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For many months and years, I pretended that I had no hope.
Still not understanding anything, I dove into the deep.
It’s a notorious habit of Xingqiu to run away. Born of a need for reprieve from everyday life, it isn’t strange for Chongyun to wake up one morning to see a vacant space beside him, a few clothes missing in their drawer, and a tense silence as he would look around the small flat, finding there’s one but him. Really, he should be used to it (after the last ten times within the last year) but he can feel the tug in his heart, a winding apprehension that leaves a small grimace upon Chongyun’s otherwise stoic face. He’s left longing for his opposite, his counterpart, his partner...
Funny how many stories speak of the ideal of soulmates, of the “happily ever after” bliss that comes from finding that one significant other. “Such pretty lies, these stories,” he remembered Xingqiu once said, as one such book fell from his hands. It’s not slander at him, nor slander to their relationship — only a simple fact, a blatant truth considering their every growing number of hardships. Such stories were nothing more than a distant mirage, a false image to hide the harsh reality underneath.
What’s the point in having a soulmate, when it doesn’t guarantee happiness?
The smell of spring rain lingers in the air, a mellow, dainty scent similar to an ocean breeze. Chongyun grabs an umbrella off the rack for the possibility, before walking out the front door. Down three flights of stairs, taking a left once at the street, holding for an extra block before taking a right. There’s no need for directions, just the simple pull that tugs at his heart.
He finds Xingqiu taking shelter under the roof of a park bench, up a little ways north from Chihu Rock. Mild surprise briefly flickers across his amber eyes, before he settles with a small smile. “Found me already; that must be a new record,” he banters, paying no heed to the concern Chongyun has.
“You could have done it any other day, when it isn’t raining, you know,” Not that he wants him to — Chongyun wishes he could just stop entirely, but that in of itself is a far fetched dream as well, isn’t it?
Xingqiu could only shrug it off, again hiding behind his many strained smiles. “I’m sorry,” says his soulmate, after running away for the umpteenth time. And despite everything, Chongyun forgives him, even though he knows it’s only a matter of time before he goes looking for him again.
And again.
And again.
He wished he could understand why...no, rather, he probably did understand it a bit. They wouldn’t be on their own like this if he didn’t. Away from stubborn parents, unbearable pressures, and unwanted expectations — thinking about such things helps rub some of the stinging ache off of Chongyun’s heart, in moments like these.
Slowly, Chongyun takes Xingqiu’s hand into his own, fingers ever so slightly intertwined. There’s some irony to be found, with how cold his partner’s hand is against his own. Then again, he recalls Xingqiu pointing out the contradiction between his own looks to his personality. Fellow walking contradictions, he guesses, though he has yet to figure the exact contradiction Xingqiu carried.
“...Let’s go home,” Chongyun finally says, hand-in-hand, as he takes a step back into the rain.
I’d like to try swimming in the world above fantasy. I remember the twilight days, but it overflowed in the end.
Aside from obvious romantic connotations, little was really understood on the concept of soulmates. For several that found their other they describe having an improvement in their quality of life, but there are accounts of a select few that either felt no change. Sometimes, others recount the worst experiences of their lives, though such accounts were even fewer and far between. However, looking between the two of them Chongyun can’t help but be afraid, if only a little. Still, though experiences vary amongst everyone, there’s one common connection amongst all these cases — a form of separation anxiety, they say, though not quite that. This is something Chongyun finds himself all too familiar with.
