Their touches are fleeting like the breeze that Venti rides in on.

Xiao does not deserve this and yet he yearns. He leans into it, desperate to feel the warmth of Venti's hands and the soft lilting notes of that damned flute that pulled him back from the edge of the beyond. Karma breeds hatred in him.

It is not a matter of who, but what he is, a barely-man drowning in the darkness that soaks the land of Liyue.

"You should know freedom," says Venti. As though it is easy.

Freedom is not within Xiao's nature, first shackled during the war, and now to the aftermath. "This is my job," replies Xiao tersely. Short. Snippy. He is not a man of soft and coddled words, and despite this, Venti still laughs.

"But does it have to be?"

"If not I, then who?"

Venti gives him a sidelong glance that speaks volumes. Most find him young, libidinous, indulgent in his wine and uncaring in some ways. His eyes though—they are old and ancient, carrying the weight of an Archon that's lived for eons and more.

"You are the master of your own destiny."

What an infuriating thing to say. "Oh? And what of you? Is that why you ride the winds, free as a bird instead of keeping your people?"

Venti's gaze turns salty-sweet, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Tell me, Xiao, what did you say when Morax retired?"

He said nothing because he did not know. It was intentional. His Lord Morax knows better than anyone else that Xiao would be the one to talk him out of it. Xiao's jaw tenses as he swallows. "That doesn't matter," he says.

"It doesn't?" Venti's brow raises. "Even old gods get tired. Our people? They flourish, always moving with the times. We can't keep up and eventually become obsolete. You see me as a pitiful, uncaring thing, but I care a lot. I'm still here, aren't I?"

Venti then scoffs, offended. "And yes, a particularly hands-off approach, but I have not left my people, Xiao."

"Then why are you concerned with how I spend my days?"

"Because I—" Venti stops himself and takes a swig from his wineskin. "It is okay to allow people to worry over you," he continues, his voice dipping soft.

"I don't have time for your overt romanticism." Xiao does not say this harshly, it is merely a matter of fact. When Venti reaches out to press his fingers against his forearm, Xiao pulls away. "Xiao—"

"There isn't a need to infect yourself with the likes of me." Even if Xiao craves the touch, even if he thinks about it in his lonely moments, finding a moment of solace in the bleak blackness of his life.

Venti is strangely quiet for a pensive moment. They stand at the edge of Liyue, just barely into Mondstadt so the others won't feel the overbearing presence of another Archon invading their land. "Morax didn't actually die, you know."

Xiao knows. It still stings, Morax's—no, no, Zhongli's—willful decision to leave him out of it only to wind up very much alive. He cannot pretend to understand but he could have been trusted, he could have been told—

He could not have. Xiao is a fool to think that he'll ever learn to relax. He is the sort of being that strives on having a purpose. The day that he stops fighting back the karmic debt is the day he ceases to exist.

"His choices mean little to me."

"You can learn from him."

"The only thing I've learned from my Lord is just where to find myself useful." Xiao sighs, uncharacteristic. "I do not expect for you to understand, but this is what I am."

"Who you are," corrects Venti. "You are a person worth something."

"I am a lance in the night, built only to fight."

Venti's gaze softens. He looks worried, exasperated, and annoyed all in one go. "Xiao, you should know that there is something for you. Someone for you. I—"

"Don't." The quiet request tumbles from Xiao's lips stubbornly. And maybe not forever, but for now, that is the way that things should be. These sorts of words are not what he wants to hear and they are not made for men such as himself.

Venti is the most obstinate person Xiao knows, aside from himself. When he reaches out again to curl those small fingers around his arm, Xiao does not stop him. His touch is warm and grounding.

A moment, thinks Xiao. I allow it for this moment.

It's what he always says when the breeze rolls in to caress his cheeks.