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We’re somewhere in October when Xiao moves into a grubby, old apartment in the city. It’s a place that looks exhausted when you look at it from afar, with the paint chipping off the grease-caked walls, and cigarette smoke lingering on the wallpaper as burns. It’s not like he wanted to move into somewhere like this, where the atmosphere behaves like it’s older than he is when it’d only been built three years ago—but the city is so dynamic, everything around it gets worn faster than it realises.
Among a clutter of boxes, Xiao drags his feet into an apartment he can barely call a home, phasing through the sparse furniture like he’s an apparition. His eyes are dull from fatigue, and the scars on his skin have started to redden because of a rash he can’t figure out. He collapses against the bed, and outside the door, he hears an old song seeping out of one of his neighbours’ homes—I get a little bit alone sometimes and I miss you again, I’ll be the love of your life inside your head, the lyrics go.
Xiao squirms when he hears them, for a number of reasons. He isn’t a fan of slow, sad songs, and as a musician himself, lyrics hit him too hard when they’re written just the right way. His neighbour must really like the song, because whoever they are, they’ve been listening to the past two hours since Xiao first stepped into the complex, till now when his body can’t take any more of walking around. He’ll have only the weekend to finish moving in before he has to look for a job, otherwise he’ll spend the month starving and one day, he might die because of his own neglect.
It’s a slippery slope of consequences to one seemingly measly action, but being a college dropout and a runway from a home he cannot bear to live in anymore, Xiao doesn’t have much of an option but to scrounge for his survival. He’s come to one of the most rundown neighbourhoods in the country, and despite its radiant lights at night and high-rise buildings, it’s nothing but chain-smokers on roadsides and bar fights that break out in the middle of the road.
He rolls his head against the backrest of the couch and looks out of the window—the one with a broken lock, probably a concern he’ll have to keep in mind considering the number of break-ins there’s been in the past year, and dust collecting on its sill. It’s somewhere past midnight and the moon has sunk into an awkward position in the sky, in between wanting to go back to bed and do its job. Xiao wonders if it ever gets tired of being a moon, of being the only one who can do the job right—because, at twenty-one and at the end of his life, he’s so tired of being himself.
This is supposed to be a new beginning for him, but he’s here now, somewhere far away from his old life and he doesn’t feel any better than he did back then. There’s none of the exhilaration of being away—rather the dread that his past will eventually catch up to him. Xiao feels a pang in his chest and he sits up against the couch, the thin cloth cover scraping against its surface. It’s at this point, over an oncoming headache, where he realises that the music has already stopped playing.
He glances at the door and notices a silhouette phase past the door. His curiosity is piqued for a dangerous second, so he sits forward against the couch and furrows his eyebrows. Perhaps it’s because he hadn’t managed to catch the silhouette that he’s suddenly so curious about who it is that walked by his door—so close, like he could’ve peeked inside and seen the mess that is Xiao’s life.
With the excuse of visiting the neighbourhood, Xiao decides to go on a walk. He shoves a hand into his pocket to check for his wallet, and with another hand, reaches out for his keys. He’s wearing nothing but a singlet and trousers in autumn weather, but he’s gotten used to the cold since living in his old neighbourhood. As he steps outside, he’s first greeted by an old poster on the wall—one that looks like it could almost merge with the slate grey because of its washed out colours.
He tears it off the wall to scrutinise it, and determines it to be the advertisement to a pub. His eyes fall to the address, and he immediately recognises it as one that’s right down the street, down a fleet of stairs and in the shadow of an office building that’s no longer used. Xiao folds the poster and stuffs it into his pocket, spinning his keys around his finger while he walks. So, he decides—first order of business, visit the pub downtown.
───────
We’re somewhere at midnight, in late October, when Xiao enters the pub that would soon change his life. He doesn’t know it yet when he enters it, so unsuspecting towards the people he will find inside, but seconds after he enters, a string of change leads him on a journey to a side of life he never thought he’d embark on. It’s obvious from the moment he enters that the pub is the only bit of life that exists in this dead city—from the way that its lights glimmer through the tinted glass doors, the way calm music seeps through the crack beneath the door, and the way the atmosphere seems to hug him like an old friend.
Xiao feels something soften within his chest as he steps inside, like the blossoming of a flower, and it’s such a beautiful sensation to be met with. A shiver runs against his skin and some kind of lost light starts to dance in his eyes, under the shine of the dim lights in the pub. And the following sequence of events plays out like this: he glances around, not yet hearing the music calling for him, and his eyes gloss over the bar at the left, then the couches on the right.
There’s a tall man behind the counter, cleaning a glass cup with his gaze lowered to it. There’s another man who appears just as tall even though he’s seated down with a lazy posture. Neither of them are looking at each other, and the tension between them is almost suffocating even for Xiao who’s merely a spectator to their silence.
And later, just a second later—and it’s crucial that it happens then, at 01:51, and not 01:52, because those numbers change too much in two lives to be interchangeable with numbers far less important—Xiao catches a tune beckoning to him from the non-existent crowd. He takes a step forward, and it’s at this point where he’s caught the attention of the others in the bar, only two of them, but not the one who his heart beats for. It’s racing in his chest—the heart that had never reacted this way to anything else. To the ticking of the clock on the high wall, Xiao inches towards the sound of a melodious guitar.