Little was known of how soulmates are, and how their bonds work; as such it’s doubly difficult to figure out what was wrong with Xingqiu’s bond to him. Neither of them noticed initially; they both fell the minute they connected — the “lull” as people put it, when it feels as though the world fell silent and everything came to a stop. If Chongyun had to pin down the moment he noticed something was off…
At some point, Xingqiu had disappeared for two days. The turmoil felt from the lack of his soulmate kept tugging at him, a perpetual swirl of paranoia of the worst happening that had him running the whole of Liyue Harbor, from Chiho Rock to the outskirts of Yujing Terrace. Hell, he even contemplated taking the train over to Qingce on the off chance that he had somehow decided that was the best time for a road trip (he refuses to think of the actual reason, obvious as it is) before a sudden pulse in his heart tugged at him, pulled him over in a sudden wave of longing and heartache. It kept pulling, pulling, pulling at him, all the way over to Wanmin Restaurant, where lo and behold, there he was in all his elegant glory, having a casual conversation with Xiangling.
“Could you not feel it?”
Since then he had doubts of them actually being soulmates, or worse, that he had been stuck in a one sided soul bound, and that Xingqiu’s actual soulmate was someone else entirely.
“Nonsense,” Xingqiu tells him as Chongyun vents such woes in the comfort of their cheap, old couch in their flat. He reassured Chongyun that no, there is nothing fake in the bond they share, that he had felt the lull upon first meeting.
Yet the doubt remains, adding to a growing strain. It took visiting an actual doctor to confirm something was wrong, that Chongyun had some right to worry. After all, it’s terrible for the soul bound person to feel the burdens of their partner, and yet not share their own. But hearing the actual issue...it stunned them both, really, to learn that Xingqiu’s heart could no longer connect with his, regardless of them being soul bound. Rather than linger on his own loss in that connection, he gains a newfound empathy for the perpetual loneliness that now condemns his significant other.
“Why must I have a soulmate, if we can never connect?” Xingqiu asks, and it's in thisloaded question that Chongyun was able to understand, at least a little bit more, the constant ache tugging at his heart every time they’re apart.
They are soulmates; they have ever since they met, and will continue to be even with Xingqiu’s defect. Happiness can be attainable; they just have to work a bit harder to make it so.
Four days after the doctor’s appointment Xingqiu runs away again, and come the next day, Chongyun follows the tug in his heart and finds him again.
Because I spoke as though I had no halfhearted hopes,
I couldn’t look up at tomorrow’s sky or rely on the future.
As with many things, Chongyun is fairly adaptable. He had to be, with his specialized condition; a lifetime of practice leads to the development of self-inhibition, and such skill pays well in observation and consideration. That’s what he wants to think, at least, and he wants to think it’s that sort of adaptability that allows him to get used to this imperfect soul bond.
He’d think Xingqiu would grow used to this as well, considering everything. But alas, the occasional ache, the brief feeling of melancholy thrumming against his chest tells him otherwise.
He never makes an attempt to ask, to point it out in a poorly disguised question. A part of him feels if he did, it would only pain Xingqiu with the reality of this one-sided connection. So Chongyun never says it, as much as it pains him to know that Xingqiu is bothered by something.
In an attempt to prevent more of Xingqiu’s chronic getaways, he had proposed they travel every now and then, opting for the change of scenery. It did jack-shit to fix the issue, but despite the failure to negate the habit, the two enjoyed these outings, so they continue to travel, and expand their world.
“Does it bother you sometimes that you can’t tell what I’m feeling?” Chongyun asked him on a small scenic trip to the Luhua Pools.
Xingqiu didn’t answer, not immediately; the answer did come eventually, following a small hum of contemplation. “I suppose it does, if only a tad bit. Rather, that’s the least of my concerns,”
Chongyun would’ve been lying if he didn’t admit that those words sting, as though he had been slapped. So you don’t care for how I feel? That was the thought, but he knew far better to bite back the retort. Xingqiu had a good reason, after all.
“What would you do, if there was a cure?” he asks instead. This time Xingqiu refrained from responding, the following silence answering in his stead.
“I don’t know,” it said, in time with the waves of melancholy churning his heart ever so slightly.
