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A sweet taste that’s gentle on the tongue, delightfully refreshing under the shade of Ritou’s crimson maple trees, and uniquely sublime in its aroma, just as if the drink came straight from the barrel back home. Venti flatters Karpillia for her sourcing talents and waxes poetic about the refined tastes of fellow Mondstadters while she eagerly nods along in nostalgia, refilling his glass with Dandelion Wine right to the brim.
The adorable travel-sized bottles of local sake at Eipekkusu catch his eye when he’s done at Sailing Breeze. A few compliments encourage Kaede to open one of the bottles for a sample, followed by another, followed by a complimentary gift set of five as a way to help her reduce lingering souvenir inventory towards the end of the Irodori Festival. The bottles serve as a perfect drink on the go during his walk through Kondo Village and up the towering steps of Inazuma City, where he stops at Shimura’s for a pre-dinner libation. Venti lets the owner vent his grievances about Uyuu Restaurant up the street, cup held out for whichever drink Shimura Kanbei wishes to offer between their shared moaning about rival businesses and their stuffy environments. It just won’t do, Venti announces after the top-shelf sake is emptied, and in exchange for Shimura’s wonderful company and Egg Rolls that were on the house, he’s going to stomp over to Uyuu Restaurant and give those uppity owners a piece of his mind.
Yukio’s stall becomes a momentary distraction on the way, the smell of ramen broth luring him over to its humble spot off the main street, but he promptly returns to his original task after being informed that alcohol is not on the menu.
He nearly wanders into Aisa Bathhouse in error, which he corrects with a dizzying spin on his heel, and pushes his body weight through Uyuu’s doors, where any memory of his previous discussion with Shimura is left behind. Okazaki Rikuto waves him over with a hospitable smile and immediately suggests a flurry of appetizers while Venti reads the drinks menu upside-down. He tosses the menu onto the counter and provides an alternative suggestion: why pick and choose only a handful of dishes, when they should instead celebrate in proper fashion for the final days of the marvelous Irodori Festival – a feat only possible by the extraordinary people of Inazuma?
As most nights tend to go, it works until closing time. Venti awakens to the snapping of Okazaki Erika’s fingers in his face against a backdrop of toppled sake bottles and empty cups on the table. Somewhere in the hours between his arrival and now, she appears to have obtained the ability to grow three hands. Humanity truly is fascinating.
“Mister Venti,” she says curtly. Had he consumed perhaps ten less drinks, Venti would feel the alcohol-laden stickiness of the table’s surface when he peels his cheek off it. “Your bill, if you don’t mind.”
He reaches for the lengthy paper slip, grabs thin air when he overshoots, and eventually plucks it from Erika’s fingers to stare at the number scribbled at the bottom.
“Ah, yes,” he says, dropping the slip onto the traditional mat flooring. “Here you go.”
The furthest he gets is up onto one knee, then the warm room spins into darkness as the floor somehow manages to move up and smack him in the nose.
Consciousness returns in the most cruel form of his arms being yanked up and feet dragging limply on the ground before him, promising to scuff his favorite (and only) pair of shoes. Venti drops his head back, watching the outer streets of Inazuma City appear in nighttime glow from upside-down. His right arm is held by one standard-looking soldier rudely pulling him along the stone walkway, while his left is in the iron grip of some local creature with a pointy red face and very stylish purple bob, in his opinion. The pointy face maintains its stiff expression at him, so Venti lets his eyes wander over to the creature’s other face to see if he has any better luck there.
“Madam Kujou!” Venti exclaims in his most alert voice possible, as to not slur. “What an honor it is to see you again so soon.”
The joy of reunion is not mutual, if he is correctly interpreting the unforgiving pull of his arm in her grasp. One can only imagine why, when they parted on such good terms during his initial arrival to Ritou. The stress of running security around the festival must explain such a reaction.
“Mister Venti,” she states without looking at him, “you are under arrest for public intoxication and inability to pay your restaurant bill. Congratulations – you will be the first to visit the drunk tank during the festival, and hopefully the last.”
It’s not the burn of lantern lights along the street that snaps a little sobriety into his vision, nor the discomfort of the sloshing liquid in his stomach that ignites enough awareness into his current situation. No, the trigger is much more unsettling: the distant reminder of various unwritten rules that gods like them simply do not break; an unspoken agreement between those who rose above the rest, to avoid causing international incidents that have scarred the earth before.