He hears a soft greeting in the background, but enamoured by the music, he doesn’t respond. He finds a stool at the front of the bar, on a platform, with a mic in front of it but the music isn’t coming from there. Behind a series of potted plants, there’s a figure seated against the wall. Xiao inches towards the sound, where he finds the figure of another man slouched with a guitar in his hands, his long hair braided into twin tails that fall gracefully over his shoulder.
His fingers are strumming an unrecognisable song on the guitar—a kind of tune that Xiao has never heard before. He finds himself standing in the middle of his tracks, unable to move. His eyes widened and his ears carefully listening to the sound, he couldn’t find it within himself to interrupt. His eyes lower to the gentle expression of the young guitarist, his hands slender and pale.
Xiao feels an uncomfortable feeling in his chest—some kind of crazed beating of his heart that he can’t seem to figure out. He stands beside one of the potted plans, his hands by the sides of his hips. An odd sense of familiarity coddles him while he spectates what feels like a performance only for himself. He watches the moonlit musician as he strings a song on his instrument, looking at peace with himself. Xiao takes a step closer and a pair of eyes open to acknowledge his presence. The song never stops, but two pairs of eyes start looking at each other, and Xiao feels that disastrous feeling within him bubble like effervescence.
“Hey, stranger,” a voice greets him.
Xiao only snaps out of his daze once the music stops. It’s like being roused of a thousand-year slumber, having to be there when the song finally comes to an end. He blinks, and it’s like the world has once again returned to the wasteland it once was. He clenches his fists by his sides and purses his lips, no longer interested in being here without the company of such beautiful music. “Damn, the stranger doesn’t talk,” the musician mumbles to himself, deliberately loud enough for the latter to hear.
Xiao ogles him with what looks more like a threatening glare instead. “I can talk,” he replies with a scoff, and the corner of the musician’s lips quirk up. He stares at the stranger for a second before placing his guitar on the ground and hopping onto his feet. His hands tucked behind his back, he skips forward and leans forward, eyeing Xiao with some curious glimmer in his eyes. He’s leaning so far forward, Xiao finds himself pulling back—just one fraction of an inch away from stumbling. “Hm,” hums the musician.
Xiao can tell he’s come to some sort of conclusion—a deduction, whatever that means. “I like you,” determines the musician as he finally pulls back, leaving some room for the latter to breathe. A wide grin grows on his face as he dawdles past, deliberately brushing past Xiao’s shoulder—to get on his nerves, perhaps?—and heading to the bar.
“Don’t scare my customers away, Venti,” warns the bartender, the gruff man who looks like he hasn’t smiled a day in his life. It’s obvious he’s sick of the musician, from the way his face settles into a memorised expression of dread when he mentions wanting another drink.
Venti pays no mind to his instructions and slides onto one of the barstools, beside the other man who’s been holding the same glass of gin that has been a quarter-full since Xiao came in half an hour ago. He hadn’t even realised it’d been so long since he stepped inside, not when he couldn’t possibly have been staring at the guitarist for that much time. He clears his throat, looking away awkwardly. In the background, he can hear the bartender bicker with the musician, while the third-person simply sighs like this happens everyday.
“I don’t know how you were ever famous, Venti, you’re insufferable,” he eventually remarks, leaning his cheek against the edge of his palm. And off he goes, redirecting the musician’s tantrums onto himself as the bartender gets a break from Venti’s pleading for more wine.
“Oh hush, Kaeya, you love me,” Venti argues, folding his arms. “Now don’t distract me—come on, Diluc, give me another glass. I promise I’ll pay you this time.”
“With what money? The stranger’s?”
Venti looks over his shoulder to Xiao, whose presence was seemingly forgotten. A shit-eating grin stretches from ear to ear, and the sinking feeling in Xiao’s stomach tells him that he’s better off looking away and walking off while he still can. “I moved here today. I don’t have any money,” he’s quick to clarify before the guitarist pockets any expectations.
“I’ll pay if you drink with me, stranger,” he invites.
“You’re broke,” Diluc reminds, sounding like he wants to quit his job on the spot. His dark circles cling to his under eyes, and it looks like he hasn’t gotten proper rest in days. From the looks of it, lack of sleep might not be the only reason that he looks so ragged.
“Take it out of my tips, I don’t need money,” Venti remarks flippantly, waving his hand in the air. Xiao is hesitant about accepting a drink from someone he’s met for the first time—not to mention, the someone in question doesn’t seem like the most reliable person in the world. He makes a reluctant expression, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. “Come on, don’t look so constipated because I asked you if you wanted to have a drink with me. Besides, I’m not giving you a choice,” he chatters, eventually rising from his stool to drag Xiao forward.
He could push Venti away.
He really should.
Xiao plops onto the chair, a little disoriented. He eyes the guitar that’s still on the ground, wishing he could hear that tune once more. It’s still echoing in his mind—that sound which made it feel like he’d been cleansed of all his sins. He doesn’t speak anything of it, but he is also unbeknownst of the musician’s gaze pinned to him. “I need a break,” Diluc grimaces seconds later, making Xiao turn his head back. He slides a bottle of wine against the table and unbuttons his vest, proceeding to head out the back door.
“I’m going to follow,” Kaeya adds soon after, quickly sliding off his stool. “Have fun,” he winks, and leaves to chase after his brother, who if not controlled, could probably smash a chair into the wall.
