no end that, with that admission, he’s realizing for the first time that there was never love for him.
“Are Archons allowed such a selfish emotion?” asks Zhongli, though despite the harsh phrasing, he doesn’t seem against the idea.
“Maybe,” laughs Venti and he fights the urge to disappear into the next rush of wind. “There’s rumors some of the other Archons had lovers for multiple centuries.” He leaves out Guizhong, leaves out what else he knows of Azhdaha.
“And you?”
“What about me?” Venti looks to him, then, shrinking in size despite the urge to guffaw. “Are you asking if I’ve taken any mortals to bed?”
“Nothing so crass,” mumbles Zhongli who sounds more like Morax, the edge of irritation to this rumbling voice. “I simply was curious if you had loved before.”
Venti’s gaze shifts, downcast. He stares at his hands - hands that never truly belonged to him, a body that was never really his, probably a heart that wasn’t even made for him, either - and he sighs. “Of course I have. We’re gods, not machines.” And because it feels a touch too sensitive, too real, too close to the pain he does his best to force down, down, down, he throws his head back. “And I’ve had pleeeeenty of bed partners.”
Zhongli makes a frustrated noise that screams victory in favor of Venti.
Satisfied, Venti looks to him and pokes his cheek. “I can tell you about each and every one! In fact! Since it’s Windblume, I’d be loath not to! Ah, the latest one, she was really pretty, and her —”
Zhongli unceremoniously clasps a hand over Venti’s lips. “Quiet, bard.”
Venti’s gaze sparkles with the constellations above them as he lifts a brow. It’s a challenge.
Zhongli’s face is red and Venti can’t remember the last time he saw the old buffoon blush.
“I said, nothing so crass. Your dalliances are not something I wish to hear about,” complains Zhongli and he keeps his hand firmly where it is. “However, if you would like to tell me stories of love, I would entertain those.”
As his hand slips away, a loud noise escapes Venti. It’s … mocking. “You are so predictable!” laughs Venti and he lightly shoves at his friend’s shoulder. “No wonder contracts are so dull!”
“Excuse me?”
“Their God is bland and dense as a rock!”
“Barbatos, I will push you off. Do not test me.”
“Aw, I’d love to see you try. I could just fly away,” Venti begins, preening, before his words come to a crashing halt. His bright expression dims and his chest lurches. “You called me Barbatos,” he says, gentler.
“…Is that not your name?” asks Zhongli, his own words growing slow with hesitancy.
“One of them,” admits Venti and he looks back out to the sky. “Traveler must have mentioned it to you on the way here.”
“I believe I heard it on our way here,” agrees Zhongli and gestures to the stone they are seated upon. “Down near the cathedral, someone was discussing this very statue.”
Hope dims further. Venti counts to three and then exhales, long and suffering, before he lets the cool night air brush across his face. “Yeah, that makes sense.”
Because you never forget the ones you love. And there was never any room in a righteous god’s heart for someone who never stayed.
* * * * * *
Venti visits him when he hears of her passing.
Venti isn’t surprised when Zhongli does not speak of her, simply carries on guiding and cherishing the nation he’s so fond of. Venti isn’t surprised that Zhongli, much like him, prefers to internalize his grief. Unlike Venti, however, he seems to channel it into something productive, something meaningful and devote. All Venti is good for is running and the occasional drunken song.
“Barbatos,” sighs Morax, reaching for the wine that’s clutched so tightly between pale hands.
“Morax,” sings Venti, the wind carrying him just out of reach as he nearly collides into the side of a building. “You can share, but you can’t just take it from me!”
“You are going to be arrested for public indecency,” Zhongli grunts, hands uselessly clenched down at his sides as he watches the god of wind float around the dimly lit streets of Liyue as if he was born to do so. “And I will not bail you out.”
“What?” gasps Venti, offended, as he holds the wine bottle tighter. “You invented mora and you won’t even — oh! That reminds me, I haven’t made fun of you yet.”
“Barbatos…”
“Who names currency after themselves! Oh, and another thing, blockhead, you don't think I know about it, but,” starts Venti, loud and obnoxious, words slurring every so often as he sways.
Zhongli unceremoniously grabs Venti by the back of his hood. He then begins to haul the blubbering drunk through the backstreets, alongside the harbor. “I do not want to hear it, Barbatos. What I would like to hear is you saying you are done making a fool of yourself for the night.”
Venti doesn’t, and Zhongli knows he never would.
