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minimujina · 24 days ago

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Avoidance.

Xiangli Yao x Reader, part 1/3, a lot of yearning on his end, unspecified relationship/desire for relationship, references to Xiangli Yao's backstory & related information, I had to reread the early game quest item descriptions for this, a-spec nonsense (which kind? you choose), technically a sick fic, light angst, Mortefi & Baizhi frequently mentioned. 10.2k words.

Also on AO3, here! Part 2, here! >>>>>>>

In which Xiangli Yao, resident genius but lacking in social skills, tries to get your attention. Mixed results.

As Principal Investigator and a skilled Resonator, Xiangli Yao could be called to teach, and for severe complications within Huaxu Academy’s labs. Matter Weaver was the perfect skill to resolve technical emergencies at the drop of a hat. It was one of those calls that he had responded to, urgency speeding his steps as he rushed to one of the mechanical testing facilities that had sent for him with terror in their voices. He forces his brain to push past memories of Pascar and of his father in their workplaces reached too late. The door sensor beeps affirmatively as he slaps his ID card against the screen, sliding the pressurized doors open. The evacuation alarms still blare in his ears, but as he crosses the PPE and insulation hall into the quarantined lab. Rounding the way into the heavily insulated testing chambers, he pauses, stupefied, at the sight before him.

“How many times?” Your irate voice rises over the fading echoes of the emergency alarms.

“But–”

“Ah-ah-ah, listen when someone is speaking to you,” you cut off the researcher ruthlessly, “how many times did I tell you?”

A team of researchers, distinct through their lab coats and ID tags pinned to said coats, sit like scolded children before the single standing person in the room. The focus of the emergency summons– a glowing prototype tacetite long distance assault machine– slowly ceases its flickering and whirring as it powers down, an open box of tools abandoned next to a hastily removed panel on the shell. Judging by the thick jacket with reflective stripes lining the collars and hems on the strict speaker, Xiangli Yao identifies you as a member of the machinist division– the teams of people that the researchers of all the departments within Huaxu Academy inevitably had to consult with to get tools and tech made for their experiments.

“...seven times…” one of the shamefaced researchers uttered.

“And what did I tell you?”

“...to put an emergency stop button on all our machines…”

“And what did I do to help you?”

Despite the dry, hot air from the malfunctioning machine, a shiver runs down his spine at your tone.

“You made and sent instructions on installing the big red button.”

“Mhm, so what happened? Why am I in this lab right now instead of on the shop floor?”

“...we… didn’t… do it…”

“YOU DIDN’T! And you nearly blew your entire team up! My job is to make sure all your machines are regulation compliant and functional, but if you’re so set on destroying your lives you can take your experiments to the labs outside the city and away from everyone else. I will be damn sure to let the rest of the division know exactly how you feel about our assessments, so good luck getting parts in the future!” Your voice rises from a controlled hiss to a bone-rattling bellow that makes every member of the repentant researchers tremble.

Not a single person speaks, in fact Xiangli is pretty sure that several members of the staff are on the verge of tears as you scoff, turning to make your way out. You don’t even seem to notice him, too busy scribbling in a worn out notebook drawn from your weighty toolbelt. He hears you mutter something about disgraceful behaviour and a report due soon. The signature sound of the pressurized door sliding open and closed behind you punctuates the awkward atmosphere, followed soon after by a miserable sniffle from one of the researchers. Despite being in one of the most well-protected areas of the city, Xiangli can’t help but compare the inhabitants of this room to the Midnight Rangers he had observed in the field hospitals out in the TD infested barrens.

He forces an amicable smile onto his face as he senses the team’s teary eyes shifting to him.

“Hello. I heard you were having some technical issues. It seems to have been resolved, but if you would like help identifying the cause, I’d be happy to offer my insights?”

“Sniff– thank you Xiangliiiiii…” someone finally sobs.

Oh dear.

The next time he finds you, it's a late night from getting a little too lost in paper writing and he’s starting to regret it more than anticipated as a dull pressure throbs behind his eyes and his wrist begins to cramp. Not intending to have stayed so late, he has no caffeinated drinks on hand to ease the exhausted edge off of his fried mind as he ambles through the academy halls. Across the courtyard he can see the lights of Mortefi’s office are still on. That isn’t unusual per se, but Xiangli feels the urge to check in before he leaves and remind his fellow researcher to get to bed at a reasonable hour. The search for truth is never ending, but the need to mind one’s health is rather pressing all throughout.

He reaches his prosthetic arm out to knock on the door but finds himself hesitating as dampened voices manage to make their way out from behind the wooden door.

“Those fools from the New Federation still seem stilted in their obsessions,” Mortefi scoffs, “look at the request they had the gall to send me!”

A second, less familiar voice whistles, “a camera lens that can see through clothing… that’s… this is surely supposed to be a joke in bad taste, right?” Is that… the machinist?

“Precisely! Thank you!” Mortefi announces, “that’s the only plausible answer here, no person with a functional ethical system or even just a mostly developed brain would request this garbage from me with sincerity.”

He hears your voice humming, “you barely have enough time as-is… well, we conveniently have their mailing address and personal info attached to this request. Would be a shame if something fun happened to be sent to it…”

Xiangli’s hand presses silently against the door. By your tone of voice, you and Mortefi may be planning a somewhat malicious prank to repay the audacity of the tasteless request. While it was usually a better idea to talk Mortefi down from crusades like that, Xiangli couldn’t help but try and muffle his breaths further to better catch the developing scheme.

“Yes, indeed, perhaps a small mechanism within a package that when opened showers the room with paint that stains all non-living material with opaque dye that takes weeks to remove. Surely this fool will appreciate what his vision already affords him wholeheartedly then.”

“Oooh, how about fuschia? Or the most atrocious neon yellow we can find?”

The sound of Mortefi’s responding laughter sends a bit of a chill down Xiangli’s spine. Maybe now was a good time to check in before Mortefi got too carried away on his mission for retribution for the rest of the night. Knocking politely on the door to the office, he calls out his own name to request entry.

“Enter,” Mortefi calls, and Xiangli can hear the malevolent smirk set upon the other man’s face.