And we’re deeper into midnight, somewhere nearing the death hour, when Xiao’s left alone with the musician who has fascinated him for the first time in his life. He stares at the table, at the empty glass that is slid in front of him, and he’s unsure what he’ll do now that he’s in a position like this. He’s not one for conversation—not that he inherently dislikes it, but because him and words have never gotten along too well. It’s not so much until a shaky hand pours beer into his glass and he looks to his right where he notices that the musician beside him is already teetering the edge of drunkenness.
His cheeks are flushed—perhaps that’s the reason why they’d looked so rosy under the moonlight. An ethereal kind of shimmer has washed over his eyes, like sunlight does over turquoise waves, and Xiao fears he might sink in that dark ocean if he were to stare for too long. “Did you drink too much?” he asks—no, not because he’s worried for the stranger—but because being in a room, alone, with a drunken musician puts him in a precarious position of responsibility.
“I have idea what you’re talking about,” Venti responds in a sing-song voice, and somehow in this state of deliriousness, he manages to maintain a relatively bearable pitch. He appears quite put-together for someone whose face is looking increasingly like the dusk sun, but it’ll soon be helplessly obvious from his babbling that he isn’t as composed as the latter would think.
Xiao elects against giving a response and averts his attention to the glass of beer in front of him. It isn’t a gruelling amount to get through, but the taste of alcohol has gotten exceptionally bitter since he last tried it. He’s gone a full year with successful rehabilitation, and while staring at this glass of beer, he wonders whether he’ll relapse once he returns to the chains of this toxin he once called home. “Scared of one drink?” chimes the voice beside him, and Xiao almost mistakes it for the devil in his head. He looks at the musician with a pensive expression, deliberating on an answer.
“I’m not,” he retorts firmly, coiling his hand around the cold glass. He eyes his reflection in the sunset-coloured liquid in front of him, his image distorted. His heart thrums against his fingertips and the glass starts to shake in his grip. Xiao stares so intently at the glass that it might shatter with the weight of his gaze and this strange tension doesn’t go unnoticed by the observant guitarist.
“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Venti replies, leaning forward against the table. He slides his chest against it, folding his elbows out to rest his chin in the cushion of his arms. He looks at Xiao with tired eyes, almost coming to a close. Xiao swallows the lump in his throat and releases his grip on the glass, pushing it away. He shouldn’t have been forcing himself to look good in front of a stranger, anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?” asks the musician, tilting his head to observe Xiao’s face.
“Talk about what?” Xiao questions with a raised eyebrow, feigning ignorance.
Venti remains silent for a few moments, eyeing him with a particular look in his eyes. Eventually, he purses his lips together and adjusts his position against the table. “Fine,” he replies, and while it sounds childish, it doesn’t sound like he would’ve wanted to force a revelation out of Xiao to begin with. He falls silent after that. “You intrigue me, stranger.”
“I have a name.”
“Pray tell, stranger,” replies the musician, turning his head just by an inch to look at him.
He squirms at the thought of having to reveal his name. “Xiao,” he eventually reveals.
“Xiao,” the latter hums, a small smile cracking on his face.
Xiao blinks, the tips of his ears flushing. He presses his palms against his lap and stares, because he knows he’s best at doing just that. And when he’s silent again—he remembers the tune at the back of his head, that single string of notes that makes him feel truly at peace with himself. He knows, now, with absolute certainty, that he hadn’t heard it for the first time today. Back in his past, sometime when life was grim and reduced to counting seconds—he once loved music like that.
He wants it back.
“Hey, stranger,” says Venti in a tired voice, a few moments later. “Among the both of us, I think you’re braver than I am. I don’t know why you make it look otherwise.” Then, he falls silent again, and ten minutes later, the latter finds himself alone in the bar with a musician fast asleep.
───────
Xiao returns to the discomfort of his apartment only once the pub closes a couple of hours later. Diluc only returns to close,around four, after thoroughly appreciating the only hours in his day away from the musician whose presence he only reluctantly tolerates. Although he returns to his performer passed on the table—having drunk his second whole bottle of wine—he doesn’t force a payment out of Xiao. “Sorry about whatever you had to deal with,” he says before Xiao exits through the door. “He’s not a bad person, but sometimes he says bad things—things you’ll never understand.”
He only nods, not fully understanding what the bartender meant by it.
Xiao doesn’t make it as far as his bedroom once he reaches home. It’s not like he’d find anything except a bed frame and a tough mattress even if he were to go so far, so he crashes on his couch, staring at the ceiling in front of him. A nocturnal blue has washed over his surroundings, and along with the hushed surroundings, they attempt to lull Xiao’s wakeful mind asleep.
Tears of exhaustion well in his eyes, rolling off his eyelid. He leans his hand over his eyes, a distant look in them as he stares at nothing in particular. His heart throbbing in his chest, he thinks about the music from earlier—that beautiful, unforgiving song, still humming in his mind and in his heart, unwilling to let him go. It runs rounds in his mind, and even though he hadn’t heard the full thing, the short snippet he’d heard would be enough to last him centuries. Xiao tilts his head against the bed, looking across the room to a heap of cardboard boxes and scattered furniture. He finds a photo frame sitting on one of the cabinets—he knows which one it is because he’d forgotten to tuck it away after looking at it.