Venti, instead, smiles, like the moon, and offers up his wine. “We can be fools together, if you want.”
“I’m not convinced I want to partake in your type of foolishness.”
A flash behind Venti’s eyes, and he gives the bottle a little shake, gesturing. “You’ll never know until you try.”
And if he can play the fool, just long enough to keep Zhongli’s mind off long locks of blonde, of a beautiful face set in the countryside, of a promise of children and a life outside of a reign, then he’ll do it.
He’ll do it each and every time.
* * * * * *
“Where are you staying?”
“There is a guest room, at the headquarters,” Zhongli explains, gesturing to the large building that Venti is all too familiar with. “The Acting Grand Master, as they call her, offered me residency there. She seems to be familiar with the Traveler. I am indebted to her.”
“You’re indebted to everyone, nowadays,” mumbles Venti, trying to hide the laugh. Remarkable how the god of commerce is suddenly penniless and in the debt of mere mortals. “But okay! I’ll walk you there. Can’t have the old and senile getting lost.”
Zhongli glowers. “That joke was not funny the first time.”
“Heh, what about the second? Oh, or the third?”
“None of the times, Venti.”
“Boo.”
Venti hooks his arm with Zhongli’s and guides him through the moonlit streets of Mondstadt. True to his word, the vendors are indeed setting up for Windblume, stringing ornate flower arrangements along streetlights and awnings. There are chalk-covered signs that list specials, as well as little poems encouraging tourists and residents alike to stop by and check out wares. If Venti is being honest - which he so seldom is - he thinks this is his favorite time of the year. Not because of the offerings to Barbatos and the minimal strength he receives in response, but because his people seem so happy. And as a God, that’s all you can ask for, isn’t it?
“How long are you staying here?”
“…I am not certain,” admits Zhongli as they descend the stairs. “It seems prudent that I regain my memories before returning to Liyue. If what you and Traveler say is true - which I have no reason to doubt against - then my return may compromise the plans I had before this.”
“You mean playing dead?” grumbles Venti, still so very sore.
“So to speak.” Zhongli looks at Venti with a curious look, and Venti finds himself uneasy all of a sudden. “Venti,” he says, slow and steady like the reliable god he is.
“Zhongli,” answers Venti in a chirp.
“You may take any form you like. Why this one?”
“Are you saying I’m not cute? Geez, Zhongli, you’re really being mean today!” says Venti, overdramatic, turning his head away. His face is turned as he bites back another laugh, the tips of his ears warming. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“I — likely have forgotten. Temporarily. Will you remind me?”
“You’re such a pest,” Venti answers, feeling strangely like they’ve changed places, before he continues. “My friend, who brought me along for the greatest adventure of my life, used to look like this. He was the first human I got to know, to trust. What better way to honor him than to keep his memory eternal?”
The rustling of the wind sets off a windchime in the distance. Venti steers them down a different street, not quite in the mood to deal with stray cats that tend to lurk down this corridor; his allergies would thank him for it later.
“In theory, I think that’s very noble of you,” starts Zhongli.
“But?” Venti wonders, lifting a brow.
“…But nothing,” says Zhongli with a shake of his head.
“Mm. Then why did you say in theory?” complains Venti as they draw closer to the headquarters of the Knights.
“I did not know him, so I would be remiss to say he would be pleased by it.” Zhongli’s gaze softens as he’s met with a pout. “I am sure he would be honored. I simply had to caveat it.”
“No wonder there’s never any loopholes in your contracts,” complains Venti but he hugs the arm against him tighter. It’s warm, solid, real, and he’s reminded that earlier this morning, he had thought the great Morax to be dead.
He had thought he was alone. Again.
“Shall we say goodnight, then?”
They stop outside the front steps and Venti slowly extracts himself from his friend’s side. And then they say goodnight, bid farewell, as two old friends always have. Nothing is noteworthy of it. Venti slips away back into the cold of the night as Zhongli retires to a warm bed and hovering Knights.
It’s no surprise that Venti’s feet lead him back to Angel’s Share, a mere hour before it’s due to close.
* * * * * *
Venti miserably drops his head down to the counter of the bar. He’s drained his glass and is quickly working on a second when Diluc deems him worthy of his company. The owner exits the backroom and audibly sighs, heading over to stand across the bar from the pitiful bard as the wee hours of the night continue on around them.