Such as, say, being an Archon and getting arrested in another Archon’s land by their mortal people, who are none the wiser as to what they’re doing. Especially when there’s no telling if that Archon is feeling more charitable after having, to put lightly, a miserable past couple years. Either way, it’s a bad look.
“W-wait.” Venti flails flimsily against the unrelenting grip on his wrists. “Madam Kujou! We should really discuss this. Surely you have more important matters to attend to than – hic – watching over a humble little bard like myself?”
“You’re absolutely right,” she says too agreeably, “which is why we will generously allow you to stay overnight in your own jail cell, so I can continue on with those more important duties in peace.”
Generous indeed, but still not good. Venti’s eyes strain back towards the imposing palace of the Electro Archon up the hills, until Kujou Sara changes direction and drags him to the nearby police station, where he’s doomed to spend the rest of the night with nothing more than the horror that is a plain glass of water, followed by what could lead into terse visit from the local deity herself if Venti doesn’t resolve this quickly.
“I can explain!” His feet kick in reactive panic, one shoe slipping loose and hanging on his big toe by mere luck. “I promise you this isn’t in your best interests, Madam Kujou. Hear a lowly bard out!” The doors of the police station slam shut, banging like a somber bell declaring his fate. Now he can only resort to sending his pleas into the wind and hoping the names he calls hear his summon. “At least let the Traveler vouch for me again! Traveler!” The path gets dimmer as he’s yanked down a stairwell to the cold lower level of the building. His lungs heave for one last attempt, calling upon whatever energy he has left to wield in his momentary sobriety, where the world’s winds will carry his voice to the only other person he can think of.
“Moraaaaaaax!”
---
The check-in process for his state-sponsored hotel room for the night is brief and efficient. Sara’s fellow soldier holds the door open for her as she chucks Venti within his cell, snatching the Vision from his belt while doing so in a most impressive maneuver worthy of the Raiden Shogun’s most trusted warrior. The compliment lined up on his lips gets muffled into the cell’s lumpy futon when he falls into it face-first. On a positive note, the mattress itself doesn’t smell too strongly of straw from under its thick blankets, so he’s certainly slept in worse places after a long evening out.
The rattle of the cell’s iron bars when the soldier locks up the door reminds him that the current situation is still of concern. Venti scrambles to his feet, nudging the rest of his shoe on before it does slip from his toes, and uses the bars to pull himself upright. The presence of electricity emanating from across the city’s bridge jolts some much-needed alertness within him to help argue his case.
“Madam Kujou,” he says in what probably sounds like a more serious tone in his head, “I should, at the very least, be offered a lawyer.”
“And if the defendant were in sane and sound mind, he would be able to manage his own legal affairs, but as the defendant is not currently sober, he is unable to make such decisions on his own.” Sara scribbles some lines into a logbook with a traditional brush pen and nods at the other solider, silently confirming he can take his leave back upstairs. “We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”
The logbook goes onto a desk near the stairwell, where his Vision is locked away in one of its drawers. Venti presses his face between the bars with a whine. There could have been a chance to play a few tunes to help pass the time, were it not for his genius idea to turn his lyre into the fake Vision for convenience. Then again, considering Sara’s present mood, she’d probably also confiscate any leisure items anyway.
His self-pitying halts when the soldier unexpectedly returns in a rush down the stairs.
“Madam Kujou.” Venti rolls his eyes when the soldier puffs out his chest after his bow. Overachiever. “A visitor for the prisoner has arrived.”
“Oh?” Sara’s monotone breaks at the news, her brows raised in curiosity. Venti’s brows hike up as well, wondering who would have shown up and who would even know he was here. “Very well. Send them in. And if it’s the Traveler, the answer is no.”