He feels a bitter taste on his tongue as he looks at it again—but it’s always been this way. He can never bring himself to look at it again after doing so once. He turns his head away and closes his eyes, tucking his arms behind his head. Among the both of us, I think you’re braver than I am, a certain someone’s voice echoes in his mind just as he thinks about returning to the pub once he’s free. Xiao’s mind circles around the thought, wondering what the musician had meant when he said something so ambiguous and fell asleep right after. And for once, he thinks, maybe Diluc had done him good by warning him.
But Xiao has never cared for warning signs. He knows he’s too far gone to be stopped.
───────
We’re somewhere in November when Xiao returns to the pub, one whose name he’s still yet to find out. He has passed it during his numerous endeavours in finding a job, and since the last time he’s been there, he has tried his best not to spare any thought to it at all. A pub certainly isn’t a place where a former alcoholic should not be dawdling when he’s hanging precariously on a string that’s keeping him from balling into a pit—but after an especially sour day of job searching, he thinks, why not?
The road leading up to the pub is filled with posters about a performance that’s meant to be happening in the late evening of that day—an interesting coincidence, one would think. Xiao isn’t prepared for the event, and if it really is as big as it’s made out to be, he has no appropriate clothes to wear. He’s never been a person who thrives among crowds so he often veers away from them, but here he is, thinking about attending a live music performance that could attract hundreds.
Reservations aside, Xiao reaches the pub at half-past eight, an hour late for the supposed performance. He’s wearing a grey hoodie and the same pair of trousers as yesterday, his hair dishevelled with sweat after walking under the sun for the entire day. Pushing the door open, he’s instantly reminded of how bad of a decision he’s made—thrust face-first into a place packed like sardines.
Over the pungent stench of alcohol is the pungent stench of sweat, and Xiao begins to contemplate if he should turn away while he still can. As he deliberates a better option than being here where he’ll have to navigate the crowd, he hears the previous performance reach its end and loud clapping ricochet throughout the room. He’s about to leave when he hears a familiar voice call into the microphone, making him turn his head. Venti, his mind identifies too quickly and over all the heads and shoulders blocking his view, he knows that it’s his musician’s voice.
Suddenly so desperate, Xiao pushes through the crowd at ease, following the direction of the voice like it’s calling to him. He hears as the musician gives his opening address to the crowd, and the eager audience put their hands together to greet the song. He watches as the musician lifts the guitar to his lap and rocks his legs in the air leisurely, a small smile gracing his face. Xiao’s eyes shine even when the lights in the pub are dim, looking only at Venti in this crowd of hundreds. He’s convinced, now and so deep down, that there could be thousands in a place and the only one he’d see is him.
By the time Venti strums his finger against the guitar strings, Xiao finds himself at the front of the crowd, breathing heavily after having to jostle past men twice his size. His eyes are widened and once again, he catches a tune that reminds him of aeons ago. An uncanny feeling of hopefulness washes over him and engulfs him whole. The warmth of a gentle caress envelops him where he’s standing, like the music is reaching out to him and holding him close.
Venti cracks an eye open to scan the crowd, his pale skin shining under the spotlight. And in a crowd of so many people, he could only see Xiao.
───────
We’re still in November when Xiao returns to the pub after watching the performance the day prior. He returns sooner than the last time—in the morning instead of the night, when his mind isn’t muddled with the annoyance of missing another work opportunity. He enters apprehensively, awkwardly, because even after being here thrice, he feels like he doesn’t belong in a place like this.
Diluc is the first to acknowledge him when he enters. “You’re back,” he observes, but he doesn’t say so in a judgemental manner. It’s the first time he isn’t fidgeting with a glass when Xiao enters—this time, he’s cleaning the bar table. Not much different from his usual duties, but hey, it’s not like the latter cares about anybody else’s business to bother. As he walks inside, glancing around his surroundings, he notices Diluc nudging his head towards the front.
He saunters to the front, where lying on the ground is Venti. He still has his guitar in his grasp, lying on his stomach. His dyed braids still look surprisingly neat despite his disorderly position on the ground, and there is the gentle flush of alcohol on his cheeks. “He drank too much again,” Diluc grimaces, proceeding to aggressively wipe a glass yet again. “I keep telling him not to, but he never listens. He needs someone like you to keep him from being so irresponsible with himself.”
Xiao shakes his head, holding out two hands. “I’m not a good role model.”
“He’ll never listen to me, but he might to you,” the bartender replies. “He’s taken a liking to you.”
“Me?” Xiao confirms, drawing his eyebrows together. He turns his head to the slumbering musician on the ground, snoring softly as his chest rises and falls to the rhythm of his breathing. The tips of his ears turn red at the revelation, and his heart almost skips a beat at the thought. “I think you’re mistaken,” he clarifies quickly, prying his gaze away from Venti’s delicate features.
“All he talks about is you these days, and he’s known you for—what—three days?”
Xiao narrows his eyes at the bartender. “And why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs. “Venti could use a friend. Maybe then he’d stop hovering around me all the time.”
“Do you hate him?”
Diluc raises his gaze from the glass in his hands. He pauses mid-action, his words caught in his throat. He seems to look back at Xiao with a blank expression for a couple of moments before gathering his thoughts again. He places the glass against the bar table and turns to face the selection of alcohols on the shelves behind him. “I can’t answer that question.”
“How come you’ve never tried to chase him away?”
Diluc makes a sound of contempt. “Duty,” he explains. “I can’t let him go, even if I wanted to.”