Smiling, Xiangli steps inside, taking in the perfectly curated organization of the New Federation researcher’s space– and you, a now familiar member of the machinist’s division, holding your Pangu terminal that projects a hologram of a disassembled machine. Your broad grin vanishes, replaced instead with a far more composed expression of minute, socially expected interest in his person as he closes the office door behind him– Mortefi’s visiting policy for welcome intrusions, as the experienced few would attest.

“Hello…?” Xiangli isn’t sure if he should introduce himself, given that he’s the guest rather than the host and it's technically not his and their first meeting. What was the social protocol for that?

Perhaps sensing his internal debate, Mortefi speaks up, “[Name], this is Xiangli Yao, Principal Investigator, genius, rival, Resonator. He tends to fabricate his own materials due to the nature of his skill, so I presume the two of you have not yet met. Xiangli Yao, this is [Name], one of if not the most skilled machinist in the employ of the academy.”

You respectfully incline your head in acknowledgement but pause upon noticing his raised prosthetic hand in greeting, raising your eyebrows in surprise before matching his action to shake his metal hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, I crossed paths with you last week at the tacetite prototype testing chambers.”

Your eyes, which had been focusing somewhere over his shoulders, snap to meet his own stare. Confusion, concentration, a hint of guilt, and finally resignation flit through them.

“I see,” you say, voice soft but decisive, “it was fortunate that no one was hurt.”

Xiangli notes how you avoid speaking on whether or not you actually recognize him, but before he can add to the conversation Mortefi scoffs, “that team is notorious for being selective with the protocols they embrace, at this rate they’ll be expelled. No amount of education and theory can save people from the dangers of hubris. In fact it would have done them some good to feel the burn this time around, at least they would have learned something.”

Hesitating, you cautiously consider your word choice before saying, “I’m just glad none of my work was at the centre of a tragedy. I can’t fathom why the risks of tacetite weaponry still haven’t sunk in for them.”

Xiangli nods, “seeking the truth can be an overwhelming practice, but it is paramount to protect people and quality of life when possible.”

Mortefi squints at him in accusation, his face lifting and falling to illustrate the way he looks from Xiangli’s face to his prosthetic arm, expression morphing as if to say “that’s rich coming from you.”

Your eyes flit from him to Mortefi. Xiangli can see the gears turning in your mind as you analyse the atmosphere in a fraction of a second and arrive at your conclusion. With stiff motions you stand from your stool by Mortefi’s workbench, pulling another seat out for him. Compelled by social practice, Xiangli seats himself before he’s entirely conscious of whether he really should. With the path to the door clear, you complete your exit strategy.

“I need to get going, I have some things to finish at home. Don’t stay up too late, alright?” You state, smiling subtly at Mortefi.

“Don’t treat me like a child,” he says, but his appeased grin softens the blow of his accusatory tone, “come back when I’ve completed the first generation of my return gift, you had better not bail on this after you’ve made so many contributions.”

You chortle, voice warming, “you know I wouldn’t miss a meeting with you for anything, just give me a ring.” Xiangli feels his heart skip at the way your eyes narrow and your lips quirk in delight. At that declaration, you duck out of Mortefi’s office with a flourish, taking your brief gleam of genuine kindness with you.

Wait– you’re leaving? Xiangli’s lips part but he doesn’t find the words in time to stop you, his organic hand left awkwardly hanging in the air as the wooden door thuds behind your departure. He swallows, wetting his dried throat. What would he have said anyways? Mortefi had already taken care of the introductions. As unsociable as Mortefi is, he’s far more skilled between the two of them at the art of conversation, courtesy of his high-status upbringing. Xiangli’s own background was less emphatic on his development of flexible communication skills, he relies more on providing service to convey his intentions. It’s just… a complicated process trying to form meaningful connections through actions alone.

“Something on your mind?” Mortefi asks, pulling Xiangli from his thoughts, “Well? That flush can’t be for no reason. Speak up.”

“Nothing of importance,” he begins hastily, but can’t find the rest of the explanation to follow. He presses his remaining hand to his face. It is indeed as the other man said, his face is warm.

Why is he at such a loss? To that question, his mind helpfully replays your parting statements and the unfeigned devotion that was woven into your every word. An unsettling discomfort nests within his lungs, one not so vividly experienced in many, many years. Xiangli combs through his mental database of memories to find a scene that carries the same sensation, and arrives at a single poignant answer: a recollection of his hazy early childhood, when moments not spent studying were occupied by people-spotting through the windows of his family’s apartment. The sensation aligns with what he experienced when he observed groups of other children making their ways to and from school, sometimes with new, popular toys on hand. Their excitable chatter reached such a volume that he could make it out from the street even without opening a window.

The discomfort had faded after Pascar had taken him in and helped him integrate into other friend groups their age, but with Pascar and Xiangli’s own family now gone the heavy, suffocating feeling has creeped back in. He’s been trying to fend it off by burying himself in assignments and trying to place Rover’s new data variables within the academy’s understanding of post-Lament sciences, but one didn’t have to be a genius to know that method was ineffective in the long-term scheme.

“Have you known them for very long?” Xiangli musters up the courage to ask.

The red haired man casts an analytical squint at him, but answers nonetheless, “compared to everyone else, certainly. Shortly after my arrival we were introduced due to the nature of my studies necessitating precise tools and materials. Likewise, we mutually appreciated each other’s standards of competency. It was only natural to stay in touch afterwards.”

Xiangli feels another tug of tightness within his chest. Ah, he understands now.

“I suppose you would not have encountered them, since you undertake fieldwork so often and rely on your ability more than the aid of the resource departments,” Mortefi adds carefully, “have they caught your interest in some way?”

“Yes,” the younger of them replies, “isn’t it expected that I build some connections with my colleagues?”

He would rather say that than admit that the envy is eating him up. Or that the years worth of longing is starting to boil over the edge of his calm facade. What he would give to have someone he could rely on to be there for him, like you so easily promised to the other researcher. Therefore, Xiangli concludes that the logical pathway to follow is to try and befriend you, and experience that same grace that you extended to Mortefi.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Xiangli glances back at the office door, “what other kind of interest could I have? I just met them today, Mortefi.”

