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It was the silk flowers.
Summer in Liyue is the time of bloom. It is the time of harvest, when chefs leave their kitchens to harvest fat Jueyin chilies that grow on the side of the road. Nimble adventurers climb mountains to pluck buds of violetgrass from cliff sides.
And of course, the silk flowers. They grow so thick in Liyue that in the summertime, merchants struggle to sell all of their wares.
They sell it to seamstresses, first of all, who will weave them into thread for their looms.
Others will press them into scrolls of rice paper to sell to passing scribes.
And, in your case, they will sometimes give them to customers: a symbol of a deal well struck.
The merchant had twisted their stems in your hair to braid them together, so that the flowers rest on your head like a crown. It is similar to the ones you see in Mondstadt: children connecting bunches of windwheel asters flower to stem to make wreaths to wear as they play.
Here is a crown for a princess, to be saved from a band of hilichurls.
Here is a bracelet to be worn by two friends who swear never to part.
Here is a ring, as a symbol of pure, childish love.
The silk flowers are fragrant, and they make you think of home. You touch the petals that rest on your head and smile.
The petals are still wet from having been sprayed earlier, and droplets of water drip down your neck as you make your way up Wangshu Inn. The chill of it makes you shiver, though the sensation itself is not unpleasant, the days have been oppressively hot ever since the summer months started.
The floor creaks under your feet as you make your way up the inn. You remember once hearing a rumor that the wood that makes up the walls and planks of Wangshu Inn were cut from trees that no longer existed. This place is ancient, and it is there in the food and rice wine they serve, unchanged from how they were made centuries ago. It is there in the massive tree whose trunk twists around its walls like a climbing vine.
It is there, you think, in its secret. One that Wangshu Inn has kept for ages.
Huai’an catches your eye as he bustles around the floor, serving cups of steaming jasmine tea to scholars, bent over yellowed scrolls and moth-eaten books. When you wave at him, he smiles at you in return.
When you reach the top floor, you have to pause, the way you always do. The view on the top of Wangshu Inn is beautiful, and in your opinion, no other sight in Tevyat compares to it. From there, you could see Mt. Qingce, its peak stretching out towards the sky. The amber glow of one of its cliff faces, made entirely out of cor lapis.
You could see Jueyun Karst, cursed and forbidden to mortals.
“You’re late.”
You blink, the words pulling you out of your reverie. Xiao doesn’t even bother turning to look at you, and you wonder how he knows it is you. Still, the sound of his voice makes you smile.
”Sorry, Xiao. They were selling a lot of things down there. I guess I got carried away.” You pause and adjust the bundle in your arm. “I bought a few things for you, too.”
You know his answer before he even says it.
“Adepti have no need for mortal wares.”
It is something he says often, and the words are as familiar to you as a well-worn shirt. Once, you may have let it bother you, upset by the ever-present reminder of how different the two of you are. But that was before you have seen the look on his face as he watched thousands of lanterns light up the skies above Liyue. The way he would watch ships dock into the harbor, as the sailors, still smelling of salt and sea, disembark to mingle with the fishmongers and merchants.
Or even the way he would watch the travelers who stop by the inn for the night, their clothes dusty from days of hard travel.
For all that Xiao claims not to be interested in mortals and their daily lives, he watches them with a longing that borders on thirst.
From your pile of wares, you pull out a paper crane. You toy with its wings experimentally, as if trying to see if it will take flight.
“Ever seen anything like this, Xiao?” you ask. “The merchant said that this one was made in Inazuma. Apparently, a thousand of them can make a wish come true.”
Whether it was your forced conversation or his own curiosity, Xiao finally turns away from the window with a sigh.
“Mortal myths,” he says with a scowl. “A thousand anything can’t make a wish come true.”
He stops and pauses. But you are too busy playing with the crane to take notice.
“Oh, you don’t know that. Maybe it will. Do you think that I can learn to make these myself? There’s apparently a trick to folding them.”
“Where did you get this?” he asks, and it is the softness in his voice that makes you look up.