Xiao nods to himself. “I see.” He won’t admit that he’s come so far to see Venti, with hopes of hearing him play that song again—not when it’ll make him sound foolish in front of the bartender who seems to be egging them together. He hovers around the area, running his hands against the bookshelves and rearranging little trinkets on the tables of the pub. Every now and then, he turns to glance at the musician, feeling even more breathless each time he does. He can’t figure it out—whatever the hell has been happening to him since he stepped into this pub.
He’s never felt so taken by a person before, yet here he is, wrangling these new sensations over a man who truly isn’t even so impressive. Somewhere along the way, Xiao starts to stare again, but he loses himself so quickly that he doesn’t realise it in time. He rubs his thumb against the glossy surface of a hardcover book on compositions—his eyes watching carefully, the ostensibly unimpressive musician.
In the midst of his staring, his gaze falls and he catches sight of a scar on Venti’s abdomen. It’s an old one, dried a long time ago, and Xiao’s courteous enough not to question it. He can’t help but ponder on where it came from though, when he’d seen the same scar on patients. Behind the counter, the bartender scoffs under his breath and a smile cracks on his face. “Could I trouble you for a favour?” he requests, snapping Xiao out of his trance.
He clears his throat, cheeks turning pink. “Sure,” he makes a meek sound, quickly turning to back face Diluc so he won’t notice the harsh redness of his face.
“Could you bring him home? I’ll give you his address,” Diluc requests, leaning a hand against the bar table. He observes Xiao’s expressions, how he seems to go completely still for a second before whipping his head to look at him incredulously, disbelieving of the request. He looks at Venti, then back at Diluc, eyebrows stitched together.
“Are you sure? He would not be okay with a stranger—”
“He lets anybody into his house,” Diluc interjects. “And of all people, I’m certain he wouldn’t mind you bringing him home.”
Xiao ignores the implications hidden in his tone. Deciding he’d only be doing a favour for the musician whose life is in a state of perpetual chaos, he inches towards him cautiously. He still hasn’t worked up the courage to be comfortable around him. He doesn’t expect to be either, when it hasn’t been so long, and sometimes it could take years for him to feel safe around a person. Xiao lowers himself onto his knees and gently pats the musician on his shoulders, trying to awake him. Following his attempt, Venti rolls onto his side and continues sleeping soundly away.
Xiao feels a pull in his chest at the endearing sight. From the looks of it, no amount of calling would rouse him from his slumber, so he determines carrying him is the only way to bring him home. Xiao adjusts himself into a more convenient position, proceeding to carry Venti upward and hoist him over his shoulder. It’s the only way he can carry someone around his height—besides, it’s way easier than bridal carrying him through the street. With Venti on his shoulder, he approaches Diluc for the address.
Before turning away, Diluc says, “Thank you for taking care of him.”
And somewhere deep down, Xiao gets the feeling this won’t be the last time that he does.
───────
We’re somewhere in the early afternoon in early November when Xiao realises that Venti lives in the house across from him. It explains why he hasn’t heard a peep from it, nor seen the neighbour residing in that house ever since he heard music playing from it on the first day of his moving in. He has encountered most of his neighbours—most of whom take no interest in him—and now, he supposes, he has met them all. It’s convenient for him, at least, living so close to Venti.
Upon entering the apartment, Xiao comes to the realisation that the musician is more unkempt than he would’ve earlier assumed. Everything that could be in a mess is in a mess, and trying to walk inside leaves him kicking through heaps of trash on the ground. There are half-empty boxes of takeout, dirty clothes on the ground, scattered marbles on one portion of the floor, another guitar lying on the couch, and a terrible stench coming from the part of the house that is supposedly a kitchen.
All of the polaroid frames have been knocked over, the same way Xiao’s are back in his apartment. He wonders what would have driven him to a point of doing so, and what could’ve preceded this mess back when he was still here. Each corner of the house is in rot and ruins in some way, like it’d been neglected for longer than should’ve been allowed. Xiao would have left too, if he had to stay in a place like this with no one to help him with this mess—well, that’s why he left his old home too.
He tries not to be judgemental. He doesn’t have a place to be.
Quietly, he finds his way to the bedroom, the only other room in the apartment. He lowers Venti onto the bed with a huff and lets out a breath, wiping a bead of sweat away from his forehead. He starts to dust away some of the trinkets on the bed so there’s enough space for him to rest, and while he does, he notices the musician stirring against the sheets. “Thanks for taking me home, stranger,” Venti says, looking at Xiao through his eyelashes. A soft smile has graced his lips, and he doesn’t look in the least confused.
“Were you awake this whole time?” Xiao questions, folding his arms. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It would’ve been awkward,” Venti replies flippantly, rolling his head against the pillow. He looks away, around at the state of his home and all he does is let out a chuckle. “I haven’t been here in a while,” he remarks casually, like it isn’t so strange to be away from home for so long.
Xiao cocks his head to the side. “Where did you go?”
“Anywhere,” Venti responds, sitting up against the bed frame. “Anywhere but here.”
“I could help you clean,” Xiao offers, but he does so out of impulse and such little thought that in the seconds after, he wonders where he found the generosity within himself. He should be spending his time looking for a job, not cleaning an eccentric musician’s home, but when he notices Venti perk up and a shine return to his eyes, he can’t bring himself to retract his words.
“Really? You’d do it for me?”