The man tuts, but relents, “if that is what you believe then so be it.” Instead, a malicious smirk overtakes his unimpressed frown

“I might as well make use of your brain since you’re already here: do you happen to know how to make permanent fuschia dye?”

…

One of the first steps of any project was to define attainable goals and do appropriate research. Xiangli’s Pangu terminal helpfully projects his drafted method across the wall of his dining room:

{AIMS: BEFRIEND [NAME].}

{OUTCOMES: ______}

Xiangli blinks as he regards the blank space in the projection, his fingers pushing, rotating, and tugging experimentally at the CSC lock puzzle his father had gifted him. What was he hoping to gain from this ordeal? What endgame was he imagining? His brain summons forth the memory of acidic envy that constricted his lungs within his chest. He sets the puzzle down on the table with a resounding clack as he stands, selecting a glass from his cupboard and filling it with water from the tap of the kitchen sink.

He clears his throat, “anticipated outcomes: emotional stabilization, companionship.” His terminal beeps at him affirmatively as it fills in the blanks with his requests. He, in turn, relishes the clarity that the fresh, cold water brings as he takes a sip from his glass.

And now comes research, after which he can design his process. He’ll start by revising his schedule, substituting his hours typically spent in a reserved lab for out-of-office ventures. His productivity may drop a bit, but he has a feeling that the opportunities taken by other investigators in the free lab time he’s just opened up will outweigh the potential losses of his delayed reports. Baizhi, Mortefi, and himself are still rather constrained by waiting for research approval on collecting and analyzing Rover’s data. The three of them have taken on supervising or initiating more trivial projects while they await a verdict on their proposals.

Xiangli begins with observation. With sufficient PPE, he finally pays a long overdue visit to the shop floor building at the edge of Huaxu’s campus. After bringing up his curiosity about you to Mortefi, the man had suggested that he venture to your office itself, even going so far as to pass on a tacetite-oriented machine parts request from Baizhi to him as a means of sparking conversation. As he approaches the shop building that he’d never found the time to visit before, he scans the shipping bay doors, some raised to reveal multiple worksuited labourers moving pallets from within the warehouse to the Lollo Logistics transport vehicles and personnel that came and went like clockwork. The security guards that oversaw the non-transport persons’ entrance to the building had greeted him cheerfully, conversationally asking him what had brought him to their side of the campus. After employing Baizhi’s delivery request, they oblige him with a smile, but apologetically inform him that they are obligated to inform him of the basic visitor’s safety rules before they can allow him to enter. One of the guards insisted with a wary voice that he remove his long coat before entering the floor proper, for fear of the material snagging in a machine and dragging him to a gruesome demise. The haunted look in the other guard’s eyes suggests that their plea is made with a profoundly bloody history behind it. Xiangli decides that his best interests are upheld as he borrows a locker just inside the entryway to store his coat and other potentially dangerous clothing choices.

Loose articles now secured, he delves deeper into the building, hall signs directing him up a wide, short staircase to one of many of the tradesmen’s break rooms where the exhausted remnants of the night shift ate their last meals for their workday before heading home. The more bright-eyed workers were already on the floor for their early shift, and Xiangli found them in the open walkway beyond the breakroom. Stepping out of the insulated break room and onto the walkway, the shearing sounds of metal slicing metal, heavy clanging, and the crawl of machinery assaults his ears, even with his earplugs in. The smell of metal, fuel, and burning material rises from the workspaces below.

Looking over the railing of the walkway, he marvels at the vast workshop: cranes on moving tracks hang from the high ceiling, navigated by operators below to hoist and transport parts and loads far too heavy or large for normal people to handle. On the half of the floor farthest from the balcony, there appear to be informally designated work areas, barriers and walls formed of machines, tool shelves, and workbenches separate blocks of floorspace for individuals. The remaining half of the floor is the automated workspace, filled with conveyor belts, robotic arms and assembly lines, and key areas where a human supervisor oversees the processes and checks the quality of the finished product. The floors are lined with yellow reflective tape, illustrating reserved spaces for walking paths and areas that make up the wide, safe distances from high-powered tools or automata.

Watching every organic and automated part interact with one another enthralls him, but before Xiangli can get too lost in the beauty of an efficiently organized workspace, he spots you. Your jacket is a little bit different from those of your colleagues, likely on account of you being a division head, which is indicated in reflective lining on the back of your uniform. Your hair is messily flattened by the heavy pair of ear defenders on your head. You stand beside another builder at their table, demonstrating how to use whatever you’ve set before them, your Pangu terminal projecting lists of labeled parts and measurements to accompany your explanation. After a couple minutes your conversation partner nods and you part ways, you with some sort of crate almost half your height towards a door at the edge of the floor with thick windows that reveal a small office beyond the wall. You’re quite strong, he notes. With a camera and squinting through the pixels, Xiangli can see a hastily made nameplate on the old, battered door with your name on it. Your office then. He takes that as his cue to go over and hopefully catch your interest for a few minutes.

With as much composure as he can manage, he rushes back through the breakroom, back down the stairs, and through the shop entrance. A couple workers raise eyebrows and slow their gaits at the sight of him, but he’s hardly impeded by this. He trots cheerfully to your office, raises a hand primed to knock, only to pause– would you even hear his knock over the constant production sounds? Would you be offended if Xiangli used his prosthetic arm to knock more forcefully? He purses his lips. Should he just come back later and figure out when you’re on break–

His plan is never finished as you take the initiative to open the door yourself. With the hand not holding the office door open, you gesture for him to come inside. Flustered, Xiangli clears his throat and ducks his head as he strides past you. Your office– unlike his, Mortefi’s, or any researcher’s office really– has only one chair, the one for you beyond your desk. As you shut the door, the clanging and banging ceases entirely, revealing more soundproofing than he had anticipated.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” Your tone is light, but your face is emotionless, leaving him mentally lost at how to match your mood to start the social interaction.

“Nice to see you again [Name],” he catches sight of the slight alarm in your eyes as you search his face, and he remixes his introduction to relieve your concerns about not clearly remembering him, “I’m Xiangli Yao, Principle Investigator. Maybe you’ve seen me around when you visit the central office building?”