“I got it from the store next to Li Lan’s. You know her, right? She was the one who sold us lanterns--”
“Not the crane.” He cuts you off. “The flowers.”
“Oh.”
You had all but forgotten about the wreath of flowers that sits on your head like a crown. But now, Xiao stares at it--you--with open curiosity.
“The merchant downstairs gave them to me. Same one I got this crane from.”
You lift the toy for him to see, but Xiao does not respond. He has always been hard to read, even at the best of times. His expressions had always been...less, more muted than a human’s. It had disturbed you, during the first few days of your relationship: the unnatural stillness.
And yet, over time, you had learned to read him, the way a scholar learns to read an old scroll or the way a fisherman learns to read the sky. You learned to see the hesitance in his face whenever he asks a question, the way his lips would curve as if forcing himself to speak instead of remaining quiet.
“Why?”
And still, for all your experience, sometimes he would catch you off-guard.
“Well, he says that it was a token of a good bargain. Honestly, I think he just wanted to get rid of some of this stuff.”
You pause, apprehension bubbling in your gut. He rarely brings up what clothes you wear, except to comment when he finds them impractical for a day’s worth of travel. The thought that he noticed makes you feel shy.
“Do you like it?”
Silence. He frowns, as if thinking about your question.
It is something you’ve always loved about him, the slow, solemn way he regarded your questions before answering. As if everything you say is of great importance.
And yet, this time, he surprises you again by responding with a question of his own.
“Do you believe him?”
You blink. “Who?”
“The merchant.”
“I see no reason not to. Although I’m pretty sure he fleeced me on some of the prices. Sunsettias can’t be that expensive. Stalls used to give them away for free back home–”
“Were there others he gave flowers to?” he interrupts impatiently. “Did you see?”
“I..” You are not sure where this line of questioning is going. “I’m not quite sure, perhaps he did?”
Once, you had come across a bundle of glaze lilies, their petals open despite the fact that it was midday. You ignored Xiao’s warnings only for it to be the sprouts of several Whopperflowers.
It had taken several weeks for the bruises to fade, though Xiao’s dark grumblings whenever he saw them was the worst of the situation.
“Is there something wrong, Xiao?” you asked. “Are they dangerous?”
“No. It’s just...never mind.”
He isn’t on edge, the way he was back with the Whopperflowers, but still there was an odd tension around his shoulders.
You had seen it countless times before, during your painfully short trips to Liyue Harbor. When a hawker tries to get you to play a game at the Jade Mystery or when an old woman sells you a set of colorful kites, cut into the form of Rex Lapis, gold thread running along the outline of his scales.
It is a look of half-fascination and half an emotion you had never been able to name.
You hesitate, but reach out for him, anyway. “Is everything all right, Xiao?”
“Yes.”
He says it too quickly for you to believe him. His eyes flick to your face then to the flowers that sit atop your head like a crown.
He pauses before speaking again, clearly hesitant. “Is it some mortal tradition? To give flowers?”
“I…”
In Mondstadt, people would give flowers to their loved ones during the Windblume Festivals. Dandelions freshly picked from the fields beyond the city gates, windwheel asters picked from Windrise, for lovers who wished to be blessed by Barbatos. Cecilias that grew only near Springvale and on the shores of beaches around Dawn Winery. But you had no idea if Liyue shared the same traditions.
But Xiao seems to have mistaken your silence for approval, because he continued, his voice quiet and sullen, “I’ve seen mortals give flowers to their lovers.”
The notion is so sudden, so strangely normal for an adepti, that it makes you burst out laughing.
His scowl deepens in response. “You mock me.”
“No! Well, maybe. I just never thought I’d see you jealous.”
“Jealous?” He sounds out the word slowly, like rolling a new spice around in his tongue.
Then, he shakes his head, “Adepti are above such petty mortal concerns.”
Perhaps he is right. But perhaps, as you are slowly learning, adepti are closer to humans than they’d like to admit.
“And yet, you hate the flowers,” you say.