There goes that potential theory. The soldier nods and steps aside to wave at the stairwell, signaling to whoever is waiting up top. Steady footsteps descend in a rhythm that tugs distant memories to the front of Venti’s mind, clear as a summer’s day against the swirl of drink still happily coursing through his body. The surrounding thrum of electricity begins to lose its dominance in the atmosphere, no longer the only other divine force in play. Venti peels his face away from the bars when the visitor appears, so that his jaw can fully drop in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
“Answering your call.” The man now known as Zhongli crosses his arms and matches Sara’s stoic expression when he looks over. Venti might have shot a sour look back, had he not registered the shocking revelation just now: Zhongli heard his voice in the wind, and answered. “After that, finding your exact location was merely a process of elimination.”
“Eheh…” Venti deflates a bit against the cell’s bars, wondering if the Traveler would be a preferable savior in this situation, so that no other Archon would be catching Venti in the act of breaking one of the hundreds of unwritten rules. “What’s wrong with enjoying yourself when visiting such a beautiful region after all these years? The food, the drink, and of course, the people, with Madam Kujou outshining all the–”
“Silence.” Sara offers him one glare as her last warning before turning back to the logbook on the desk. “I understand you’re a visitor for Mister Venti. Please state your name and relation to the prisoner.” After a quick glance up and down the man before her, she adds, “And country of origin, plus the reason for your stay in Inazuma.”
“Zhongli, from Liyue, and visiting for the Irodori Festival,” he replies. Venti blinks at that claim, certain he would have already crossed paths with the Geo Archon by now if Zhongli also received a formal invitation for the festival. “I understand my…colleague here has caused you some trouble. I am happy to not only take him off your hands, but also handle all supervision of his person during the rest of his stay in Inazuma, so that any potential for additional misbehavior is stopped.”
“Colleague?!” Venti squeezes his face between the bars again. “After all we’ve been through together, I’ve at least earned the title of friend!”
Sara nods along as she writes the statement into the logbook, ignoring the protests about accuracy from the other side. “Thank you, Mister Zhongli. Your offer is appreciated, though I must also inform you that bail fees will apply, primarily to cover the prisoner’s pending restaurant bills.”
“I see. And what is the total of those fees?”
Sara flips to the next page in her logbook. “Three hundred fifty thousand Mora.”
“Ah.” Zhongli pauses, staring blankly over Sara’s shoulder. “That is unfortunate.”
“How do you not have that kind of Mora on you?” Venti asks through gritted teeth.
“Even if you did,” adds Sara, “I am reluctant to release your ‘colleague’ in his current state of inebriation. This is a busy time, Mister Zhongli, and security is of the utmost importance. Therefore, I will make you this offer: Mister Venti will stay here overnight, and I will release him to you first thing in the morning. Your assistance in ensuring he gets on the first boat back to Mondstadt tomorrow will be worth both the precious police time and costs involved.”
“A most agreeable proposal, madam. I accept your terms.” Typical. Venti makes a face while Zhongli signs his name into the logbook on the spot Sara points to, sealing the agreement in writing like the square he is. “If there are no more matters to discuss, then I will return in the morning.”
“One last thing.” Sara’s gaze sharpens as she looks over Zhongli a second time. “All foreign visitors were given entry papers to verify their right of attendance to the Irodori Festival. I trust you have yours for me to review?”
Zhongli stares at the open hand Sara has hovering his way. He then stares at his shoes, over to Venti briefly, up to Sara’s face, then back down to his shoes.
“Ah.” Another pause. “I suppose I should have thought of that.”
---
“Way to go, blockhead,” Venti grumbles two minutes later, face once against squished between the cell’s bars. “At least I was invited here – with the papers to prove it!”
“I assumed the Sakoku Decree’s repeal made such paperwork unnecessary,” is Zhongli’s lukewarm argument as he stands uselessly next to him. Sara is expertly ignoring their bickering, busy with locking up Zhongli’s Vision in the same desk drawer as Venti’s and updating her logbook once again. Venti must have drained the last of Sara’s patience on his own arrest, for she gave Zhongli zero time to explain his apparent illegal entry before he too was shoved into the same jail cell. The Vision was plucked from his jacket just as efficiently and locked away, where it now pointlessly takes up space next to the Anemo Vision. At least Venti’s isn’t just for show.
“Mister Zhongli,” Sara declares, “you’re under arrest for illegal entry into Inazuma. I’m sure your colleague here can keep you company while I figure out what to do with the both of you in the morning.”
“This is not ideal,” Zhongli whispers to Venti when Sara steps away to store the logbook on the desk.