“Oh, perhaps I have,” you say, tension easing away somewhat with his name to his face, “Mortefi’s, right?”

Xiangli can practically see you baulking at his suddenly rejuvenated demeanor as he exclaims, “yes!”

“Right, okay, so what brings you all the way he—” your Pangu terminal sounds off aggressively, and you groan, “—aaaaand I need to go make sure nobody died just now, sorry. If you don’t mind being here for a couple extra minutes I’ll be right back?”

“Of course, please do what you must,” he assures you with a smile as you gratefully bow your head, gesture to a roughly chair-height metal cabinet for him to sit on, and depart.

In your absence, Xiangli takes the opportunity to really take in your office beyond the immediate lack of chairs. His cabinet-chair in question has an old, thread-bare cushion tossed on top of it to indicate how often it serves its new purpose. On the wall opposite the door he can see a wide-basin sink with a rounded bar foot pedal at the base, a couple off-colour rags haphazardly strewn over the edges and several near-empty containers of a sandy substance sit on the flat edges that surround the faucet. A modern wireless speaker built into a phonograph-shaped case plays whatever new song has monopolized the public radio stations (he doesn’t recognize it, his music taste unintentionally lagging behind by a few years due to his dedication to work). Tool boxes are scattered across your office, all missing some essential parts according to your notes taped to each open set. A holographic monitor set on your desk lists some of your ongoing projects and requests, several from the research teams that Xiangli is familiar with. A battered thermos hides behind the projected schematics, somewhere on your desk. Your walls are covered in frames, a few of key certificates that advertise your skills and experience, but most are filled with photos depicting cherished memories of you and your loved ones. The pictures seem to span a significant portion of your life, from elementary school to your early career. What becomes most apparent to him is that your life isn’t the only one being documented, your pictures are filled with repeating faces that grow up in stills alongside you.

Your smile is clumsy, painfully wide, but genuinely filled with glee in every photo you share with your friends. Xiangli compares it to the expressions that he is familiar with: disengagement, discontentment, or simply just apathy (a page out of Baizhi’s script, but not born from insufficient social skills, just honest detachment). But these pictures show you entangled in loving arms, subjected to mischievous hands that mould your face or limbs into unflattering poses. Even Mortefi has found his way onto your hall of honour, although in a less affectionate picture than the others, proudly posed next to you in some sort of celebratory picture with a finished device held up to show the camera. You are so utterly adored, and judging by the sheer numbers of these pictures and how emotive you are in these pictures, you dearly adore your friends too.

His chest hurts. He swallows to try and dislodge the heavy feeling in his mouth. Right, that’s why he’s here. He wants that, and the unwanted reminder that he does not have it sobers him painfully. What does he need to do– what has Mortefi, wonderful man and exceptional coworker but resident professional hater done– to get your attention and favour? Xiangli’s competitive spirit simmers in envy.

The door to your office opens with a click, followed by the roar of the ambient shop floor, causing Xiangli to flinch as his head and shoulders spin to find the source of the sound. You mouth an apology to him, roughly shoving your jacket’s sleeves as far up your forearms as the thick material will allow. Your hands are covered in ash-coloured machine oil smears, but rather than dirt the first image that comes to mind is the smudges of charcoal on an artist's nimble digits as they outline and smudge until the markings become an art.

“Everything okay out there?” He inquires gently.

“Well, the operation was overall successful,” you shrug, wiggling a couple of your blackened fingers at him in demonstration, “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

An unexpected chuckle steals the breath he had saved for a witty answer to your response, and he forgets what he wanted to say. In the absence of his contribution, the sound of the squeaky pedal and rushing water of the sink fills the room as you do your best to wash the substance from your skin. Xiangli also notes a subtle fruity smell (probably soap) as he watches you with rapture, your back to him sturdy and reliable like a wall. You clear your throat as you use one of the available rags to dry your hands.

“So… what were you saying before?”

“You said you recalled meeting me at Mortefi’s.”

“Right, I did say that.”

“Do you work with him often?”

“On a semi-regular basis. Has something come up?”

“Oh no, I’m actually here with a request from Baizhi.” At Baizhi’s name a spark of curiosity breaks through the careful guard that had been making up your predominantly unreadable expression.

Xiangli’s heart hurts a little bit again. He swallows his hesitation and aims to smile instead as he hands you the data chip Mortefi lent him. With practiced ease you set the chip into the appropriate port for your holographic monitor and take a hearty drink from your worn out thermos. As you scan through the proposal, Xiangli sees a familiar spark in your eyes. It's the same kind he saw in Pascar’s, he’s seen it in Mortefi and in his own reflection when a theory or trip in logic suddenly evolves into a coherent solution or concept. A curious smile forms on your face, and Xiangli finds his insides assaulted by butterflies as his heart rate leaps and his blood starts to pump faster after he recognizes one of the components on the list.

“I–” his mouth is dry, “–I have some spare type 7 remnant energy transmitters in my office. I can get you one in that size, it’ll save you some time.”

“Would you? That’d be perfect,” you mutter absentmindedly, still absorbed in mentally assembling the machine Baizhi has requested from you.

You blink, suddenly recalling that he’s still in the room. The motivation of a genius in your eyes has turned from a spark to a blaze, and too caught up in the thrill of it, you forget to restrain your expression.

With a full smile that is entirely directed at him and only him, not so unlike those in the many photos around your office, you say, “thanks Xiangli, I’ll stop by later then.”

Like a horrific train wreck, every single one of his thoughts grind to a halt, colliding and bursting into useless nothingness. All he can manage to do is give you an affirmative hum and hastily escape your office as his face burns with self-consciousness while conflicting joy surges within him. His pulse feels so loud in his ears that the noise of the shop floor that accosts him once he leaves your soundproofed office hardly affects him.

He’s too busy trying to catch his breath.

“Thanks Xiangli.”

He thinks he knows what Mortefi intended to explain to him now.