“You are quite the freeloader,” murmurs Diluc, unimpressed. “Twice in one night, and not even a paltry performance as payment.”
“Diluc,” wheezes Venti between hiccups. He’s reached that level of intoxication, evidently.
“You stole the wine again, didn’t you?”
“… Maybe.”
With a sigh, Diluc starts to clean up around him. “What brings you back here? We’re closing, soon.”
“That idiot,” fusses Venti, loudly. “That stupid, stupid idiot. I can’t believe he did all of that —and he never once told me — and I can’t believe he still thinks he has nothing to apologize for!”
Diluc knows better than to meddle in the affairs of Archons. But, in this case, he has an exception for gods, “That man you were with earlier? I heard you speaking of Azhdaha—”
“No!” Venti rears his head up from his arms. Accusingly, he jabs a finger in the air, narrows his eyes, and his cheeks blaze hot. “We are not talking,” another hiccup, “about him anymore!”
Diluc raises a brow. “Venti,” he says, measured, which startles him, because when was the last time he said his name, “Jealousy isn’t something you need be that embarrassed, or loud, about.”
“J-jealousy?!” Venti’s eyes widen and he gawks at Diluc. “I’m not jealous! That idiot dragon had it coming, with what he did. Did you know Morax gave him eyes? He did everything for that ungrateful dragon and then he just goes and… goes and breaks Morax’s heart!” rambles Venti, who in a sober state, likely would have been far more particular with his phrasing. Now, it spills from him like a faucet, “He’s still not over it! He says he is, that he was young and stupid back then, but he’s not over him and it’s not fair!”
Diluc’s brow inches higher on his forehead.
“It’s not fair that he’s moping around for that idiot when I’ve loved him for two thousand years and all he ever does is keep me in the dark!”
Silence.
Venti slaps his hand over his mouth.
Diluc doesn’t even look surprised.
“I… told you who he was,” sputters Venti, deeply embarrassed and horrified.
“Is that what you’re focusing on?” sighs Diluc, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I,” starts Venti as he replays that tirade. A shiver rushes through him. “I don’t love him,” he corrects, quickly, chewing at the inside of his bottom lip.
“Are you convincing yourself or me?”
“I don’t love him because that’s… that’s not what I do! I love Mondstadt. I love freedom and the sky and … “ Now he’s just rambling again. Not knowing exactly where he’s going with this rant, he drops his head back down on the counter with a loud thunk. He can feel the very sharp edges of a premature hangover and his chest aches with more than just the burn of the wine.
“Are those mutually exclusive?” asks Diluc, tone level.
“No,” admits Venti as he lifts his head very slowly, just enough to meet the weary gaze of the bartender. “But it’s easier to say they are than to admit that he’s never going to love me back.”
Diluc’s gaze softens. He sighs, shaking his head, before he reaches out to very gently place a hand on Venti’s shoulder. “For a god, you are quick to jump to conclusions.”
“H-how’d you know that?” complains Venti.
For Venti’s sake, Diluc pivots, “Traveler brought him here for a reason. Or do you think it was mere coincidence he dragged him all the way from Liyue? Surely Traveler knows other responsible parties that could have tended to him until he recovered.”
Venti, cheeks enflamed, huffs. “I’m a very reliable guy.”
“Are you?”
“…Eh.” Venti flops back down on the counter as Diluc’s hand slips away. “Can we forget about this? All of this? I really don’t wanna stop coming here and playing.”
“If you’d like.”
“Thank you…”
And Venti calls it a night, paying, for once, for his tab as he disappears in a gust of wind right outside the front door, not even waiting for it to shut and be out of plain sight.
* * * * * *
“Barbatos, what in Celestia are you doing?”
It’s a good question. It’s in fact a great question, because Venti is perched across the alley on a deck, playing his lyre at sunrise, right outside the great Morax’s window. The hangover has passed and so has his momentary spell of awareness. He won’t begrudge his fate, just as much as he won’t begrudge Morax. But he will always begrudge the dragon that took advantage of the person closest to Venti.
“Good morning, Zhongli!” sings Venti, looking over at him through long lashes. “Did I wake you?”
“You woke the whole city,” Zhongli says, deadpan. He rubs at his eyes, arm still holding the frame of a window he’s pushed open.
“Sure did,” says Venti, innocently, before his eyes sweep down from Morax’s piercing amber eyes to his… “… do you always lean out of windows like that? You really like showing off, don’t you?”
“What?”
