He is friend-shaped.
A warm hand pressed to the top of his head; soft, brown leather and the smell of the earth; that low, murmuring timbre as he monologues about things that mostly confuse him—it is all familiar.
Guoba doesn't know why. Mr. Zhongli is like a fertile loam to him; sturdy, hearty, and prone to making things take root. Those around him are like plants to tend to, and Mr. Zhongli prunes with gentle hands, carefully guiding others along.
Like calls to like. Guoba struggles to remember who and what he is, the barest flashes of his past, dreamlike in the way they take hold of him. Mr. Zhongli isn't mortal—even Guoba can tell. He carries the scent of not only stone but Geo incarnate. He smells like Liyue, like home, like the things he can just barely recall.
Others do not take Guoba seriously. They pet him and smile, and they call him cute, but they do not indulge. They assume him to be stupid as he waddles around on his fat, squat feet. He is dumb only in how he cannot talk, and though slow in other ways, his mind is sharp. He just cannot remember; he's lost bits and pieces himself, struggling to put them back together.
Mr. Zhongli talks to Guoba as though he answers back.
Big words and concepts that Guoba can barely understand, but they're warm. It's sweet. Guoba likes things that make him feel comforted and grounded to the earth because even if he cannot remember, he knows that he's one with the soil. Zhongli anchors him there, his resonate Geo warming the tips of his claws.
"Old friend," Zhongli always starts, something that Guoba doesn't quite get.
Familiar, he thinks. Familiar, familiar—it's just on the tip of his tongue—
And then he loses the thought as he often does, distracted by Xiangling's cooking and the sweet way that Mr. Zhongli pets his head.
"I took Childe to Guili Plains today."
Ah, the new guy, the one with hair the color of an overripe sunsettia. Guoba hasn't determined if he's friend-shaped or not, but Childe has treated him well and snuck him treats when Xiangling isn't looking. A good start.
"He has an insatiable curiosity when it comes to Liyue. I do not pretend to know what exactly his role to play here is, but I was promised chaos, and so I shall wait." Mr. Zhongli picks at his food, swirling his chopsticks through the meaty broth of his stew. "Between you and I, though," he continues, leaning forward for a conspiratorial whisper, "he's far smarter than most give him credit for. I know he's known for his brawn, but there's a brain there too. He's interesting, and so, I took him back home."
Mr. Zhongli leans back, sighing wistfully. "There are times that I wish you could remember."
Remember, remember— Guoba tilts his head to the side, the ghosts of old memories stroking his core. A woman with a kind smile. A stern god wrapped in white linen, arms held stubbornly across his chest. Hearths and cookfires blazing on hot afternoons.
Guoba chirps as though he understands. He does not, but Mr. Zhongli doesn't need to know. He's older, lonelier, and craves friendship whether he seeks it or not. Guoba is more than willing to listen, especially if he gets food out of it.
#
Tartaglia is a Harbinger, eleventh his title, the youngest and most volatile. At least, that's what Xiangling reads aloud from the Liyue Harbor Chronicle one morning.
"It is advised to keep one's wits about them when dealing with our most recent visitor—"
"Come on, it doesn't say that." Childe fumbles with his chopsticks and Mr. Zhongli sits opposite him, face creased with mirth. Guoba takes up the last spot, dancing about in his chair, enjoying the warm afternoon in the company of others.
"It does!" Xiangling slaps the paper down on the table. "Right there."
Childe leans over, blinks, and bursts into laughter. "Xiangling, that's a gossip column."
"I mean, are they wrong? Shouldn't we keep our wits about you?" She's teasing of course, and Childe rolls his eyes.
"I'm not here to hurt anyone," he says, shoving a piece of boar into his mouth. He's better with the chopsticks though his technique could use work. Not that Guoba can say much. He's just as useless with them. He eats with his paws, making a mighty mess. "I have one goal—and that's to steal the Gnosis of Morax."
Morax. The name strikes a chord in Guoba's being, and it isn't because he's their god, this is something more personal. Guoba thinks, he thinks really hard—
But thoughts are fleeting like the leaves on the wind, and he's easily distracted by the food that Xiangling sets before him.
Mr. Zhongli drinks his tea quietly, mouth tugged into a smile that the others seem to miss. He catches Guoba's gaze and winks. Guoba chirps back, hiding a grin-like expression behind his paw.
They eat. They laugh. Xiangling tells a joke and Childe laughs raucously. He doesn't seem the villain that others paint him to be. There are layers to him.