“Let’s think about it another time,” Chongyun quickly insisted, taking Xingqui’s hands and pulling him into the shallow waters, bare feet making ripples in their wake, “We’re on vacation, after all,”
A deep breath. “...That we are,” Xingqiu quietly replied, before changing the topic, “Have you heard the legend tied to these pools? It’s a rather tragic one, but intriguing nonetheless...”
Chongyun shook his head, and let Xingqiu go off on his tangent, indulging in his love of stories and tales across time. He clung to every word, enthralled by the elegant voice and flowery language —simply anothing thing he grew to love, and another reason he feels a need to make this work.
They continued crossing the crystal pools, hand in hand, all while echoing stories of a heartbroken lover’s tears.
The mistaken, glittering voice peeked in, even though it was a wound-riddled dream.
Lately, it seems Xingqiu has taken to more introspective writings, amidst all the martial art stories he’d been writing up to now. He had supposedly gotten the idea after he picked up an Inazuman novel that had recently been imported and translated - it was in ways an introspective piece in of itself, as its author recounted a nostalgic, carefree time with his fellow friends and writers. It goes up until the unfortunate death of one of them puts an end to their peaceful days. Or so the story goes, when Xingqiu tells him.
Overly fantastical descriptions filled with colorful language and idealized actions, the introspection embodied a blue-colored melancholy with all its allusions to the deep blue sea, full of curiosity, full of anxiety, “suffocating in the very life force of the world”. It was a vast departure from the lighthearted stories preceding it, but Chongyun notices, in all the dense language, an unseen honesty in the vivid reality Xingqiu paints in such works. Perhaps it’s why none of them were posted on his website — thank the Archons above, Chongyun thinks as he considered the possibility of someone else knowing his significant other better than him.
Given, Chongyun probably shouldn’t be reading these either. Yet when he apologized the first time, Xingqiu merely laughed it off and asked his soulmate to tell him how these stories were. It’s his privilege to be able to read these introspections, which (hurtful as it might be to say) are far more poignant than Xingqiu’s martial arts novels. Still, it’s in this sort of honesty, with these apt descriptions of an unknown loneliness, of having been stranded, isolated, left in a place he could not begin to fathom, that has the young man worried.
It’s upon reading another of these introspective writings, one cold spring evening as the city readies itself for the late night venturers, that has Chongyun turning to his significant other in bed, drifting to sleep. “Do you wish it was different? Would it have been better if we had never met?” He ends up asking, voice tainted with mild sorrow.
Because if they never did, then perhaps Xingqiu wouldn’t be suffering like this.
Xingqiu would continue writing innocent fantasies of a martial arts hero instead of the pain in his reality.
Xingqiu would dream of a blissful happiness without the knowledge of the imperfect bond.
Xingqiu wouldn’t be so lonely, trapped with the damning realization he can never fully understand anyone, not even his own soulmate.
In a sense, perhaps it’s his fault.
“Don’t say such stupid things,” Chongyun hears him mumble from the bed, and...ah, it seems he’s made a mistake in voicing such careless thoughts.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Xingqiu tells him, and yet he still feels guilty and apologetic all the same.
“...Sorry,” he mumbles, crawling into bed and slowly, quietly arms wrapping around the other.
He feels it’s the least he could really say, as unnecessary as such a word is between them.
In the night, they sleep, and come the morning, Chongyun wakes up to empty arms and an all too cold space beside him.
He finds Xingqiu the morning of the day after, scanning through the inventory of Wanwen Bookstore.
The mark that you were definitely alive, I’m sure I searched for it. I’m moving towards that voice crying out now.
Chongyun remembers, in one of Xingqiu’s books (not written by the man himself, no) someone likening the concept of soulmates to that of a red string of fate. Rather, now that he thinks about it, that was the general premise of the story — the idea of meeting your significant other is a destined course of fate, tied together with a single red thread. Of course, the reality is that not everyone will meet their soulmate (or even be happy with their soulmate, as Chongyun keeps fighting himself with) but recently the concept has started sticking out to him.