It’s then that Zhongli seems to realize his shirt is unbuttoned. The man’s cheeks burn and he pulls the windows shut.
Venti howls in laughter, clinging to his lyre even tighter than before. Worth it.
* * * * * *
“What… is it?”
“It’s a tart.”
“But what’s in it?”
“Surprises!”
Zhongli’s face twitches downward. Venti has been impolitely shoving an apple tart under his nose for the past minute. Venti hadn’t bothered to explain what it was, simply that he had, ‘grabbed it on his way over’ and that he thought Zhongli would like it to, ‘soak up that foul mood of his.’
“Okay, okay, it’s apples,” Venti says as he nearly shoves the tart against Zhongli’s lips. He may be using the wind to help him compensate for their height difference, in the middle of the day, but he can simply play that off as using a Vision. “In all seriousness, it tastes really good.”
“You, being serious?” Zhongli wonders as he carefully takes the tart from his pestering friend.
Venti watches with bated breath as Zhongli takes a bite. And then another, and then another. Venti goes to take it back from him, wanting a bite, but the man instinctively shifts to the side to prevent such feats.
“Old dragon,” teases Venti, landing back down on his feet.
Zhongli rolls his eyes.
Venti glances out along the colorfully decorated streets. People are already in the midst of Windblume festivities and he had spent much of the morning giving poetry lessons. Now, he figured he had the time and energy to play tour guide to the great and forgetful Morax. It was the least he could do.
“I was thinking we could go to Cape Oath for a little?” suggests Venti.
“Outside of Mondstadt?”
“Well, just to the sea. I know you see it all the time, but I think the sea tastes different this far north,” he explains as he begins to head towards the large gates of the city. “If you had other plans, no worries!”
Zhongli follows after him, faithfully. “What is at Cape Oath?”
“I just told you,” says Venti, stifling another laugh. “The sea, silly.”
So they begin their midday walk, the summer air warm and familiar, falling into pace like lifelong friends.
* * * * * *
Venti’s legs are dangling over the edge. The wind kisses his face and he can’t help but admire the way the sun illuminates the best of Zhongli’s features. He’s always been the most handsome of the Seven, Venti thinks, and the most admirable. It was inevitable that a young god would fall head over heels for him. He just wish it had been anyone else.
“I’m sorry.”
Venti snaps out of his reveries. “Hm? For what?”
“… For many things,” admits Zhongli before he fixes his gaze back to the sea. “But most importantly, for not telling you about my plan. I am sure I had a good reason, but that does not excuse lying to a friend.”
“Well, if we’re gonna be technical, you didn’t lie to me. You just didn’t tell me,” sighs Venti, picking at the cloth of his tights. “But I get it. You’ve always done crazy things to protect your city. It’s kind of wild to think you’re giving that all up.”
“Yes.” Zhongli is quiet, pensive. His eyes fall shut and he looks more dragon than man. “I do not understand it, myself. From what I remember, Liyue has always come first.”
“Maybe you’re old and cranky and just wanted to retire,” Venti suggests with a twitch of his lips, a smile budding. “Or, you know, you deserve it. To get some relaxation and do as you please. No one would blame you for that. You’re ancient.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“Anytime.”
Silence is comfortable, when it’s them. Venti closes his eyes and enjoys the sounds of faraway seagulls. He enjoys the gentle breathing of his friend beside him. When was the last time they were both in Mondstadt together? When was the last time they discussed the world and their hopes and dreams? Zhongli had always selflessly put his faith in his people, his dreams belonging to them, and Venti had always thirsted for more from this world. To see it all, experience it all, to get the most out of it for his sake and his dearly departed’s.
“Should I be forgetting anything else,” begins Zhongli, eyes shut, lips in a thin line, “I would hope you would tell me.”
“You’re forgetting a lot of things, blockhead.”
“Something important.”
Venti looks away from him, to the sea. “… No, there’s nothing else.” He feels a weight in his chest that wasn’t there before. “Why, do you feel like there is?”
Zhongli chuckles, the sound loose and free. “I feel as if there was a reason I finally decided to retire. My people have been ready for centuries. No, there must have been something to finally convince me to do so.”
“The current mortals, maybe? Or whatever stupid deal you made with your Gnosis?” he grumbles, still very much sore about that. But he can’t pry; Morax wouldn’t remember.