“You think?” Venti clings to the metal bars, intentionally keeping his hands too preoccupied to pry away and smack some sense across Zhongli’s face. “We need to think of something. Something drastic, probably.”
Zhongli shifts towards him in alarm at the implication. “You will not–”
“What are you two muttering about?”
“Ahem! Madam Kujou Sara.” Venti props his hands on his hips authoritatively when Sara approaches their cell. Summoning a majestic gust of wind to make his cape billow is tempting, though perhaps overkill. “You leave us no choice but to reveal the error you’ve made by keeping us here.”
“Really now.” She also sets her fists on her hips, immediately taking claim of the most authoritative-looking person in the room. “It seems my only mistake was letting you run loose after your rather unconventional arrival here.”
“Oh, it’s much worse than that,” he counters with a cheeky wag of his finger. At the very corner of his eye, he sees Zhongli do an uncharacteristic and desperate shake of his head at him. “For you see, you have committed one of the greatest crimes known to this land: arresting both the God of Wind, Lord Barbatos, and the Prime of the Adepti himself, Rex Lapis!”
He stretches out his arms between him and Zhongli in dramatic revelation and stares down at Sara in anticipation of her astonished reaction. The pose also allows him to conveniently avoid seeing whatever look Zhongli is giving him. Probably not a kind one, even though Venti’s putting everything on the line to get them both out. So ungrateful.
(Ungrateful, endlessly frustrating, as thick in the head as the biggest rocks in Liyue…ancient and disquieting thoughts he can chew on later, when he has a bottle back in hand and no longer needs to concentrate.)
Despite the waggling of Venti’s fingers, Sara doesn’t appear particularly awed, reacting at the miraculous confession with only one slow blink.
“You’re Lord Barbatos of Mondstadt,” she says blandly, “and the man with you is Rex Lapis of Liyue, who died and is now here.”
“Exactly!” Venti ceases his finger-wiggling. “Glad you’re so understanding.”
“Oooh. I see!” As expected of a straight-faced soldier, the sarcasm is painfully obvious in her exclamation. She faces Zhongli and crosses her arms. “Well, ‘Rex Lapis,’ I’ve heard that the Lord of Geo can mint Mora within the very palm of his hand. So, go on. Make a coin of Mora, and I’ll let you two go. I’m watching.”
A temporary surge of sobriety appears just long enough for Venti to realize the trap he’s set them in. Zhongli regards Sara in the same way as he did when the status of his entry papers was questioned. Sara remains in place, apparently having tapped into a hidden reserve of patience to watch the upcoming display of magically-appearing Mora.
“There are several legends regarding the ways in which Rex Lapis can mint Mora,” Zhongli finally answers. “It is a catalyst for many forms of transactions, and there are just as many theories on how such a catalyst came into existence and how it is created. A simplistic theory that Rex Lapis can generate coins within his very hands is common outside of Liyue, but modern storytellers from Liyue Harbor favor the legend that–”
“Morax, she already left.”
“Oh.”
---
One hour into imprisonment is when Venti finally accepts they’ve hit a brick wall in their escape plan. The last, extreme option involves using their powers to break the walls and casually cause property damage across the city block from the combination of tornadoes and earthquakes. Sure, that’ll get them out before the Electro Archon notices and zaps them into dust as punishment for being moronic enough to get into this mess.
Venti turns away from the bars to observe Zhongli sitting on the cell’s rustic wooden bench, eyes firmly closed and legs and arms crossed tightly in defense. Quite the sight to see such an overdressed man in this kind of predicament – and hilarious, if they were not in the same predicament together. And maybe somewhat nice, if they were in a friendlier setting, if they could reunite on pleasant terms after so many years apart, for once.
But it’s always like this. Not quite the right time, nor the right place, nor without a hundred other matters to attend to first, until they push and pull each other enough to give in for a couple nights. After that, they part and the cycle completes, so they can start all over again when they next meet. As only a handful of long-forgotten myths imply, Morax won’t leave the embrace of Liyue’s attention and Barbatos won’t stick around for more than a few centuries at a time. Venti exhales out an eon’s worth of frustration in a single breath, and it’s still not enough to let everything go.
“How did you actually get here?” he asks, breaking the silence with the easiest question nagging his mind.