On a quiet spring morning, in an attempt to alleviate the loneliness plaguing Xingqiu, he took a soft twine of red yarn and tied a loose knot around his left ring finger — the other end was loosely tied around Xingqiu’s opposing ring finger. Xingqiu, lidded eyes still hazy with sleep, looks at the thick red thread in slight amusement.
“Now what’s all this for…?”
“It was from one of your books.”
“...That I wrote?”
“No, the other books.”
“Right…”
Chongyun pauses, then following a deep breath continues, “I was thinking...it might help a bit? To actually see some kind of bond. I don’t know, but uh…” he trails off, “...How does it feel?”
“Hardly any different than before, if I’m honest,” came the brutally flat answer, shattering the small hope Chongyun has. Xingqiu, the cheeky bastard, laughs at his despair, but attempts to appease him with a loving pat to the head, “It’s fine, really. In ways, I can feel the sentiment through this thread.”
That resparks some hope in him, “Really?”
“Of course. How else am I supposed to feel about such a loving gesture~?”
That triggers a swell of emotion within his gut, and before any part of his rational mind could even consider the action, Chongyun impulsively throws his arms around the other and smothers him in a tight hug, inciting cheerful laughter from Xingqiu, the sound echoing off the walls of their small, humble abode like little bells.
“I love you,” Chongyun blurts out, emotions running wild and overflowing, “I seriously do. So much.”
“I know,” came the simple reply, “It shows in everything you do, and I cannot ask for anyone better.”
Chongyun feels his slender arms wrap around him, returning the affection tenfold with a hug and small kiss. Least to say the rest of the morning and afternoon became a bit of a blur to him after that (curse that stupid condition of his) but though he may not remember anything he feels absolutely content. So this is the bliss between soulmates as written in those cheesy romances, Chongyun thinks. It does exist.
For a few days they maintained the “red thread of fate” within the apartment, though eventually that stopped because the thread constantly tangled into itself with how often they’d cross each others’ paths. Because it caused some issues in navigating an already small space, the act was relegated to a day every other week, when Chongyun wasn't working and Xingqiu hadn’t impulsively ran away.
On the days Xingqiu does run away though, he could at least tell, in the lighter thrums against his chest as he looks for him again, that the knowledge of such thread did help, if only a little.
I'm really living this test with you. You're surely looking for me
I can't let the voice that called me break apart
In times when rent becomes a hassle, or the food is no more than cheap instant noodles, Chongyun would ask if Xingqiu would rather go back to his brother (not mother, not father) since he can’t guarantee a life of comfort. Of course, the answer is always no, and the conversation will end there as there’s no point in recounting old trauma.
Still, in such times Chongyun couldn't help but think of that day, when he opens the door at his old home, younger brother peeking from behind his leg as he stares at Xingqiu, drenched from the torrent of rain and shivering under several layers of jackets and clothes, with nothing more than a medium sized duffle filled to the brim with anything and everything he could stuff inside.
He recounts the pained smile as his soulmate asks, hesitantly, “Help me?” as though he’d ever reject the turmoil crashing against his heart like storm waves against an old, worn ship at sea.
A part of him thinks...no, he knows for a fact that this one-sided soul bond was in turn a result of whatever happened with his father. While he does not know what happened, what was said between the two of them, Chongyun is certain that such words scarred the heart of his soulmate, leaving a wound so deep that it severed any and all attempts to connect with anyone, including him.
For what he’s experienced, and grown to understand, Xingqiu keeps his desires hidden away under a careful lock and key, made from an unknown fear for whatever illusion that father of his had planted that night. That was the contradiction in the person known as Xingqiu, when he could feel the oppressive loneliness in his soul-bounded heart. Even locked away, such desires keep leaking out, reaching, crying for someone, anyone, to understand and share in his sorrows.