“That doesn’t feel right,” says Zhongli with a stiff shake of his head. Slowly, his eyes open and he looks over to Venti, the way the wind tussles his hair in the sea breeze. “I have a feeling it was you.”
Venti feels small. “… Me?”
“Mm.” Zhongli brings a hand up to clasp his jaw as he thinks, eyes downcast to the rocky ground hundreds of feet below them. “Yes. In fact, I know in my soul it was you.”
“But … why?” Venti struggles for words, throws out immediately what comes to mind, “Does my sense of freedom inspire you that much? Did you finally get tired of me telling you all my stories? Did it make you want to get out there and live?”
There’s a ticking clock somewhere, Venti’s sure of it.
Has to be.
Because he feels his world slipping in and out of focus with every pointed click of a hand.
“Barbatos.” And then, “What were we?”
Oh.
Venti grips his knees painfully tight. He’s gone ahead and made a mess, hasn’t he? Serenading Zhongli in the mornings, buying him wine at night, teasing and fussing, guiding him to high places in private. And the looks, he’s certain Zhongli without the benefit of memories, has caught on to the looks Venti gives him. These admiring, wistful glances for something Venti hasn’t even accepted himself.
He’s gone and made Zhongli think they were —
“I told you, stupid,” says Venti in a shaky voice, “that you don’t forget the ones you love. I’m just the one that kept you on your toes. Your friendly neighboring god, and I -”
Zhongli leans over and presses a warm kiss to the center of Venti’s forehead. The wind picks up, engulfing them in a sort of embrace. The earth and time stand still and there’s just wind and there’s just Venti. And Venti can smell the incense and earth, and feel the way those perfectly shaped, warm, large lips breathe life into him against his skin.
I’ve known love. I feel it every day. I feel it every time I’m near you and it suffocates me and I wonder, I just have to wonder, can freedom and love coexist? Can we—
“Thank you for being a friend, Barbatos. Venti. I may not fully appreciate it in this moment, but I know that forgetting you is one of the more foolish things I’ve done to date.”
— really be together?
“…Yeah. Any time.”
His heart breaks in new and creative ways.
* * * * * *
Venti remembers. He’ll always remember. This night was one he could never drink away, no matter how hard he tried.
Zhongli’s arms are strong around him. The god of freedom, of the wind, has flown in to Liyue and is at his weakest. It may have been Vennessa, it may have been the death of another, or it may have been something as heavy as the anniversary of his first friend’s death. Whatever it is, Venti had drunkenly been carried on the wind to Liyue and to the unexpectedly receptive arms of a dear friend.
“Barbatos, will you tell me what’s wrong?”
“I would prefer not to,” whispers Venti, broken like a string on a harp.
“Then you needn’t,” says Morax, gentle, as he holds him tighter in his arms. The sea howls, the hailstorm Venti brought in slamming against the shutters of the dwelling they’re in.
“Really?”
“I will hold you all the same,” assures Morax, fingertips sifting through wet braids that come undone with a single touch. “We all are allowed weak moments, Barbatos. I will not tease you for it.”
Barbatos holds him closer, cheek pressed to the warmth of silk. He hides the tears, does a poor job of hiding the pain, and simply exists.
“How do you fix a broken heart, Morax?” Venti had begged, voice weaker than the sails breaking out on the sea.
“You don’t,” says Morax, lips on his forehead and fingers combing in his hair, tracing starlight, “you simply learn to love again, in new ways.”
“Then why does it still hurt?”
“It will always hurt, Barbatos.” The tightening of arms, the slight rock of a body, soothing, “But I will always be here to chase away the pain, should you need it.”
“And if that’s not enough…?”
A clasp of lightning, the howl of the wind, “Then I will wait for the day it is.”
* * * * * *
They’re by Windrise. They are on their way back to Mondstadt and the breeze has picked up. A storm is coming in, and Venti isn’t surprised, given the tumultuous state of his heart. He hugs his cloak tighter around himself, even if he can’t quite feel the cold like a mortal could. Even so, he finds a heavy coat draping itself over his shoulders.
He wants to break.
“I’m swimming in this, old man,” says Venti, fingers pinching at the edges that cling to his bony shoulders. “The bottom is going to get dirty if I keep dragging it.”
“Then lift it up higher, Venti,” says Zhongli with cool confidence.
Venti wants to break hard.
“Ugh, fine,” laments Venti as he tries to shift the coat in such a way that it doesn’t drag on the ground. “You’re the only person I know who can make a sweet gesture a pain in the ass.”