“I made acquaintances with a boat’s captain who had just received permission to import Liyuen goods into Inazuma,” Zhongli explains, continuing to keep his eyes shut. “We were discussing his wares and he requested my expertise, but schedules were tight and it was more efficient to review his goods on the way here.”
“So you talked his ear off and got distracted until you were already across the ocean.”
Zhongli’s brow twitches – an old tell of irritability that he’ll always deny. The predictable comfort of it almost encourages an involuntary smile across Venti’s lips.
“Local officials were occupied with some other matter by the time we arrived, so security was light and they must have not noticed me wandering by on the docks. Something regarding stolen books from a warehouse and a suspicious outlander on the other side of the city, I believe.” Venti hides his cough into his palm. Great, what was almost his first arrest by Kujou Sara caused enough of a distraction to let Zhongli slip through the usual checkpoints. “And I admit I assumed any entry papers were no longer required, based on the current rumors circulating between Liyue’s fishermen.”
“Then whatever rumor mill they heard that from was badly mistaken.” Venti releases a dramatic sigh and spins on his heel back to the iron bars sealing them in. “Well, Morax, hope you have some ideas hidden up your sleeve that you’d like to share, before you-know-who sniffs us out and uses us for target practice. Hey, how about you turn into a lizard and slip between the bars?”
“A…” Zhongli’s brow moves into a scrunch this time. Perfect, that means he’s offended. “Do you really see me as something so quaint?”
“Oh, as opposed to your usual size? And destroy the entire block if you transform right here?” Venti places a hand on his chest, now playing the offended one himself. “You act like any idea I have is poorly thought-out.”
“If we’re going to discuss poor ideas, then forging my signature–”
“Always with the signature! You never let anything go.”
“Regardless, I could likely find my way out of this cell and out of Inazuma.” Shocking; he chose not to also bring up the incident of wine being poured all over his head. “But that doesn’t address how you will leave.”
“I’m not going without my Vision.” Venti curls his fingers around the bars and stares wistfully at the desk across the dark room, like it’ll take pity on his puppy dog eyes any second now and burst all its drawers open. “Unlike yours, it’s more than just a chunk of rock.”
“Is it? Ah – a lyre of yours.” Once again the old strings tug in his chest, this time at Zhongli remembering their past conversations on the possibility of transforming belongings, just like how they can transform themselves. Venti brushes those feelings aside for now with a muted nod to confirm Zhongli’s statement. “Still, I fail to see the issue. You could leave this cell and reclaim your Vision just as easily as me. Why not change into your original form to do so?”
Heat flares throughout the entirety of Venti’s body, blurring his sight and unleashing shrilly ringing in his ears that brutally repeats the suggestion again and again. His fingers seize up on the frigid metal bars and burn the cold deep into his hands. He shoots an icy stare over his shoulder when the heat passes just as quickly as it came. Zhongli blinks at his tight jaw and hunched shoulders, then moves his gaze to the floor a second later, arms loosening in their defensive clench.
The mere thought of dropping this face, this legacy, for even a second – of all people, Morax should know better. After all these years, Morax should know better.
Not that there was any reason to expect this time to be different between them.
Venti peels his palms off the bars and goes to the single futon on the floor. His shoes are kicked off first to the end, then his cape thrown towards the top to roll into a makeshift pillow later. The hat gets tossed onto the side of the bench that Zhongli isn’t occupying, where it kicks up a thin ring of dust on impact. His fingers slow instinctively when he gets to the corset, delayed over distracting memories of old resurfacing. Shaking his head, he pops the hooks free before chucking the piece on top of the hat. Undressed just enough to be comfortable for sleep, he pulls back the futon’s blankets and crawls in, laying with his back facing Zhongli. The mattress feels as lumpy as it looks, but the blankets aren’t threadbare and his cape serves as a suitable-enough pillow to get him through this lonely night.
The chill in his hands seeps through his body faster than the blankets can counter. Venti draws his knees up, sensing the worst parts of returning sobriety beginning to set in. Stupid Morax. It always ends up like this, and inevitably they’ll do it again.