…

Since then, a quarter– well, maybe closer to half– of his brain is dedicated to toiling over the memory of visiting your office and what that means for his plan. In the past, when embroiled in internal conflict, Xiangli opened his mind to Pascar for a review of his thoughts and suggestions for next steps. But he cannot do that anymore. He wants to ask Baizhi or Mortefi, but the chances of them having realistic experience or advice is… well… at uninspiring lows. His list of contacts is extensive for academic purposes, but embarrassingly limited for personal ones. His last, but certainly far from worst option stares back at him from the projection on his Pangu terminal: Rover.

His finger hovers over the contact button. Rover is a nice person, quick and empathetic. But even the idea of trying to articulate his current internal debacle to someone else makes him feel the fabled desire to be swallowed up by the floor. He instead pushes his terminal to the corner of his coffee mug laden desk and plants his face in his hands, groaning (unbeknownst to him, several interns outside his office go pale and cast panic-stricken gazes at one another).

You know what? He needs a walk. A walk might fix his indecision. Sunlight could help clear his head. The greener pastures of the academy are farther away though, and he wonders just how far he’s willing to walk to get his thoughts together as he steps out of his building to look across the platform to Panhua’s on the other side of the pedestrian’s bridge. The weather is rather dull today, cloudy and chilled by the wind. It looks like it may rain any moment now, so much for his hopes for sunlight.

He wonders what you would say if he asked you about getting a distracted mind back on track. In fact, he ponders this to the extent that he can see your image on the bridge.

Wait a second.

That’s actually you. On the bridge. Right now.

Xiangli reaches out for the nearest railing on the edge of the platform to steady himself. His brain fast tracks absorbing this new information. You, unlike the weather, are practically glowing. For a second he questions every report he’s ever heard about you being a non-Resonator before noticing that one of the few companions you have with you at the moment has a glowing tacet mark wrapped around their wrist like a bracelet. Upon closer inspection, the spectro apparitions aren’t halos but rather dancing images. At this distance, he can’t make out what they are, but the fact that you and your companions are raucous with glee is more than evident.

As for your companions… they certainly do look familiar. Like yourself, they have changed over the years, but undeniably they are the figures from the many photographs in your office. Further like yourself, they all seem to be in uniform still, and he ponders how rushed this meeting had to have been for not a single person to be wearing casual clothes. The performing Resonator wears the prestigious suit of one of Jinzhou’s diplomats, another of your friends wears the battle-ready armour and tools of a Midnight Ranger from Norfall Barrens– helmet tucked under their arm for ease– indicating just how far flung your loved ones are these days. The last person wears the attire of the average office worker, the company insignia on breast pocket far too small for him to distinguish. Xiangli can’t help but imagine how you came to know such a broad range of friends. He’s more than sure he’s even seen that diplomat on the news recently.

But more than anything, he almost can’t believe how alive you look– and it's not just the glow of the spectro apparitions influencing him when he says that. You and your friends seem to be in a self-contained world, free from the burdens of service or mundanity. You are simply… elated. Xiangli feels as if his breath is stuck in his throat, and has to force himself to swallow and clear the way. He’s dedicated himself to the pursuit of truth and companionship throughout his life with the hopes of finding fulfillment, but the latter always seems just out of reach. He understands the theory, but struggles in application. You seem to have found a different boundary between your career and your friends, but your satisfaction appears to be far greater than his. Could he ever achieve what you have?

It's hard enough to find someone who isn’t daunted by his many titles, harder still to define for himself just how much of his identity should be seen through that lens for him to be satisfied. His plan to seek you out and become your friend… would that bring him what he truly wants from you?

You throw your head back in laughter as you impatiently pull your companions down the walkway towards Panhua’s. It seems the closest to sunlight exposure he achieved was seeing the skill of your Resonator friend at a distance. And though he is surrounded by an uncountable number of fellow pedestrians, researchers, and visitors to the academy at that very moment, Xiangli feels an unmistakable chill of loneliness. Though that might have been from the spitting rain, as if the sky itself is lamenting what Xiangli wants so much but does not have.

…

A dull knock startles Xiangli out of his report writing. Reflexively, he begins to tell his visitor to come in.

“Still happen to have some type 7 RETs laying around?”

At that, he fully pivots in his office chair, mouth agape.

“[Name]!” He greets you, hastily trying to fix his hair and sweep the messier contents of his desk into a tidier pile, “hello!”

You nod a cordial response, and Xiangli notes that your signature work jacket is undone, revealing a loose shirt with a hem that rests just below your collar bones. Your industrial ear defenders are hanging around your neck, and you have an aged ball cap on. It's the most casual he’s ever seen of you, and although you look nothing like the other researchers within the building you carry the airs of a person who has spent years buried in academia. His scattered brain runs through lists of generic conversation starters and nearly opens with a question about the quality of the weather before he stops himself, internally withering under the artificial lights of his office, which had no windows and therefore weather to speak of.

“Have you been well?” He asks instead, getting to his feet and trying to discreetly kick some of his discarded machine modules back under his desk and out of sight. Mortefi had always given him a hard time about keeping his workspace cleaner, and now Xiangli certainly regrets not listening sooner. His office still smells of an unhealthy amount of instant coffee that he’s been brewing recently, and he hopes you don’t find it displeasing.

“Mhm, the team just finished up with a massive rush order, so we’ll all be able to head home early again.”

“That sounds delightful,” he sighs, “a moment please, I’ll get the RETs now.”

“Sure, take your time,” you reassure him languidly, “I’m not in a rush.”

He steals glances at you as he searches his shelves for the part in question, and he catches other researchers peeking at you as you lean at the entrance to his office, scanning the contents of his workspace around him. You glance back at the many lab coat wearing spectators, offering a brief, polite smile that pushes most of them to look away and move along. Xiangli can hear you quietly chuckle at their reactions, satisfied to stay exactly where you are. He’s learning that you’re not the type to put in more energy than necessary to achieve your goals. Xiangli finds his leftover stash of type 7 remnant energy transmitters buried under three binders of previous reports, and he can’t help but wonder how you’re so nonchalant under the surveillance of so many eyes. Despite his variety of experiences before a crowd and far flung travels, even Xiangli still hesitates in the face of presentation and delivering seminars to this day.