“Language, Venti.”
“Hm? Don’t tell me you’re buying into that sweet airy bard thing,” laughs Venti and he fixes himself with a mildly wicked grin, “Say Zhongli, do you know how many swears there are in Mondstadt? There’s fuck —”
“Venti.”
Zhongli turns to scowl at him, unamused.
Venti offers a meek smile in response. “Thank you for the coat.”
“Always,” says Zhongli and he turns to continue on the path to Mondstadt.
The word strikes Venti and finally gives him what he wants - a clean breaking point.
Venti clings to the edges of the coat tighter. His knuckles turn white and his vision blurs for just a second. There’s heat at the edges of his eyes and in the pit of his stomach. Always, he thinks, echoes, and then wants to cry out, Then why did you leave me? Why did you pretend you were dead? Why did you forget me, when I could never, ever do the same? I couldn’t forget you even if I tried, if I wanted to, you stubborn old stone -
Some kind of always that is.
He realizes, belatedly, that he’s actually just said all of that aloud, and quite loudly.
“What?”
Venti freezes up, meets golden eyes he’s been in love with for awhile now, and blinks. One inhale, a longer exhale, and he collects the wind, about ready to fly with it wherever the fuck it wants to go.
Instead, Zhongli grounds him. The bastard throws up a geo shield before Venti can even think to fly away.
“I think you should go,” says Venti, quiet, broken.
“…I think I should, too.”
And that’s that.
* * * * * *
Venti lays among the cecilias. The moon is high overhead and Venti sings a love song to no one. The stars mourn for him, just as they always have when he’s returned empty-handed and broken-hearted from Liyue. They mourn for him just the same as they always have when he trips over his own words, his own anxieties and insecurities, and ends up further away from what he wants than when he started.
A comet whizzes by in the sky. Venti doesn’t dare to wish on it - he knows wishes don’t come true. It’s an idle fantasy that fills the void of uncertainty. If you wish for something, there's hope.
Venti learned a long time ago hope doesn’t exist. The only things that are absolute are freedom and human persistence.
The ground likely rumbles, and it shakes.
Venti’s eyes fall shut and he listens to the lap of waves against the coast, the gull of seabirds, and the sound of his own broken heart.
“Venti.”
“Mm?”
There’s warmth nearby, and Venti feels it down in his soul. He’s been running from this for so long, been denying it even longer, and now that its ugly face has reared again, he supposes he just better accept it and move on. There’s only so many times Morax can break his heart before he learns better.
“I remember.”
“Oh, good,” says Venti, voice lacking warmth, “I’ll tell the Knights and we can throw you a party.”
“Venti…”
Venti squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. “What? Did you want me to start crying in relief?”
“You’re hurt.”
Venti bites down, and he bites down hard. He quells the part of him that wants to lash out and be cruel. No, Morax is his oldest friend. Even after all that’s happened, that’s an immutable fact. It doesn’t mean he can’t be a heartbroken brat for a few seconds.
“May I sit with you?”
Venti doesn’t answer. Once Zhongli takes a seat in the field of flowers next to him, Venti promptly rolls on his side, back turned to him. A long sigh reaches his ears, and Venti thinks, serves you right.
“How many times will it take for me to apologize and you to forgive me?”
“Probably a couple hundred more. Why don’t you start now? We can see where it goes?”
“Venti…” Again, with that. Zhongli shifts some on the grass and he drapes his coat back over the tiny body beside him. “It was never my intention to hurt you. I thought you were asleep, and that I would be able to send word of the truth to you quicker than my death reached you. I would never aim to hurt a friend so deeply.”
Venti’s mouth tastes of blood, copper, tangy, terrible. “Well, it did. And I’ll get over it. Someday. But for now, you have to realize it sucks, Zhongli.”
“I do.”
A quietness settles in.
Finally, Venti dares, “… so you remember, huh? What finally did it?”
“Time, I suspect,” sighs Zhongli. “I was back at the tavern you showed me, and I overheard a few gentlemen discussing your songs. I — was then sent back to that time you first played for me. How ethereal it was. Everything clicked in place after that.”
“So some crummy guys talking about me does it, but not me singing you awake? You’re really against yourself tonight, Zhongli,” complains Venti, hugging the coat tighter around him.
The breeze tickles them both.
“Perhaps.” Zhongli is quiet. And then, “But I do remember. And I thought you deserved an answer to an earlier question.”