He refuses to turn around when he hears the shuffling of footsteps behind him. It’s bothersome that he can always tell what each sound indicates, no matter how many centuries they stay apart. A soft clack of shoes as Zhongli slips them off and nudges them somewhere, probably under the bench to keep them out of the way. The rustling of his jacket and how it falls somewhere behind Venti’s head to also serve as an improvised pillow. The clean whip of a silk tie coming off his neck, and the clink of cufflinks that he likely paid too much for.
Venti stubbornly buries more of his face into his cape when the blankets shift to allow a warm, solid presence beneath them. Zhongli’s movements are cautious as he lies on the futon, signaling an opening should Venti want to push him aside.
Maybe it’s the waning drink in his stomach, or maybe it’s the jail cell’s temperature dropping as the moon arcs higher into the night. The excuse ultimately doesn’t matter, when any excuse is good enough to explain this repetition they can’t seem to break.
“I’m sorry, Barbatos,” Morax says softly over the back of his neck.
Venti holds his breath, waiting to find a response that might deviate from what they usually do.
“You never visit me,” is what he goes with.
“I know. I’m sorry for that, too.”
He should resist the arm that snakes over his waist, or at least pinch the skin on it to emphasize that Morax isn’t forgiven yet. It’s tempting when Zhongli’s fingers poke out from the hem of the blankets in front of Venti’s face, but then he’s distracted at the reveal of their fleshy, mortal color. He reaches out on a whim, brushing the side of his hand against Zhongli’s ordinary-looking thumb.
“Are you enjoying it?” he asks. “Living among them this way.”
“I am.” Zhongli’s breath comes hotter and closer against his nape. Venti chews on the inside of his cheek, letting the answer linger.
“Meaning…?”
“Yes, Barbatos. You were right that it’s an experience worth having.”
“Hmm.” Venti squirms into the warmth enveloping him, until the line of his spine presses flat against Zhongli’s chest. It’s as pleasant as he remembers, and as usual, it makes all the reasons he shouldn’t enjoy it so much completely forgettable.
“Am I forgiven?” Zhongli asks, as he typically does when they fall into this pattern.
“For tonight,” Venti confirms, like he has every time before.
---
The chorus of songbirds carried in the wind stirs him awake.
Venti blinks no more than twice to check the level of sunlight and estimate the time before shutting his eyes again. Shortly after dawn, he guesses, meaning plenty more hours to remain within whatever warm embrace he’s found himself. Instead of his rolled-up cape, his cheek is now pressed against something solid that smells faintly of flowery cologne. Venti spares another blink for one more refresher, and ducks his head with a grin that he really shouldn’t allow.
Somehow he rolled over in the middle of the night to curl against Zhongli’s side, and somehow Zhongli shifted flat on his back and wiggled an arm under Venti to keep him there. Miraculous, seeing as Morax tends to sleep like a literal rock and rarely budges an inch from what Venti recalls in the previous times they’ve shared each other’s company.
He squirms in closer where he can, sliding an arm across Zhongli’s chest and unsubtle in his worming of a leg between Zhongli’s thighs. Such selfish movements disregard whether the other man is still soundly asleep, but Venti can tell he isn’t, based on the current pattern of his breath across the top of his head. In the corner of his eye, Venti notices that his braids have lost their ribbon ties somewhere during the night. Whether by accident or deliberate remains to be verified, but Morax always did seem to be fascinated by the radiant teal at the tips of his hair, and how they looked when spun between molten-tipped fingers.
Those golden hands are hidden in this form, but it doesn’t deter Zhongli from brushing his normal fingers through one of the loose braids now. Venti’s eyelids flutter with the heavy urge to slip back into sleep, to let the rare moment of peace stretch longer so they can once again avoid the subject they’ve been dancing around for centuries.
“When was the last time we laid like this?” Venti asks almost inaudibly. He rises with the chest he’s halfway sprawled across when Zhongli takes a long inhale.
“A little over five hundred years ago, as I remember.”
“Mm. That long ago?”
“Your extensive naps tend to make regular meetings more difficult to achieve.”
“I suppose they do.” He’s already pressed as close as he can and tries to wiggle closer, legs parting more and mouth dangerously close to Zhongli’s cheek. It’s too easy to fall back into what they always do, and easier still to think this time will be different. “You still smell like lady’s perfume.”