Xiao shrugs. “I guess.”
Venti smiles wistfully and leans his back against the bed frame. “Ha, I wish cleaning could take away all the memories attached to this place. Maybe then it’d be easier to stay here, and I wouldn’t have to keep running away all the time,” he rambles, blowing loose hair out of his eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t run away the moment you stepped into this apartment. Most people would. How come you stayed?”
“I’m not much different,” Xiao replies honestly. “A mess doesn’t scare me.”
“Ah, that’s great,” Venti breathes out, chuckling airily. “Otherwise, you’d have been scared of me.”
“I don’t think you’re a mess,” Xiao states with full confidence while standing in what is undeniably the most dishevelled place he has been in. He looks at the musician with an unwavering determination in his eyes, his hands relaxed at his sides, showing no hint of insincerity in his posture. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. It’s not good.”
Venti is stunned by his sincerity. His eyes widen, and later, he looks away with a twinge of red on his face. “Nobody has said that to be before.”
Xiao’s expression softens. “I don’t lie.”
“I know,” Venti replies, the corner of his lips quirking up. He narrows his eyes and slides off his bed, redirecting his gaze to the ground. “Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer, stranger.”
And that he does.
───────
We’re somewhere in January when Venti seems put together for the first time in his life. Since the day he made his promise, Xiao has spent every day returning to his apartment to clean up what the musician can’t, sifting away old memories from plain sight. He tucks them away into boxes and compartmentalises feelings into cabinets, till eventually the ground can be seen beyond heaps of newspaper and old wrapping. Somewhere along the way of this routine, the two of them find love in each other—some kind of attachment that neither of them could have found with anyone else.
Two months doesn’t bring any confidence to either of them to share their past, so they don’t—and it’s an unspoken promise to never do so.
For once in his life, Xiao feels like he can leave everything behind—all his troubles, that sickening past that used to cling to his mind for years even though he tried so hard to escape it. He feels, for once, he can look at the future instead of the past, and he can hope. And, really, he didn’t know hope was such a beautiful little thing until he’d become acquainted with it.
───────
We’re somewhere in February when Venti confesses to Xiao.
It’d been a strange thing to accept—love.
Because there once was a time where their lives lacked so much of it, they’d grown up thinking that they were incapable of it. Beyond that, it was strange to love each other, because within the little time their universes expanded around each other, they learned too much—knew too much. Xiao knows the face that Venti makes when he’s bandages the cuts on his fingers from his guitar stricks, and he knows, better, the look on his face when they held hands for the first time, thinking it’d be so innocent and momentary. All that love had metamorphosised in the time they knew each other, never once wavering.
It’s always been Venti—from the moment that Xiao walked into that pub and heard the song that was yet to be finished, from the moment that he laid his eyes on the moonlight that carrassed his face, from the very second that the clock hit 01:51, waiting for the moment to happen.
Somewhere past midnight, he finds the musician stumbling into the convenience store he’s working at, his clothes crinkled and his hair tied into a low ponytail. It’s a look Xiao has never seen before, and he finds himself ogling his friend as he barrels in through the automated glass doors, throwing himself at the counter. His face is flushed, but for once, Xiao can be sure it’s not because he’s drunk. His heart hammers loudly in his chest, awaiting what the latter could possibly have to say at an hour like this. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses, although the store is empty.
“I need to tell you something, and you have to listen to me,” Venti explains, sounding almost out of breath. “Okay? You have to hear me out. And you can’t hate me.”
“What did you do?” Xiao narrows his eyes.
“It’s about what I didn’t do,” he interjects, pressing his hip against the counter. He leans forward, intertwining his fingers with Xiao’s. He looks into his eyes, a crazed, desperate look in his own and he looks like he’s seconds away from being reduced to tears. Something is wrong with him—and if there isn’t, something really isn’t right. Xiao searches for a reason to be worried, because the sinking feeling in his gut is telling him he should ask, scry what is going on with him. He’d been fine all this while but here he is now, looking panicked and crazy in a convenience store—
“I really like you, Xiao.”
Xiao chokes up. He stumbles over unsaid words, in disbelief over the confession. He looks into the musician’s eyes, searching for reasons to be worried, and beyond that, reasons to be cynical. But he looks, and he looks, and he looks, and he finds nothing but love in emerald green.
“I really, really like you.”
And before the latter can manage a response, Venti starts weeping. The tears he’d been holding back come pouring down his cheeks and he bends forward, pressing his forehead against the counter. He looks so broken—so anguished, and Xiao could only wonder how much this love had been troubling him for him to end up in a state like this. His heart tears at the sight of him so despaired, so he stands forward, urging his friend to lift his head. “Don’t cry.”
Venti shakes his head, refusing to show his face. “I’m sorry.”
“I like you too,” Xiao blurts. And when that revelation leaves his lips, his shoulders tense up and the silence which hangs between them toughens. Venti’s sniffling pauses and seconds later, he looks up in disbelief, unable to believe his ears. He chews on his lower lip, trying to fight back tears. He tightens his grip around their intertwined fingers, starting to cry again.
Xiao, panicked and flushed redder than he has ever been, babbles, “Why are you crying again?”
“I really like you, Xiao.”
Then, with a smile on his face, he grabs Xiao’s face and pulls him into a kiss.