“Which was…?”
“Why I finally did it.”
Venti peaks over his shoulder, then. Zhongli looks so very much at ease, with the ocean breeze blowing his hair off his face. He looks like he was made to sit here, on the ground, admiring the world around him, free. Venti’s heart stirs all over again, the broken pieces trying to magnetically fit back together. “…And?”
Zhongli’s eyes flutter open. Gold drifts to Venti, and with a slight twist of his lips, he breathes out, “It was you.”
Venti feels anxious. “My spouting of freedom finally inspired you, you mean?”
“Not quite,” says Zhongli, and he lifts a hand to trace constellations in the sky. “I did it so I could finally be with you.”
Venti bolts upright. The coat falls off one shoulder and he looks shell-shocked, confused. His lips part but no words come. Instead, he swallows a visible lump down his throat and watches his friend kiss the stars with fingertips that had once played with his hair and left him breathless for centuries, “Be with me?”
Zhongli looks to him, then. His gaze is warm. “You were wrong. We do forget about the ones we love, sometimes. But never for too long,” he says.
Venti feels his hands nervously holding the coat tighter, tighter. “If you loved them in the first place, you’d never let them go. Even for a second.”
“My memories were not distorted in order of importance. They were by time, by chronology. And even without my memories of you, I felt deeply connected to you. My heart would never forget about a meddling wind spirit that refused to take no for an answer.”
Venti’s gaze wavers between warmth and nostalgia. “You’re saying really pretty things to try and get me to forgive you, aren’t you?”
“Partially.” A weak smile.
Venti exhales through his nose, pushes his hair out of his eyes, and then peaks over at Zhongli. “I still don’t understand.”
“Hm.” Zhongli mulls it over.
And then he pulls Venti over, into his lap.
With a blanket of stars behind him, Venti can see every single word, truth, lie, in Zhongli’s eyes. His vision goes double, the distance between them closing. He counts to ten, but only gets to eight before a pair of warm lips are pressed against his. This time, his heart does not break. This time, the pieces wedge themselves back together, in a new way.
The kiss is like stars imploding; a supernova. The smell of earth invades his senses and Venti wonders if they’ve fallen off the cliff and are free-falling, about to take flight. He feels weightless. A hand, steady at his hip, grounds him, and he focuses instead on the way skin rubs against skin, their noses bumping, as Zhongli rolls his lips again and again against Venti’s, slow and tender.
Venti’s hands find homes in Zhongli’s long hair. Slender fingers undo the elastic and brown hair pools into his hands. There, Venti holds on tight. And there, Venti finds himself flying higher than he ever has.
The kiss comes to a slow end, leaving Venti breathless. His eyes slowly open, a warm cheek grazing his in a half-nuzzle.
“Do you understand, now?”
“Not quite,” whispers Venti, lying, as he leans in for another kiss.
This time, the kiss is heavier, deeper. Venti playfully licks at the corner of Zhongli's mouth, tasting sweet notes of wine. Of Mondstadt wine because Zhongli has come all the way from Liyue and stayed here and is alive.
Venti grips his hair even harder, refusing to let the kiss break.
It eventually does, only because the great former Geo Archon is chuckling.
“Is kissing really that funny?” complains Venti, lips lightly breezing over a cheek he’s longed to kiss for so long.
“We should talk,” suggests Zhongli, arms still around his waist, his anchor.
“Mm…” Venti knows they ought to, should, need to, but all he wants right now is to be held by the very arms he’s pushed away. There’s a happy drunkenness that comes from kissing and Venti doesn’t ever want to sober from it. Lazily, he leans back, falls from Zhongli’s lap and into the flowers.
As expected, Zhongli tries to catch him, but ends up being pulled down on top of him.
“Venti.”
“Hmmmm?”
Zhongli cups his cheek, runs a thumb along his cheekbone. Another fond chuckle, and, “I did it for you.”
“…I know,” whispers Venti, a tiny, scared smile. “You said always, didn’t you?”
“My word is my oath,” agrees Zhongli before he leans down for another kiss, foregoing talking about what the future holds, what the past means, what the present could be, for another hour or so. That can wait. Misunderstandings can be cleared, later. They can sort through the muddiness at a different time, different location.
Because love is just as much freedom as it is keeping your word.
And right now? He has a whiny bard to satisfy, to hold, to cherish, and to begin to learn in new and creative ways.