“And you still smell like Cecilias.” Another deep inhale, this time buried in the hair at the top of his head. “Once you allow the wine to wear off.”
“Flatterer.” One hand creeps up to cup the side of Zhongli’s sharp jaw. “But I’m wiser now to cheap compliments like that.”
Zhongli eases his fingers out of Venti’s hair, meeting his gaze when the bard pushes his body higher up. “What do you want me to say, Barbatos?”
“I want you to say you missed me.” Venti’s entirely on top now as he hovers over Zhongli, eyelids drooped in the way he knows Morax struggles to resist. Zhongli’s face remains annoyingly stoic, but the warm hand sliding up the back of Venti’s thigh signals the charm is working, as expected. His fingers stop at the hem of Venti’s shorts, as though debating if they should dip inside and study the full length of those white stockings. “Say you missed me, Morax.”
“You…” Zhongli’s lips part, mixing their exhales in the short distance between their mouths. This time, maybe, definitely, things will be different. “I–”
“Ahem.”
A metaphorical bucket of icy water douses the scene and washes away the warmth. Both Zhongli and Venti startle as though they’ve been electrocuted, freeze in place, then look over to the cell’s entryway in unison.
Her Excellency, the Raiden Shogun of Inazuma, Almighty Narukami Ogosho and God of Thunder herself, stands on the other side of the iron bars with her arms crossed and one foot tapping in rapidly diminishing patience.
Ei’s eyes never leave them as they timidly push aside the blankets and rise to collect their clothes. Venti lets his hat sit lopsided in the interest of saving time and doesn’t bother brushing out the wrinkles in his cape. Even Zhongli seems to be aware of the little time they have to get their act together, for once, and allows his jacket to remain crinkled and unbuttoned after he shrugs it back on. Venti manages to work one braid back in his hair by the time Zhongli finds his shoes, which ends up being pointless when he remembers he has no idea where his ties went.
Disheveled and hair all array, they stand in silence before the Electro Archon and await her word. Eventually her foot tapping ceases and she frowns deeply with her hands on her hips. Venti can’t stop himself from looking up every few seconds, bracing himself for the likely event of a sudden indoor thunderstorm.
“Your Excellency,” comes a breathless voice from the stairwell, followed by the telltale clicks of wooden shoes. Kujou Sara appears hurriedly, then composes herself to bow behind her Archon with proper respect. “There is no need to waste any of your time with these prisoners–”
A raised hand from the Shogun halts Sara’s explanations and has her bowing again in humility. With the interruption stopped, Ei folds her arms again and narrows her violet eyes at the two men, holding longer on Zhongli in particular. He reacts under the electric glare with another telling twitch of his brow: a sign of barely-held back embarrassment. Venti finally stops glancing up to catch Sara’s peculiar stare at them from over the Raiden Shogun’s shoulder.
“Here is what will happen,” Ei states, voice echoing throughout the hallway. “I will assume I saw nothing here today. In exchange, you will gather your belongings and take the first boat to either Liyue or Mondstadt. Kujou Sara will escort you to Ritou and personally see that you leave these islands. Are we understood?”
A simple nod from both seals the terms. Ei drops her arms, blissfully without the crackle of lightning encompassing them, and turns to ascend the stairs without another word.
Sara watches her leave and waits for the sound of footsteps to disappear before turning her attention back to the prisoners. How unfortunate that she does, for Venti would really like a private moment to fall to his knees right now and sing praises to Lord Barbatos, as they do in the cathedral. Freedom, and without being zapped to oblivion!
“I won’t try to understand how you’ve managed this,” Sara says while she unlocks the desk drawers, where their Visions lay waiting, “but regardless, you should be thankful for receiving such unwarranted mercy from Her Excellency, the Almighty Narukami Ogosho, God of…”
Venti tunes out from there and playfully smacks Zhongli’s forearm with a chuckle. “Told you I would get us out.”
“You did nothing,” Zhongli says stiffly. He rubs his forehead; no doubt the weight of the Electro Archon seeing him is physically sinking in. “Outrageous, as always. You haven’t changed.”
“Neither have you.” Sara approaches them before Venti can sneak in another hit on Zhongli’s arm, so he rushes to find his hair ties and redo the hooks on his corset before they begin their merry journey back north.