───────
We’re nine months into the year, somewhere in the heart of autumn, when Xiao notices strange things happening in his life. He’s been two years sober and a full year clean, and this revelation has done miracles on the life which once was in unfixable pieces. Venti was a large part of this gruelling, tedious process of change—with his guitar in his hand, he’d be by his side through long days and tiring nights, holding Xiao in his arms.
Soon, Venti became part of a routine that slowly introduced itself into his life, and he found most of his days being spent either at the convenience store with Venti sitting with him beside the cashier, or at the pub with his musician lover, his heart feeling at ease to his melodies. And somewhere along the way, he found himself healing from old wounds—learning how to be happier, content with his life. But he’d forgotten, somewhere during this process of taking to make himself whole, that he’d begun scrounging missing pieces from someone else.
Venti never complained—he never said anything, really. He thought it was love. There’s always love, in tearing the flesh of flesh, and the flesh of hearts to love each other as much as they do. There’s love, in how many forms of love there are, in how all and none of it can be found in the crevices between saying I love you out loud and Venti’s smile and the hand Xiao’s holding.
Xiao didn’t realise he was hurting. A part of him didn’t want to.
He noticed the distance—it would’ve been impossible not to. It started with something as little as Venti asking to eat on his own instead of sharing meals with Xiao, and it’d been so minor that Xiao didn’t think it to be a reason for concern. Then, three meals a day came down to none at all, and eventually, Venti became nothing but an apparition in Xiao’s life—remembered, but never around.
───────
Xiao has discovered, somewhere along the way, his capability to love. What it comes down to is that he will love the uneven way Venti’s eyebrows knit, he always says, or how he wiggles a little against barstools to adjust his posture when he’s playing. Venti’s small habits, even the rare ick that makes him frown. Details that don’t come together into any other person but Venti, Xiao will add as a sly declaration of love, unsubtle about pandering but ever so genuine.
So, here we are in October, when Xiao comes to the understanding that everything had been spiralling out of control for way longer than he was willing to realise. It starts with a phone call from Diluc, somewhere around four in the morning. Xiao had been asleep, but the ringtone rouses him from his slumber, earning a grumble of annoyance in return. He’d cut the call the first time, and the second time, but Diluc calls him again and out of his reluctance, he ends up picking up the phone.
Diluc doesn’t wait for an answer. “Venti’s at the hospital,” is all he announces, and that revelation sets off so many red alarms in Xiao’s brain that he doesn’t ponder on an explanation. He makes a quick sound of panic, and ushers a promise of his arrival within ten minutes, and with only a jacket over his singlet, he scampers out of the door.
When Xiao lays his eyes on Venti in the hospital room, he knows it isn’t the man he’d grown to love. Lying in that bed is only a hollow version of the musician who once used to be capable of happiness, capable of humanness—but he’s this now, this ghastly apparition that’d embarked on the process of leaving far earlier than Xiao was willing to realise. Diluc excuses himself from the ward after Xiao enters, patting him on the shoulder and mumbling a quiet apology.
Despite knowing from the hurried footsteps who it could be, Venti doesn’t turn to look at Xiao. He leans his back against the pillow, his hands folded over his lap. He looks out of the window, at the glass windows that show him the picturesque landscape of the city enveloped by the night. He doesn’t even make a sound—not one sound, and this silence soon proves to be the weapon that shatters Xiao’s heart. He approaches the bed cautiously, gripping onto the handles of the bed tightly. “Venti,” he asks with a quivering voice, tears burning in his eyes. “What did you do?”
Venti doesn’t reply. His gaze falls, but an answer doesn’t leave his lips. It comes to Xiao’s attention that his hands are shivering against the thin sheet that covers his body. He refuses to meet his lover’s eyes, knowing that he would not be able to contain the guilt of wanting to leave the world behind. Because leaving the world inherently means leaving Xiao behind, and in that moment of darkness, Venti couldn’t spare even a second to think about what would happen to Xiao if he weren’t around anymore.
Xiao closes his eyes and inhales sharply. “Venti,” he says again, deeper. “What did you do?”
And hearing the pain in Xiao’s voice, Venti can’t keep silent anymore. He turns his head, revealing tear-filled eyes. His skin is paler than before—translucent, almost—and dark circles cling to the bottom of his eyelids. His cheeks are faintly red, and his breathing is unsteady. He looks pained—perhaps because of everything, because of the tubes going up his arms and his abdomen, because of the helplessness of having to face the reality of his unsuccessful attempt, because of the need to know choke up a reason as to why he’s in the hospital and not lying next to Xiao at home.
“I’m sorry,” Venti cries, and tears start rolling down his cheeks. Even while he’s crying, he fights out a smile, still trying to pretend that he’s okay. Maybe some part of it comes from wanting to believe that he’ll make it out of here—that one night isn’t his whole life. He doesn’t need to give an answer for Xiao to realise what he’s just confessed to and all of a sudden, his world comes crashing down around him. He loses the strength in his knees and leans against the bed to keep himself standing. He lowers his head, fighting back tears—guilt eating at his heart. He swallows his words, shaking his head in denial, because oh god it’s happening again, and this depression which he’d battled for so long has come to haunt his life once more. He doesn’t understand—why did it have to be Venti?
It should’ve been anyone but him.
It could’ve been him too.