Xiao’s eyes narrow as you adjust the stems tangled in your hair. Droplets of water fall from the petals, one runs down your cheek like tears. The water feels wonderfully cool.
You had long since traded the heavy wool and furs of Mondstadt for the silk and cotton clothes of Liyue. This summer had been particularly hot, and it had been fashion to wear silk garments, with exposed shoulders or open backs.
Maybe it was your imagination, but Xiao’s eyes seem to follow a particular droplet’s path as it slides down your neck to rest on your bare shoulder.
He scowls again, then turns away. “Think what you want. I am done with this conversation.”
You grin. If he is truly angry, then he wouldn’t have bothered to walk away.
He is adepti, after all, and could have willed himself to anywhere in Liyue if he wishes. To the Peaks of Jueyun Karst, where mortals are forbidden to tread. Or silent Wuwang Hill, which everyone avoids for fear of ghosts.
Or, even to one of the few statues of the Geo Lord, where it is said that one could still feel the presence of Rex Lapis. More than once, you had found him near his statues. And though Xiao had never been much for words, there was something worshipful about his silence.
Xiao had known him. He had told you that much.
But Xiao did not go to any of those places, instead, he resumes his place at the window. And this, more than anything, tells that he is not angry.
You have seen this sort of behavior before.
He isn’t angry, he’s embarrassed.
“Xiao,” you call.
“What?”
“If you hate the flowers so much,” you say, smiling. “Why not take them off?”
You have seated yourself on one of the tables, sandaled feet kicking the air. Hua’ian had once told you that it was carved wholly from a giant block of noctilous jade, and if you looked, the surface of the table contained all the constellations in the sky.
Xiao hated it when you sat on that table.
But when he turns around to face you, there was no harsh reprimand to use one of the chairs instead. Instead, his face is eerily still.
“What?”
There is none of his usual haughtiness this time, no dismissive comment. Xiao looks at you as if he isn’t quite sure he heard you correctly.
“If you hate the flowers so much,” you repeat, feeling wicked. “Why not take them off?”
He frowns. “Wear what you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Okay,” you say, airily, teasingly. “Perhaps I will wear it for longer, then. Perhaps I will come back to the merchant and ask for more.”
His hand touches one of your braids, one of the silk flower stems is tied around it. Xiao’s presence makes you jump a little. You had seen this particular skill of his before, and yet at times, it still takes you by surprise. One moment he had been at the window, the next he is right in front of you. No human could have moved so fast.
And he does it as easily as breathing. Another reminder of the space between your races.
And yet Xiao does not seem to notice your reaction; his attention is focused solely on the flowers nesting in your hair.
“They’re ugly. They don’t suit you.”
“Then,” you say, softly and for the third time. “Take them off.”
He looks at you, and there is something like fear in his eyes. You know what he is thinking, and it is a word as familiar to you as Xiao himself.
Karma.
The essence of dead gods, thick as smoke and heavy as the sky. A burden Xiao carries with him wherever he goes. You had seen wood burn at his touch. Sleeping hilichurls change into the strange, twisting monsters in his presence, their bones cracking as they are reshaped into something new and monstrous and terrible.
You had seen him reach out to touch a wreath of glaze lilies, only for the flowers to wilt away from his fingers.
He wears the same expression now as he did back then: resignation. It is like watching a curtain being drawn behind his eyes. Perhaps it is the worst thing of the burdens he must bear–the devastating isolation of being unable to interact with the world without harming it.
You will not let him think of such things. At least not today, not over some silk flowers.
“Xiao.”
Your voice seems to break him out of his thoughts. And you take his hand, frozen in the moment of touching your braid, and draw it to your mouth. You kiss him there: the cup of his palm, as if you are handing him a gift, the back of his hand, and the tips of each of his fingers.
You can feel it, karma clinging to your lips when you kiss his skin. It feels oily, almost stings with a sort of not-pain.
Xiao once told you that karma attacks one’s soul, rather than their body.
And yet, how can you care, when all you can see is the way Xiao closes his eyes in pure pleasure? At the way his breathing seems to slow and deepen?