---
The first boat out of Ritou is bound for Liyue. This means a return to the harbor by late afternoon, and then he’ll need to wait until early evening for the next ferry to Mondstadt, or pass on waiting around and head back on foot. Either method puts his arrival time to the city well into the night – a fraction too late to sing on the streets for coin and still make it to Angel’s Share before closing. Venti throws his arms over the railing of the passenger ship, watching the pinks and purples of Inazuma’s islands gradually shrink as they sail across the ocean. The echoes of attendees’ voices enjoying the festival’s final days soon fade from the distance, leaving him with just the sight and sound of blue skies and blue waters for the next several hours. A melancholic and poetic scene worthy of a spontaneously-written ballad, were he not in a certain mood he’s denying he’s in.
The handful of other fellow passengers taking the early-bird ferry have moved below deck for the complimentary breakfast, so he’s not expecting anyone else for a while. When a too-familiar presence approaches him, Venti returns his arms to his sides and stubbornly looks away.
“I thought you’d be busy taking advantage of the free breakfast downstairs,” he says.
“I assumed you were doing just that, which is why I went there first.” Venti lets the stubborn act go and looks over to see Zhongli crossing his arms and gazing over the sea. His jacket has far less wrinkles compared to the morning, meaning that he must have briefly surveyed the dining area for Venti, then spent the rest of his time procuring an iron from the crew, and more time after that ensuring the iron got to the precisely correct temperature for whatever material his clothing is made of. Venti releases a too-fond scoff through his teeth. So predictable, and somehow still so endearing after all these years.
“It’s getting loose.”
“What?” Zhongli’s already moving by the time Venti glances his way again. Gloved fingers catch a windswept braid on the side of his head, just before the ribbon barely holding it together flies away and goes wherever the ocean breeze takes it. “Oh – thanks.”
They’ve done this before, so Venti knows the exact angle to tilt his head whenever Zhongli offers. After that, Zhongli knows how to twist the braid to ensure its shape lasts throughout the day, and how to tie the ribbon at the end to ensure it stays in place. Despite the passage of centuries since their last reunion and last quiet moment together, Zhongli fixes his hair like he just did it yesterday, and every day before yesterday. Venti strokes the completed braid once it falls from Zhongli’s fingers. Saying thanks again is the normal response, the expected reaction should they wish to maintain what they’ve always had.
Instead, Venti says, “We can’t seem to break this cycle, can we?”
Zhongli folds his arms again, eyes lingering on the braid in Venti’s hand. “Change inevitably becomes more difficult the longer we remain.”
“You know when you’re the most annoying, Morax? When you’re right.” Venti returns to the ocean view and sets his elbows on the ship’s railing. Inazuma is a row of tiny dots on the horizon now, soon to be overtaken by the vast sea. “Guess I’m not getting back home until late.”
There’s a shift next to him that doesn’t feel just physical. Zhongli comes close to his side but takes a second longer than usual to get settled in his stance – another old tell, indicating when something is weighing on his mind and tongue. Venti maintains his focus on the rolling waters, telling himself to not hope too easily, even when his body betrays him by holding onto a breath in foolish anticipation.
“I could walk with you back to Mondstadt.”
His lungs seize on the breath and cling until he forces it out with a pained huff. Venti subtly shakes his head in disbelief. Incredible to finally have one of his simplest wishes fulfilled – and all it took was being arrested overseas and risking getting fried by another Archon.
Then again, they always did tend to resort to heavy-handed approaches when trying to get each other’s attention. Perhaps simply offering upfront is one way to break this repetition, now that their time is freer than ever before.
“Why, Morax.” Leaning into the sturdy presence on his side, Venti bats his eyes bashfully in the way that always gets under Zhongli’s skin. “You did miss me.”
Zhongli’s brow doesn’t scrunch, as it’s normally supposed to under such obvious teasing. Rather, he slips an arm around Venti and leans in towards his ear. Venti should expect nothing; knows he shouldn’t delude himself that this time will be any different, but he still tilts his head at the right angle again and waits for Zhongli to avoid answering.
When Zhongli does whisper the answer into his ear, Venti gasps at the fissures that rumble beneath them, revealing the first cracks in the foundation they set together ages ago.