Venti reaches out a cold, trembling hand to play with Xiao’s hair, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the sound of his sobbing. He’s tired—Xiao can’t blame him for it, but oh, he wishes he could because if only he hadn’t been so foolish to step over the metaphorical edge then they’d be just fine. They would’ve had pancakes for breakfast instead of hospital food, they’d be watching each other in the pub, not in a hospital ward. They would’ve had their fingers intertwined, two warm hands, uninterrupted by tubes.
“Was I not good enough for you?” Xiao chokes out, because he must know. He must know if it’s him, because it must’ve been, and he should take the blame for it. He must beat himself up, because maybe if he does, Venti will be better, and once they’ve sorted out their faults, nothing like this would happen again. It must’ve been his fault because there’s no way Venti would’ve ended up like this if only he’d been more careful—more cautious, more loving, more gentle, more of everything that he lacks. He should’ve opened his eyes for just a second to realise he isn’t the only one that’s been struggling, and he would’ve realised that Venti had been suffering in silence.
But he realises, when Venti shakes his head and mumbles reassurances into his ear, that there’s no one to blame when it comes to matters of life and death. Nothing could’ve stopped Venti from taking those pills that night, and nothing would’ve made it so Xiao was awake and there to stop it. He can blame himself, blame the world, blame the moon for rising tonight, blame those stupid pills for exisitng, but nothing would change the fact that Venti’s here right now, in a hospital bed with his heartbeat on a steady decline.
“Please don’t leave me,” Xiao cries out, so vulnerable in his grasp. He holds Venti’s weak, scrawny frame in his hands, careful not to break him. Venti holds him back, his grip weakening. He doesn’t manage an answer. Xiao is so, so desperate for one though—he’d do anything. Anything for his voice to call back to him that tonight was one mishap and it’ll never happen again. “I can’t live without you,” he sobs, as if that revelation will do anything to make Venti stay.
Deep down, he knows it won’t.
Depression doesn’t wait for saviours.
“I’m sorry,” Venti whispers back, closing his eyes.
───────
Xiao stays over. He sticks close until the morning. And when it’s time to leave, he presses a kiss against his lover’s forehead and locks their fingers together, indulging in the fading warmth. A tear falls against closed eyes as a gentle exchange of one-sided promises becomes their final goodbye.
When Xiao steps back, he says, “We can work things out together.”
───────
We’re somewhere in an unknown time when Xiao understands that things could not have worked out. He watches, in the months that come, as Venti inches further away from the exuberant person he once was, slowly crawling out of the hollow shell which once made pretending so easy. Watching him deteriorate later into the new year is what hurts—and a part of Xiao wished that his sorrows ended that night.
He knows Venti’s trying. He knows Venti’s trying for him.
But when he wakes up at night to see Venti curled up by the kitchen counter, shovelling a bucket of ice-cream into his mouth, or finds him at his guitar with terror-stricken eyes like the instrument will grow legs and chase him, or watches him walk through the corridors with swinging arms and weak legs, some part of him believes he shouldn’t try so hard to hold on. It’s merciless of him to do so, to force Venti to stay when his heart can’t make peace with living.
At some point, Xiao stops trying to reach out. Every time he sees Venti’s hand hover over the knife in the kitchen for a little too long, he stops pushing him away. Every time he sees Venti ogle the pill bottle in the bathroom, he closes his eyes and turns away. Every time he sees Venti sit on the window sill and place himself in yet another precarious position at the mouth of death, he stops wishing it were him. It’s selfish, maybe, but isn’t it worse fighting for someone who isn’t around anymore? Living like Venti is like living with a ghost. He’s never really there anymore.
He’s quiet—quieter than death itself.
He’s tired. He’s just tired.
Xiao’s tired too. He wishes it’d pass.
───────
And somewhere along the way, it does pass.
Xiao finds himself crouching in front of a gravestone in the middle of autumn, a scarf tied like a noose around his neck and his hands trembling around a bouquet of flowers. He’s been staring at it blankly for the past hour, his mind numb.
It’s been a month, and Xiao hasn’t really been the same since it happened. Some part of him had been waiting for it to happen ever since he made Venti promise in that hospital ward, and never got a response. He’d been waiting for it to happen as he watched the foundation which held their life together eventually crumble, till it came down to a point where Venti could no longer pick up his guitar and that which brought them together was no longer a part of their lives. Xiao didn’t mind—he loved Venti for what he was, whether he was a musician, or not, or some in-between of it.
A gust of wind rustles a pile of dead leaves beside him, scattering them. A bird chirps, and the sound breaks Xiao out of the mind-numbing trance which held him for this long while. His hand loosens around the bouquet till it falls out of his grasp, and like the flick of a switch, his expression contorts into one of deep sorrow. Tears well in his eyes, but it’s only a fraction of the reaction that could encompass the entirety of the grief that he has to bear. He keels over, pressing his head against the ground, palms pressing against the uneven ground.
He tries to utter even a single word to pay his respects, but he only manages a sound of defeat. I’m sorry, he cries because he could’ve been better, I’m sorry, he cries because he should’ve been better, I’m sorry, he cries for all the times that he wasn’t around, I’m sorry, he cries for every time that should’ve been. In his heart, there is no regret but enormous amounts of grief—and while this grief may never leave him, he believes there is some merit in the understanding that they’re both blameless in a situation like this. There can be wishes, and there can be hopes, but there are no blames in what is meant to be a losing game.
And from somewhere, the wind catches the melody of an unfinished song, calling: Xiao, I’m sorry too.