You wonder if anyone before you has ever touched him like this. Or even touched him at all.
You can watch him like this forever.
“It’s all right, Xiao.”
He opens his eyes when you speak, and his gaze is lidded and half-focused.
“You can touch them. It doesn’t matter. After all,” you grin. “They’re ugly and they don’t suit me.”
He stares at you for a long time, before he utters two words.
“Very well.”
His expression changes to one of utter concentration, and you love that about him, too. The way he does things with a sort of single-minded devotion.
It makes him wonderfully easy to tease.
The merchant had taken his time with the flowers, carefully braiding together your hair and the stems, as if one or the other was a climbing vine, seeking sunlight. Xiao is going to have a time trying to remove them.
His hands are gentle, the way they always are with you. He obviously doesn’t want to tangle or pull at your hair, despite his initial annoyance with the silk flowers. There is something so sweet about that. So much of his life is violence, and yet he touches you like you are glass.
Almost unconsciously, you run a finger across his arm. His skin is smooth, almost like porcelain. Once, he told you that most adepti did not bear scars. They healed too quickly for it. And there is something sad in that, too, to live a life of hardship and yet not have it mark you. You can feel muscles tense underneath his skin, but other than that, Xiao makes no other reaction.
He frees one braid, and a single flower falls from your head to rest on your lap. You pick it up, studying it. They really are beautiful. Perhaps when Xiao is done, you will weave them into a wreath for him. You put it back on your lap, thinking to collect them as they fall.
He moves on to a second, and this time it is not so easy. You can hear the rustle of petals crumpling.
You giggle, “Careful there.”
He glares down at you. “How can I be careful when you insist on–”
He cuts himself off, and clenches his jaw and says nothing more.
“When I insist on…?” you question, though you already know what the answer is.
“Nothing. Be still.”
Obeying him is the last thing on your mind. Instead, you continue your exploration. This time, tracing the tattoo on his right arm. Even in daylight, it seems to glow with its own strange power. It runs hotter than the rest of him.
His breath catches when you trace it, first with your fingers, then with your nails. You can see the stutter of his chest, as if he has forgotten how to breathe.
The skin there had always seemed especially sensitive.
“Something wrong?” you ask innocently.
He narrows his eyes at you.
“No.”
Another petal falls down to rest on the hollow of your throat. Xiao clicks his tongue in annoyance.
“These silk flowers are too fragile. They tear.”
“So rip them off,” you offer.
He looks at you as if you are crazy.
“That would hurt you.”
In Liyue, it is fashion to grow one’s hair long, and to keep it in braids or to gather it up in a bun while keeping the rest loose. The buns were held in place by combs carved out of the wood of a sandbearer tree, known far and wide for its ability to endure weather, be it drought or winter or storm. Flowers made out of noctilus jade or magical crystal were used to decorate the comb. Or maybe instead of combs, one would use pins instead, made out of hammered gold or cor lapis.
Once, Verr Goldet had offered to tie your hair in the style of of Liyue, though the way she had pulled and tugged at your hair made tears collect at the corners of your eyes. You had spent the rest of the day complaining to Xiao how Verr Goldet had clearly meant to pull your scalp from your skull.
It is sweet, now, that Xiao seems to remember your petty complaints. He barely even seems to notice what he had said, and instead has gone back to trying to disentangle the flowers from your hair.
You think you should thank him for being so gentle, even when he thinks nothing of it. Finally, when he sighs and pulls off another silk flower, you turn your head to kiss the inside of his wrist. You do it slowly, deliberately, as if you are tasting him.
You can feel his pulse quicken underneath your lips.
This time, he jumps back with a scowl. You can feel another flower tumble from your head to land behind you. Your hair feels looser now, cooler from where the petals and the flowers have touched, the water drying on your skin.
“Do you mean to keep doing this?” Xiao demands.
“Doing what?” you ask, trying and failing to hide your smile.
The skin of his shoulders are a soft pink, his ears too. His breathing is unsteady. It is always a marvel to you: the effect you have on him.
“Distracting me.” He practically spits out the word.