“Here,” he calls to you, box of RETs in hand, “how many would you like?”

At his summon you stride over, place a hand on the desktop before him, and lean over his shoulder to check at his find. Xiangli holds his breath, frozen at your proximity as you reach into his box of leftover parts to pick up a handful of transmitters. You hold your selected modules under one of the desk lamps to get a closer look, and only then is he able to breathe easily (although the heavy throbbing of his heart is less simple to address).

“These are in really good condition. New?”

“Yes, I lent a hand to a Lollo Logistics courier while I was in the field and they gave them to me as a thanks.”

You hum, “I only need this many. I didn’t think anyone would have this much at once, this is wonderful. I owe you one. If I start working on this today I can get it to Baizhi by tomorrow. Thank you.”

“Oh? Uh, yes, no problem.”

You grin in anticipation, pocket his gift, and say, “seriously, tell me if you need anything, I’ll make time.”

“Ye-yes, I’ll keep that in mind.” His face flushes, and Xiangli shuffles to a darker part of his office to hide it.

“See you around!”

Xiangli waits a couple minutes, listening to make sure you travel a decent distance away before he buries his face in his hands and scream-grumbling into his palms. Mortefi leans his head into Xiangli’s office, squints at him, then looks around.

“[Name] came by?”

“May I ask what gave you that idea?” Xiangli mutters.

Mortefi cackles, doesn’t even bother to answer him, and turns away to head back to his office. Xiangli can just feel the suspecting whispers of the other researchers in the office building.

…

Flu season. The bane of a person’s general existence season, no matter one’s wealth or ability. Xiangli is proud to report a mixture of luck and effective precaution (plus being the subject of several medical studies as a child under his mother’s supervision) have contributed to a whole and healthy existence for a fair extent of his life. When flu season arrives, Xiangli matches with face masks and more vitamin C in his lunches than usual. But not everyone else can or chooses to act in that way, or even if they do, some are simply unlucky enough to catch whatever is going around regardless of defensive measures.

“[Name] is unwell?” Xiangli echoed Mortefi, who huffs.

“You know I dislike repeating myself. But yes, they are.”

Xiangli shuffles in his seat within Mortefi’s office, “well, ‘tis the season.” He sends a prayer to Jue that the sickness runs its course gently with you.

But the red haired man shakes his head, “no, not this time. It sounds like a case of NovaFei. One of the Lollo Logistics teams brought it in with a shipment and about a quarter of the shop personnel have gone on medical leave since. It's a new variant so the academy has sent some doctors out to visit their homes, but it might take some time given how many cases there are and how many people we have on call.”

“Has… [Name] been visited yet?”

“Baizhi was going to volunteer but…” Mortefi sighs, looking at him like a disapproving parent, “Xiangli Yao, recall our ethical standards.”

“Can I not? I have all the correct training and certifications. I helped test the early vaccine measures too. Let me go to them, and Baizhi can help more people. Her insights will be more applicable to the Resonators who are ill.”

He stares at Xiangli, expression unchanging. His project– a request from a group of school children that Xiangli had connected him with– lays momentarily forgotten on his desk. The younger of them was initially invited into the office only to consult on how to best decorate the project to the children’s tastes, but that had flown out the window once the conversation turned from project work to updates of social interest.

“I’ll be as helpful as physically possible. I have no deadlines for the immediate future that this would interfere with either.”

“I know,” he grumbles, “fine, you’re Principle Investigator anyways. This is well within your authority.”

He grins, “but getting your permission feels more official though.”

“Quit beating around the bush and get going.”

Half an hour later, Xiangli presses one of his scarred fingers against the button of your doorbell, checking Baizhi’s text containing your address for the nth time. Yep. Correct street, correct general description of your house, correct number too. It's on the more rural side of the city, the worn concrete and flickering street lights despite the morning light only further suggesting that the area had been out of sight of urban upkeep for a while. The chime of your doorbell rings out for several seconds, and he listens intently over the sounds of distant traffic and mid-morning bird song for a response. Luckily he can hear muffled movement from within the house, and within a minute your bedraggled, masked face appears behind the door.

Pulling the door open, your swollen eyes widen, taking in his image– typical work clothes, his own face mask, a bag of medicine and his own overnight bag– and then scanning around him to verify that he was alone. With a rasping voice you ask, “Xiangli? Is something wrong?” Hunched over, sweating, and strained, he can clock your symptoms of body pain, fever, and signs of weakness.

“Mortefi said you were sick,” he said, holding up the bulky bag assigned to all the visiting doctors, “I brought medicine.”

Your eyebrows draw together, pausing as you weigh your options, but ultimately you step back and gesture for him to enter. He does so with a smile, or as much as a smile as he hopes you can register with the mask covering half his face. After carefully toeing off his shoes and exchanging them for a pair of guest slippers, he dutifully follows you to your dining area to set down his supplies on the table. He faintly can smell the brand of laundry detergent you use and of bleach cleaning supplies the deeper he goes into your home.

“Lots of medicine,” you rasp, eyeing his luggage.

“The bug that you and the rest of the workers got is a new variant of NovaFei, so I was hoping to take some notes,” he holds up his clipboard to show you, “I can use the data to develop more effective treatment for all of you.”

Bracing your weight against the table top, you slump into one of the chairs with a grunt, “sure, whatever.”

“Perfect!” He says gently, mindful of your sensitivity as he begins taking stock of your symptoms and administering appropriate medicine. He also takes swab samples to send to the lab later for analysis on what changes the virus itself now has.

Thankfully Xiangli has packed every essential: pills for pain, for relieving your fever, and to reduce the muscle swelling that causes some of NovaFei’s characteristic body pains and movement issues. You take each with relative ease alongside a glass of water. What ends up giving you trouble is the lozenge meant to reduce the inflammation in your throat. It is unfortunately as herbal and bitter as Jinzhou’s traditional medicine gets, and your throat is so irritated that even passive breathing is giving you troubles. After a rough bout of coughing, you give up on it entirely and just stuff the packaging for it into your pocket as you try to amble elsewhere.

