names (882 words)

"My name," Xiao says, sliding off the railing so that he can stand and face Venti fully. "My real name, from the days when I devoured dreams, it's—"

The moment Xiao turns around, Venti puts a finger to Xiao's lips, quietly shushing him.

"I don't need to know your true name," Venti chides. "You are more than enough as Xiao."

Xiao stares at him, dumbfounded.

"I don't need to hold that power over you," Venti continues, gentle, but firm.

Xiao swallows, his throat suddenly oddly hoarse. But I want you to, he thinks, over the thundering of his heart in his chest and ears. How can I possibly protect you otherwise?

Venti's hand falls back to his side, giving Xiao's voice back to him.

"I thought you were the God of Freedom," Xiao dryly snips. His teeth feel like they are growing into fangs in his mouth, and all his earlier earnestness chokes on their snarling form like roses on thorns.

(It was meant for the confession of his name anyway. It feels too dangerous to show otherwise.)

"I am," Venti confirms. "And that is why I don't want you to give all of yours over to me. I've learned just as well as you that there are few choices made by our own fates."

"How do you know what is best for me?" Xiao's gaze darkens as he crosses his arms, petulant. (The steady weight of his mask vanishes from his hip.)

Venti mirrors him, a mocking eyebrow raised. "And who says you know what's best for me? Honestly, Xiao, for someone so set on not making his own choices, you sure do love making them for others. Why don't you listen to what I have to say for once?"

A flash of annoyance clenches Xiao's jaw, but he catches it quickly and kicks it out with a sigh. "Okay then," he evenly says, consciously releasing the mask that has taken over his face. "I will."

For a few seconds, Venti stares at him like a dead fish, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. But, he gathers himself quickly enough, propping his weight on his arms as he leans in to Xiao and says, "Listen."

(And Xiao is listening. Even though the proximity makes his head spin and his pulse race, Xiao continues to stare attentively back at Venti.)

"Perfection is not a part of godhood. The way you saw me before you knew I was Barbatos, as something just about human— that is what I try to be."

(Venti may say this, that he tries to be as close to human as possible, but the way Xiao feels looking up at him— it's as if he's tugged down his stiff collar to bare his own neck for execution. It is pure devotion. That is how one feels towards a god, is it not?)

"I know you are subservient to the people, but that first comes from your subservience to your Archon. Sometimes I wonder if they are almost the same to you. But you still would not trust all the people with your own autonomy. Now what is that?"

Xiao swallows briars making root in his throat. "People are flawed," he answers.

"Yes, they are," Venti agrees. He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of Xiao's hair behind his ear. "A person might be good in nature, but they will still make mistakes that can hurt others."

"But divinity is not," Xiao argues. (A wild animal seems to growl in his chest, and the wind picks up between them.)

Venti sits up straight and puts his hands on his hips. "And so what are you?"

Xiao blinks and scrunches up his face, puzzled. "What?"

"Are you human, or are you divine?" Venti asks again. "Do you make genuine mistakes, or calculated errors?"

Xiao still doesn't get it. "I'm a weapon," he replies, but it comes out with more uncertainty than every other time he's ever said it. Not wanting to disbelieve his own words, he insists: "A tool for others to use."

Venti sighs and shakes out his head, muttering curses to himself in Mondstadt's language. "Well, are you here by choice or by design, then? You've said from the start, you're here to hunt nightmares, and this is one of them. If it's by choice, you must be a subject in your own right instead of an object others control, and if it's by design, then whoever did so made a mistake, because I am no subject of Liyue."

Xiao has nothing with which he can reply. The words are glass in the ocean of his throat: He can only discern their painful shapes if he plunges his hands into the icy depths. "I don't know."

Venti looks directly at him, his eyes like piercing jade. "I don't know either. And I can't tell you or find out for you."

Xiao looks away and pulls his mask over his face, both a comfort and a ruse. "It's getting late," he says, though the moon has only barely begun showing its face in the sky. "I must return to work."

He plunges into the dark space between dreams before he can hear Venti's reply. A part of him hopes it's a protest, but most of him thinks knows it's nothing at all.