“Would you like me to stop?”
“Ye–”
He cuts himself off again, this time even his cheeks are red. There is a tension in his shoulders that tells you he is embarrassed.
The next words he speaks are spoken through gritted teeth.
“Do what you want.”
He resumes his task, and there is a stubborn set in his jaw that you have seen before: he means to see this through.
And yet you can feel his fingers shaking; they are not as precise as they once were. Petals fall on you like rain, it brushes your cheek, the tip of your nose. One rests on the curve of your shoulder. Another flutters by your lips, and the surface of the petals feels like velvet against them. A stem gets stuck just behind your ear. You giggle as you pull it off.
“I’m sorry,” you coo.
You are almost remorseful.
“No, you’re not.”
“Would you like me to be?”
Xiao gives you another look. His eyes have always been strangely beautiful to you. More avian than human, with a strange golden glow that makes him look otherworldly. It is same shade of the geo crystalflies, that you have only ever seen near the statues of Rex Lapis. You always jump to try and catch them, for their cores are a precious resource for travelers, but you had always failed.
Finally, he says again, slowly, softly, as if he means every word, “Do what you want.”
And you think, here, here is something more precious than a crystalfly. And you did not even have to jump to catch it: his love and his trust, willingly given, lying in the curve of your cupped palms.
You make a noise like humming, can feel it in the back of your throat, and you lean forward so you can rest your head on his shoulder, an almost-hug that he can pull away from whenever he wants. This time, Xiao does not speak, does not reprimand. Instead, he stops what he is doing, so he can cup the back of your head and hold you close to him.
And then there is nothing but the warmth of his skin, and the sound of his breathing, and the kiss he presses on the top of your head.
You would be happy, you think, if this moment lasted a thousand, thousand years.
If one day, Xiao decides to leave you–for being too different, too strange, too mortal, or if his karma wears you down to nothing, like a river wearing down stones, if you could have nothing else but this–still, you would be happy.
Finally, Xiao pulls away. And he hands you a silk flower, the last one that the merchant has braided in your hair.
You take it, feeling disappointed. You were enjoying your little game far too much for it to end so quickly.
“Is it over?” you ask. “If we can do that every time you get jealous, perhaps I should go downstairs and get more–”
“You will do no such thing.”
But when he says it, Xiao is not scowling. He is looking at you, almost as if appraising you. He tilts his head in a manner that is almost birdlike.
“I don’t like seeing that merchant’s flowers on you,” he finally says.
“I got that impression,” you respond impishly.
“Or any of this.” He picks up the petal that had been resting on your shoulder, then flicks it away dismissively.
“I did get a lot of them on me, didn’t I? Just give me a second and I’ll–”
Your words die in your throat when Xiao moves to kiss your shoulder, at the exact spot where the petal once lay. You feel the scrape of his teeth against your skin, the hot lave of his tongue afterwards, as if in apology.
But when Xiao pulls back, there is no remorse on his face.
You pout childishly to hide your embarrassment. “That was unfair. You took me by surprise.”
He lifts his hand to rest two fingers on your cheek. You remember that one of the petals had fallen there, too. Though Xiao is still, you can almost feel your skin tingle. You can feel the heat of his fingers.
You had been kissing them earlier. You want to kiss them again, and yet, you are sure Xiao won’t let you this time.
“Would you like me to stop?” he asks.
Your throat feels dry. When did this turn into his game?
You meet his eyes, and they are, as always, strange and avian and golden. If you ask him to, he will stop. Just like you would have stopped if he had asked, no matter how fun the teasing was.
But you don’t want him to, and then there is nothing left to say but–
“Do what you want.”
The corners of his lips lift slightly, and the next word drips from his lips like honey.
“Good.”
His hands cup your face, and he cradles you as if you are made of glass, and it is achingly sweet, the way he treasures you. You think your heart will break at the way he kisses the soft flesh of your cheeks, your forehead, the thin skin of your closed eyelids.
Xiao has always treated you like you are made of glass. As if you are wood that, when grasped, will burn under his cursed fingertips.
