realization (631 words)

It dawns on Xiao then exactly what Venti means, exactly what he has been implying for what he now realizes to have been this whole time.

“This is a nightmare,” he whispers out loud, though it is barely more than a breath. (He thinks if he were to say it any louder, the skies themselves would fall, and Celestia itself would smite him where he stands, and that he would have spoken that truth into existence.)

Venti smiles.

(It is cold; it has no soul— that is not how Venti smiles; it won't even reach his eyes—!)

((Is it a monster? Perhaps it is. Perhaps some wretched demon wandered into Venti's own eternal slumber, ate the sweet dream he'd been keeping just for Xiao to have a home to daily turn to for a breather, for respite; and perhaps that wicked beast had stolen Venti's pretty face—))

…And yet, it is no monster standing right in front of Xiao; no monster ever cries. Not once his mask is on, and they're lying, pinned beneath him, dirty claws upon their throat. They scream and wail in loud lament; writhing, dying, burning, trying— but only Venti's crying.

Only Venti's crying, gentle hand at Xiao's ungloved wrist, and he's still smiling.

I'm sorry, wishes Xiao, but he cannot think too clearly. This isn't how he takes a dream; he knows this, he knows this. But something burns beneath his skin, writhing, trying, dying to perform his duty on this fragile, mortal bard.

And yet he can't.

The fragile, mortal bard extends a hand towards Xiao's face. It stops just short of the mask, Xiao's skin like pins and needles from the proximity of his grace.

The yaksha swallows.

“May I?” Venti asks, voice quiet but all-too clear. His breath is steady; he's unafraid of this beast within his dream, of this demon borne of nightmare, whose vicious claws can't even bear to hold him by the throat.

The monster swallows, then he nods, and Venti removes his mask.

Xiao trembles, as if stripped naked and left standing in the cold. Barbatos blinks back at him, his smile becoming warm; yet, tears still fall, fresh and hot, upon his face.

(Oh, thinks the demon (thinks the monster) ((thinks the beast)). Those are mine.)

Venti's hold on Xiao's bare wrist adjusts; as he clutches the wooden mask tightly to his chest, he pulls the hand from his bare throat and laces gentle fingers together.

“There we go,” he says. (His breath leaves a caress on Xiao's tender cheeks.) “See? This isn't so terrible. A nightmare does not have to be such a terrible thing.”

He reaches out to cup Xiao's face with his free hand. Xiao does not protest. Venti strokes his cheek with his thumb. Xiao does not protest.

Then, with a long, soft sigh, Venti trails his fingers down Xiao's bare neck, sending shivers down his spine; he settles his touch on that intimate space right at his nape: Xiao still does not protest.

Xiao closes his eyes and feels his own shuddering breath.

Venti pulls him ever nearer—

((And then his heart reminds him, rather sharply, of his place. His eyes open.))

“Lord Barbatos,” says the servant, he whose duty is to the dreamers. “I… I… You…”

I didn't realize it was you— but that's a lie; he always knew. Deep inside, he always knew.

—Abruptly, Venti stops. Tensing underneath him, Xiao sees the warm affections in his eyes fade away from sight.

“Don't call me that,” he harshly whispers, and his warm touch slips away.

Xiao's stomach drops; his face turns red in shame. (That old, brass heart inside his chest sinks with another debt to pay.)

Xiao knows he cannot fix this.

So he breaks their gaze, and he slips away.