Guoba sees the depth of man when faced with it. He has watched mortals for centuries, even when he was asleep in his little shrine. Childe is like an onion, parts of him peeled back, other bits tasty and tart, all of him rooted at one end. Onions make people cry—but only when cut wrong. When Guoba first met him he smelled strange, felt strange, and seemed on edge. But Liyue has warmed him. The people here have cut into him at a different angle, leaving only sweetness instead of bitter fumes that sting the eyes.
Childe reaches out and rubs his head kindly. His palm is warm against Guoba's rubbery fur.
It's nice. Childe has made friends. Childe, Childe, Childe—
He is friend-shaped. Guoba has decided this because Childe is like Mr. Zhongli and treats him as a treasure, not something dumb.
And, perhaps, Mr. Zhongli thinks that too with the way that he stares, amber eyes unblinking as they watch Childe's face. Guoba tilts his head, observing. He goes unnoticed, shoveling food into his mouth and still, Mr. Zhongli does not look away.
Guoba doesn't think he's ever seen such softness melt across the man's face, but he likes it. Mr. Zhongli doesn't seem so lonely anymore.
#
Things get bad. Childe is dumb and raises Osial from his watery grave. Zhongli is dumber, though Guoba doesn't know exactly what he did—only that Childe yelled a lot and came out of the ordeal looking like a kicked puppy.
Osial, Osial— the name thrums in Guoba's veins as familiarity rushes through them. This is a name that he knows, that tugs at him until he's teetering on his feet.
Liyue prospers but the damage is done—Childe and Mr. Zhongli are no longer talking. Mr. Zhongli pines, staring after the man, his mouth pitifully pouted. And Childe does the same, though he tries to play it cool. Tries and fails to be nonchalant, only to stare the moment Mr. Zhongli is gone, sighing dramatically.
"Gods, they're dumb," says Xiangling as she stands over her wok. She stirs her food but watches the two men act like absolute idiots.
Guoba chirps in the affirmative. He might not date, but he knows love. With these two, it's clear as day. No one notices Guoba when he watches from the background, but he sees it all. Lingering touches, the way they would lean into each other, how Childe would listen and Mr. Zhongli would talk.
He is not a fool. He is also vexed. Guoba chirps again, this time mildly annoyed.
Xiangling rolls her eyes dramatically. "I've tried. I've lured them here with food. I've tried getting them to go on commissions together. I've even tried to get the Traveler involved, but nooooooo. Why are men so stubborn, huh? Guoba, you're a guy—you tell me."
Guoba shrugs, having no answer. All that he knows is that it needs to be fixed because he misses Mr. Zhongli's pets and his warm greeting of 'Old friend'. Childe's good-natured laugh and smile. But mostly, Guoba misses watching the both of them dance around each other because it provided endless entertainment and warmed his belly.
He is a creature of the hearth, even if he doesn't remember it. Things like family and love draw him instinctually, like a moth to a cookflame. Mr. Zhongli's gaze as he watches Childe root Guoba to the earth. He misses it, misses them, they deserve happiness, not this warped misery that bleeds through them both.
One day Ekaterina escapes the minefield that is their falling out. She takes up their usual table, hiding her face in her hands. "Idiots," she murmurs, "Mostly Childe. I'd murder him if I could, not no, it's my job to babysit."
Guoba pushes her arm gently with his paw and she steals a peek. Ekaterina is friend-shaped too, prone to soft kisses against his fuzzy brow when no one is looking. Guoba hugs her around the middle and she hugs him back, a tight squeeze as she sighs against him.
"I'll talk to him," she mutters mostly to herself. "If, at least, for my sanity."
#
Guoba is old. He knows it. Feels it in his bones. He was found in a shrine, risen from the earth on dusty paws, blinking away centuries of sleep as Xiangling shoved a corn bun into his mouth.
If there's one thing he's learned, it's that love sorts itself out. Guoba is not surprised to see Childe and Mr. Zhongli eating meals again.
Or holding hands. Those lingering touches. How Mr. Zhongli leans close to whisper in his ear, leaving Childe red-faced and tugging at his collar.
Mr. Zhongli is just as ancient. Guoba doesn't remember why, but he carries the scent of stone. Zhongli's being is as though he's been molded from the very earth itself. Childe is new, like fresh water from a spring. Mr. Zhongli has dipped his hands into the cool stream and is better for it.
The loneliness that once plagued him has been washed away.
And, if Guoba sees them share kisses in the dark; if he spots them under low-hanging eaves, or pressed against alley walls, or disappearing into Mr. Zhongli's apartment for the night—well, it's not as though he can tell anyone.
Nor would I, he thinks, hiding laughter behind his paw.
Besides, the Harbor can use some good gossip.