And yet–
There is desperation there, too. It is there, in the way his fingers tremble as he holds you. It is there, in the way his breathing shakes as you leans on you, forehead to forehead, as if he too, wishes for this moment to last a thousand, thousand years.
You wonder again, if anyone before you has ever touched him like this. Or even touched him at all. You wonder what must it feel like after a life of being unable to interact with the world without harming it, for someone to finally reach out and take your hand.
Will you take it and cradle it, gently, as if it is made of glass or wood that, when grasped, will burn under cursed fingertips?
Or will you grasp it tight and hold it close, as if to let go will make you explode into a thousand pieces? If so much of your life is violence, will you drink in affection the way a dying man drinks rainwater?
When Xiao pulls himself back to gaze at you, the look in his eyes is something like hunger, something like thirst.
His thumb rests on your lips, the slightest hint of pressure, and you remember the way the silk flower petals felt like velvet against them.
“Xiao,” you murmur, and you watch him swallow at the mention of his name. “It’s okay.”
This time, he is not gentle.
This time, he kisses you like you are rainwater.
Teeth clash, his tongue feels too hot against yours. He pulls you closer to him, as if he wishes to leave no space between you, as if to let go will make him explode into a thousand pieces. He separates from you only long enough to find the hollow of your throat and kiss there, too. A finger traces the shell of your ear, and you shiver. You had always been sensitive there.
Finally, when Xiao pulls away, you are breathing hard. You wish to glare at him for turning the tables on you so thoroughly, but somehow, you can’t. You gather whatever shreds of dignity you have left to speak.
“Think you got them all?” you ask, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
Your voice sounds weak, it even shakes a little.
This time, you cannot read the expression on Xiao’s face when he speaks.
“I didn’t.”
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then, where…”
You trail off as Xiao carefully picks up the silk flower lying on your lap, at the juncture between your thighs. The first one he had disentangled from your hair. Then, just as carefully, he places it back. Its petals gleamed wetly from the water the merchant had sprayed it with. It leaves a dark spot on your clothes where it lay.
His eyes are, as always, strange and avian and golden, and they hold you spellbound as he sinks to his knees in front of you.
His sleeve drapes across the floor as he kneels, red and white and blue against the scattered petals and broken stems. The sight is almost obscene.
Somehow, you find your voice.
“Xiao!” you hiss.
“Yes?”
“I-it’s day time!”
“Yes.”
He looks as if he does not care, and he leans forward so he can rest head against your knee. If you are still wearing the clothes of Mondstadt–thick wool and fur to ward away the cold, the gesture would have been innocent enough. But you had long ago switched to the silk garments of Liyue, and the cloth is so thin that you can feel the heat of his breath ghost against your thighs.
Though Xiao always stays at the highest floor of Wangshu Inn, sound travels well enough even here. You can hear the clink of fine porcelain, the murmur of conversation from the dining room downstairs. You can even hear the voices of merchants, hawking their wares to travelers.
Perhaps if you listen closely, you can hear the voice of the merchant who had given you the silk flowers.
You can feel your face burning at the thought.
“Someone can come up here, I didn’t even lock the door–”
For once, Xiao looks amused. “No one is allowed up here except you. You know this.”
You do know it, know that Verr Goldet and her husband have always been fiercely protective of Xiao, and almost nobody is allowed on the top floor. But it is rapidly becoming hard to think with the way Xiao is looking at you, and his breath ghosting over your thighs.
As you are looking for another excuse, Xiao turns his head to kiss you, the soft flesh of your thighs. He does it slowly, deliberately, as if he is tasting you already, and you nearly choke on your next set of words.
“I can…hear people all the way in the courtyard. And if I can hear them, then they can hear me…us.”
This time, Xiao leans away, frowning. You breathe a sigh of relief at having convinced him. But he doesn’t rise from his position. Instead, he is looking at the scattered petals in the room. The broken stems. Your unbraided hair.
Finally, his eyes shift to the silk flower still resting on your lap, at the juncture between your thighs.
“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “I would like that merchant to hear.”