Xiangli follows behind you, an arm half outstretched should your strength fail you. Your legs shake and you lean against a wall whenever possible, even precariously so as you try to work your way up the stairs to your second floor. Your breathing is laboured and shallow, and it makes uncertainty and worry ache in his chest.

“Please excuse me,” he says, placing one hand on your shoulder to steady you and holding your non wall bracing hand for stability as he supports you.

Following your lead, the two of you arrive at your bedroom. Your breathing has worsened and your skin feels as if it burns against his own. He half-carries you to your own bed, where he helps you lay down. You curl up on your bed, shivering.

He kneels before you, “is there anything I can do for you?” The most you can manage is a tired glare in where you believe his direction to be, but even that was half hidden in your pillow from where you had crashed.

“I’ll go make some tea, it’ll help you sleep.” He offers. You moan in pain and Xiangli gets to work. This is where he can prove how cool of a companion he is, this is where he can become your friend. People bond during hard times after all, don’t they?

For the next week, Xiangli thoroughly commits himself to nursing you back to health while dutifully studying your case of NovaFei. He cooks light, easy food for you to eat, makes sure you take your medications on time, and makes sure the house stays tidy all throughout it. He’s been sleeping in your guest room, but he can’t help but take a look around. In the sitting room, he discovered another picture wall– like the one in your office, but far more intimate and extensive. Numerous childhood pictures decorate this wall, and the presence of a shelf laden in prizes broadens the depth of all these new photos. Youth academics competition trophies, certificates from a prestigious school, and high-placing ribbons.

All these pictures and trinkets collide into a constellation of your life. Xiangli can trace years of academic success that made up your early life, a reliable circle in the form of a family and loyal friends (the very same friends who you met on the bridge)… with a distinguished record like this, he can’t understand why you didn’t become a prestigious researcher at the academy like Baizhi and Mortefi. Your friends also attended prestigious institutions, what had happened to them? He finds framed newsprints of a diplomat’s successful rookie career, a send-off parade for a new group of Midnight Rangers deployed to Norfall Barrens, and a parody picture of your friend’s first day at their new company in the same pose as a child’s first day of school. There are no pictures relating to your machinist work, and there are very few pictures that seem to have been taken recently. Only those with Baizhi and Mortefi appear to be the latest.

When not caring for you, caring for himself, or writing reports, Xiangli inevitably wanders back to the sitting room. By day 3 he had gone nose blind to the smell of your home, and you had stopped glaring at him everytime he brought food or medicine for you. Your voice had not quite recovered by day 4 but the both of you had come to an understanding of asking yes or no questions and answering via nod or disapproving head shake. By day 5, you spend more time out of bed for reasons beyond the essentials like hygiene, and you’re particular about handling the laundry yourself. You spend your time reading, listening to the radio, or catching up on a season of some kind of TV show. He once offered to sit with you, and for a moment you seemed to consider it before shaking your head. You pointedly gesture at his and your face masks, of which the both of you have been dutifully donning throughout his entire stay. Fair enough, he thinks, it would be rather inconvenient if he also fell sick.

On day 6, Xiangli knocks on your bedroom door with your regularly scheduled lunch. This time he’s brought you something more solid as your lungs and muscles have recovered to an acceptable level. He listens for your response, but all he hears is what he believes is muffled choking– choking?! Xiangli nearly drops his platter of lunch on the ground and pushes into your room.

“[Name]? [Name] say something!” He says, rushing to your bedside.

You brace yourself on your forearms and elbows, coughing and crying as you tremble from the strain of holding your body up from your pillow. He would not consider this a reassuring response. Xiangli places his hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles while his other hand swipes your water bottle from your nightstand to hold to your face. He steadies you as you shakily sip from the bottle and seem to clear your lungs with a few last, rattling coughs.

“Are you feeling alright now?”

“Why?” You growl, and he prays that tone is a symptom of your illness rather than of your attitude towards him.

“I– pardon?”

“Why are you doing all this? Baizhi texted me. Doctors are just being sent to study us, most just visit for half an hour tops to get their samples each day. Why are you still here?”

After nearly a week of living with you, you finally meet his stare head-on. Your eyes are swollen and still wet from your pained tears, your mask is askew from your uncoordinated swipe of it to get a drink of your water. That same pain is still present, based on the taught grimace that causes you to bare your teeth at him. Xiangli feels like shriveling up and dying in the face of your plain resentment.

“It’s… really intense research. It would be unethical if I didn’t help someone seriously ill, right?”

Your squint suggests that you don’t believe him in the slightest– rather, you seem to turn for the more aggressive, “you think this is funny? I can’t fucking breathe or lift myself. My whole damn career relies on talking and moving work, if I can’t even do that then what do I have, huh? You think we can’t hear all you lab folk looking down on us on the floor ‘cuz we don’t write studies?”

You break into another barking cough, and Xiangli flinches from the force of it. “S’not fucking fair, why do I–” you urgently drink again, a bid to calm your seizing lungs alongside your stinging fury.

In that very moment, many pieces of this puzzle that he hadn’t even known he was assembling all come together. In fairness, you are correct. There is a certain elitism that the general academic body carries about its staff. The best researchers– like himself– are celebrities, but the most skilled labour personnel–like yourself– are known as bureaucratic hassles and blockades to funding when safety standards aren’t met. Nobody knows your name with any kind of reverence (excluding himself). Even he fell into that kind of thinking when he wondered why you had not stayed in academics despite your demonstrated ability to do so when he looked at your many photos on the wall.

Parents pushed their children to become politicians, Midnight Rangers, or academics, but never towards the trades. This time off is given to protect the population on campus from catching NovaFei, but the lack of care arranged for such significant health concerns of the worker speaks volumes about how invested the academy is. Most doctors wouldn’t want patients with a highly infectious illness in their office either, further limiting you in this circumstance. But if researchers had been the ones to fall ill in the same way, all Jinzhou would be hearing about it in print and by mouth by the next day. According to Mortefi, this worship of scholarship and experimentation is even worse in the New Federation.