Yet, the need never shows in his words; only his actions. More than a change of pace, Xingqiu runs away in futile attempts to escape the loneliness that comes from being with him. Despite all attempts of comfort, Chongyun must honestly admit that he can never understand how it must feel to stand besides his other, knowing nothing while they seemingly knew everything. How daunting it must be, to be the only soulmate who can never truly connect to his significant other and share in their burdens.
“Would it still work out between us, if I somehow managed a way to sever my connection also?” Chongyun asks, on a train ride back after their outing in Qingce, “We already know we’re soulmates...I just won’t be able to tell how you’re feeling honestly. But it’s fair, since you couldn’t tell how I’m feeling either, right?”
“Please don’t think of such stupid things,” Xingqiu mumbles, face burried in his coat, resting against his shoulder.
A soft sigh escapes him, “I’m sorry. I wish I could understand more,” I wish I could free you.
“You understand enough,” Xingqiu replies, solemnly, “That’s all I need. So please don’t worry yourself so much.”
Still, he feels he could be doing so, so much more. Chongyun can feel it after all, the ever present loneliness despite them being this close to each other.
“Let’s get boba tea at Xiangling’s place,” Xingqiu suddenly says, pulling himself out of the languid stupor and snapping Chongyun out of his self-deprecating thoughts.
“ Boba tea?”
“Bubble tea. Remember the milk tea with tapioca pearls? You enjoyed those didn’t you?”
That he did, now that Xingqiu points that out, “Won’t it be pretty late when we get back though? The sun’s already setting,”
Xingqiu waves him off, “Hardly. Wanmin does late nights also, and I’m sure Xiangling won’t mind treating us even if we be a little late,”
Chongyun is still reluctant of course, but he figures, at least this time, he’ll relent. Maybe it’s simply a whim, but he feels his soulmate felt his anxiety in some form, and did this in a bid to cheer him up. Just the fact that his emotions were felt clearly enough were enough to alleviate his worries, just a bit.
The deep sea calmed, and my ideal was shown. Because it hurts, I grew to hope, and won’t forget.
Relationships are more than the attraction that ignites them. It takes time, and a lot of work, between both parties to sustain them, and make them last. Soulmates are the same, if only far easier to maintain due to the traits associated with them. But still, they require some work, especially when such bonds are as broken as theirs.
From Chongyun, it’s the making of the sanctuary, creating these moments, these memories, that set aside Xingqiu’s anxieties without needing to lay himself bare and expose all his terrible, rancid scars. He chases after him, to remind him that the person he is, all his flaws and imperfections — that Xingqiu is fine as he is, and worth the work to care for.
From Xingqiu, it’s a calming lull, calling to Chongyun constantly, a reminder and reassurance that he is doing his best despite the hardships, that though the sanctuary he makes is no grand undersea palace, it is home, it is their home, and no matter how many times he’d disappear, he’ll always come back, because Chongyun makes it always worth coming back home. He waits to be found, and once he is he reminds him that he doesn’t need that specific connection, because Chongyun does everything and more to surpass such a need.
This is the life they’ve come to live, full of imperfections built off a faulty bond, and yet full of happiness and content as they continue to walk side by side, hand in hand. A pair of walking contradictions, as Xingqiu had called their fictional counterparts in the concluding chapter of his story.
“Will you be writing a sequel?” Chongyun asks, “You don’t really write much of these kinds of stories lately.”
“Hm, I do enjoy reading them, but it’s a pain to write these things,” Xingqiu admits, the truth being so damning that it has Chongyun staring at him in complete befuddlement, “Besides it isn’t as though many actually read that story.”
He...isn’t wrong, at least not in regards to the grand whole of Liyue. “You seem to have a large audience in Inazuma though. Would you write one for them?”
“Maybe. But I do wish to try my hands with those ever popular I-novels.”
Chongyun plants a small kiss on his cheek, “Good luck with that then,” he tells him, knowing full well from the bits of written introspections that he’ll do just fine.
I don’t understand everything, despite the taste of tears.
But with you, I can smile.