You are not a particularly social person to begin with, so your efforts to keep in touch with Mortefi and Baizhi were already out of the ordinary. None of your close friends seemed to be researchers and scientists either. Xiangli recalls how little respect for your skills and knowledge the team of researchers within the lab had shown you, and the cutting smile you bore when you visited his office, the one you turned upon the many researchers that stared at you and whispered so obviously. Have you been thinking that he’s been… making fun of you? Is that why you’ve kept him at arm’s length? You have every reason to be suspicious of his– the scholar of scholars– sudden interest in you given how you’ve been treated. Baizhi and Mortefi are near painfully honest in most situations, one need not overthink the statements they give, but Xiangli knows that in his efforts to socialize like everyone else, he does not maintain that honesty or willingness to state his intentions directly.

Xiangli wishes he could melt into the floor. He really has been understanding you entirely incorrectly.

“...I’m sorry, I should have been honest. I do have personal reasons for doing this. I just…” he sighs, “I just wanted to be friends with you.”

“Huh?”

His face turns bright red, burning as his words flood his mouth, “ever since I saw you at the lab for that machine failure I wanted to connect with you, but no matter what opportunities I took you didn’t seem to find me that interesting. I thought that if I could do this for you, you’d like me more.”

This time, you’re the one to blankly blink at him as the gears spin but no output is produced. His confession seems to have stunned you so much your shuddering has ceased for the time being. You don’t say anything, just size him up and down again.

“Oh, y’know what, I brought your lunch but then I left it outside and completely forgot about it, I should go get that!” He hastily pulls his hands away and jumps to his feet, then makes a not-at-all unusual dash for your bedroom door.

Day 7 passes quietly, apart from his newfound awkwardness. Your scrutinizing gaze does not help him, but he certainly prefers them to the outright hostility you had shown the day before– not that he blames you at all for your suspicions and your reaction given the strain you’ve been under. On day 8 you’re well enough that you wander around your house, but certainly far too weak to return to work. Xiangli stews on whether or not that means he should stick around longer to help you or if his stay has become unwelcome. The internal debate follows him throughout the day, but he’s far too shy to bring it up with you directly. By the time he’s worked up the courage to speak to you about it, he’s stepping out of the shower and back into the guest room. Dinner had gone well, more solid foods today too, and he had hoped to retire early. Well, worth at least seeking you out if you were still awake.

Xiangli returns to the halls, following the lights in the hall from the illuminated dining room. There he finds you with a cup of spiced hot chocolate, staring out of the window into the dark evening beyond your property line. He feels a bit bad for disturbing you in this moment of peace.

“Hello, do you have a moment?”

Your eyes meet his. You seem to be more lucid than he had anticipated, your expression is calm and better focused than you’ve been at any given time this last week. You nod, using your foot to push out a chair for him to sit on. He gratefully takes a seat– still damp somewhat from the shower– at the dining table. You make, then set a mug of steaming tea before him, and he smiles as he offers his thanks. The most he gets is an acknowledging hum as you retake your seat across from him, your own hot mug in hand. He counts eight seats total, lined across from one another at this long dining table. But as far as he can tell, this house only has one inhabitant. He considers the picture frames in your office at work, and the ones decorating the walls within this house. It’s a big house, but it's hardly filled.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask, eyes as impassive as always, “you’ve been off all day.”

He winces. Yep, you’re as observant as ever. You don’t tend to mention what you see though, preferring to ignore it unless it serves you to act on your information somehow. In that way, your demeanor is similar to Baizhi and Mortefi: reserved, still passionate about the field you’ve dedicated yourself to, but so calculating. Unlike Baizhi, there doesn’t seem to be any softness for others– respect certainly– but no obvious gaps for him to edge into your heart, no way to know your thoughts. You seem to have a general appreciation for the lives of others, but that regard unfortunately dries up at the individual level. Xiangli knows this because your temper is so like a certain fiery researcher’s when safety regulations are crossed, and especially when your clear warnings go unheeded.

He, a genius who chose people and the pursuit of truth, and found both. Only able to boldly be himself in the face of every event that life throws him. You, who gave up truth in the pursuit of people, and found neither. You observe, replicate, adapt, wear a new face designed to match precisely what the situation demands of you.

“I…” what he wants to ask for is not something within his rights to request, “it’s a bit…”

“Shoot.”

His face flushes, “do you… mind if I continue to stay until your strength has returned? Have I overstayed?”

Your fingers tap rhythmically against your ceramic mug, “no, you’ve been helpful. I’m getting better, but not by that much.”

“I submitted my full report today, I’ll let you know the moment the labs send me a response, I promise.”

“Appreciate it.”

Silence returns. The mixed scents of his tea and your hot chocolate feel overwhelming, but as the only sensations that particularly stand out to him in that moment, he holds onto them to anchor himself.

“Um…”

You take a sip from your mug, watching him over the rim.

“...can we be friends? Entirely separate from my help here! Whatever you say won’t change that! I’ll see you through this with 100% of my ability!”

“Sure. Whatever you’ve been doing has worked, I do care about you.”

He can feel a hopeful smile– small, but certainly there– cross his expression, “really?”

“Yep. Can’t really help that, so let's give it a shot. Just be forward on what you do and don’t want from me.”

“ I will! I swear you won’t regret it, I’ll plan a lot of fun stuff for us to do when you feel better!”

At that, your own steely face softens as you roll your eyes. Not quite the noncommittal, accusing smile that you use to navigate the social situations that inevitably befall you, but something else. It feels as if he’s gotten another direct look into your heart, like when he found you crying in your bed during your coughing fit.

“I’ll hold you to that. Don’t get sick before then.”

“I won’t,” Xiangli says, grinning broadly behind his mask, “at least not before I treat you.”

#this is so gorgeous your writing is like a delicious 5 course meal MMRHGHH #the way you have portrayed him in such intricate detail and built such a fantastic setting is incredible #truly so scrumptious i am in love with this in every way #there has been far too little content for him i love him so much #i felt his yearning in this so sooo much because i actually relate to him in that way #his longing is so potent i feel it so deeply and you have crafted it here so well #thank you for sharing this work with us #mujimingled #xiangli yao #uurghhhdhhh i love him he is so wonderful snd sweet and kind and precious

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