#this was just named nghgh.docx because thats exactly how i feel about them

[gastricpierrot]

Title: Ships in the Night 

Series: Genshin Impact

Relationship: ZhongVen

Rating: T

Summary:

Barbatos had always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

Also on AO3

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The sheer idea of festivities lasting two whole weeks sounds absolutely exhausting to Morax, yet even at the peak of the Ludi Harpastum, Mondstadt’s people do not seem like they are slowing down anytime soon.

Morax’s tugged along by the cuff of his sleeve, Barbatos in the lead as they weave their way through the packed streets. Songs and cheer fill the air, mingled with the scents of various food, flowers, and of course, the city’s beloved wine. Barbatos himself is already tipsy despite it still being rather early in the day, having downed almost every pint of free alcohol that’s offered to him by the countless vendors they come across. There's an occasional stumble in his steps, but his spirits remain high as he shows Morax around with wholehearted excitement, a bright grin across his lips, a lively blush on his cheeks.

Morax finds the myriad of sensations dizzying, too many sights and sounds and scents bombarding him all at once—and he holds on to Barbatos’ presence for balance. Barbatos, in contrast, seems to harbour no such qualms, flitting from one booth to the next with ease, only pausing to look back when he finds something he wants to recommend. The apples from this store, the handcrafted trinkets from another, the freshly made Mora Meat from yet another one. He isn’t shy when it comes to haggling—even though Morax did remember to bring his wallet for once (much to Barbatos’ exaggerated horror) and he’s certain there would be enough between them to last the day—but it seems to be a normal occurrence to the vendors. Morax watches their good-humored banters, sees how comfortable Barbatos is around these parts and in these situations.

It’s clear how much he loves Mondstadt, and how much he is loved in return.

They spend the rest of the afternoon like this, navigating the packed streets, Barbatos showing him his favorite spots, stopping only for the occasional breathers and snacks. Mondstadt’s festivals have a very different atmosphere to them compared to those back in Liyue, unique in a way Morax can’t exactly pinpoint. Rowdier, perhaps, with the people more comfortable when it comes to mingling with strangers. Morax has lost count of the number of times he’s been randomly approached to be given some sort of gift, or to be invited for meals or gatherings he politely declines. Perhaps the community here is simply tighter knit as a whole, as compared to the more family-centric people of Liyue.

Barbatos leads him to a park at some point, declaring it’ll be their last stop before he has to prepare for a performance after sunset. Morax notices how it’s mainly families and children in this area, not a single wine vendor in sight. There are booths for games instead, where players will have the chance to earn various prizes if they win. Each is packed with groups of youngsters, all vying for the best toys on offer. Shrill, excited voices cheered and jeered at one another; in a way inciting even more chaos here compared to the people crowding the market lanes.

“Why don’t you give one a try? Even adults are allowed to play, you know,” Barbatos suggests when Morax stops to watch a child’s attempt at a game of throwing hoops over cups marked with numbers. Morax glances at him, sees his wayward smile.

“I don't think it’d be fair to the young ones if I did,” he says, to which Barbatos only barks out a laugh.

“Show off,” he retorts, and even Morax cracks a smile.

“Um, excuse me.”

They’re just about to continue on their way when a voice calls out to them. Morax turns around, not seeing anyone until it occurs to him to look down. A lone young girl stares at him wide-eyed from below, a messy flower crown clutched tightly in her hands.

“Mister, please have this!” She offers the item to him, her words slightly rushed from her enthusiasm. Morax has turned down countless gifts throughout the day, but this time, at least, he knows better than to needlessly upset a child.

So he kneels down to be a little closer to eye-level with her. “It is an honor to receive your gift.”

She stretches out her arms, and Morax tips his head to let her crown him.

The child giggles in delight as she steps back. “You really are like a prince, mister! Bye-bye!”

Morax watches her run back to her parents a little way off, warmth blossoming in his chest as he waves his own farewell to her. He gets back on his feet, and finds Barbatos looking at him with an expression he’s never seen him wear.

“It suits you,” he says, like he actually means it rather than the usual sarcasm Morax’s expected he would go for. He supposes he must be quite the sight, a full-grown adult with a falling-apart flower crown perching lopsided atop his head.

“It probably suits you more, Bar—” he stops himself just in time, remembering that they’re here only as humans and nothing more, and that they should at least make a bit of effort to keep up appearances. Though, it's not like anyone within their vicinity would actually be paying attention.

“Venti,” he tries anyway, and immediately breaks into a frown. The name still feels strange on his tongue, no matter how much he’s tried to practice saying it.

“Gods, it does feel weird hearing you call me that,” Barbatos admits with a slight wince, but Morax could somewhat tell that he appreciates it, nonetheless. It's the way his features brighten at the sound of it, the way his eyes would light up ever so slightly. It is, after all, a name bestowed upon him by a beloved friend many years ago. Barbatos has not been called such for a long time. “But yeah, no, you should keep that. Have some fun, let loose a little!”

Morax doesn’t exactly see how wearing flowers in his hair contributes to “letting loose”, but he doesn’t argue.

They have time to go grab something for dinner just as dusk falls, and then Barbatos is bringing him to what he claims to be one of the main final highlights of the Ludi Harpastum: an event of all night drinking and fireworks. There are several spots around the city hosting such sessions, all offering endless streams of food and alcohol sponsored by Mondstadt’s major wineries. Barbatos will be performing in the one held at the city square—the main place, he boasts—first of the few bards invited there to further enliven the mood.

Dozens of chairs and tables are set up across the open space, most already packed with people by the time they get there. There’s a small stage at the very front, the sides of the venue lined with booths in charge of the food and drinks. Waiting staff donning bright uniforms dart from table to table, expertly weaving their way around the already half-intoxicated crowd.

It’s almost overwhelming; the energy, the pungent scent of food and strong wine, the sheer rowdiness of the people gathered around. Morax stops by a convenient tree a respectable distance away from the square, just far enough that the chances of a random drunkard stumbling over and dragging him in would be minimal.

And “I think I’ll stay here,” he says, when Barbatos turns to him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t want to join in?” he asks, despite Morax’s answer already being obvious.

“I’m sure I can enjoy the atmosphere well enough from here.”

“Hmm, fair enough.” Barbatos shrugs after a quick gauge of the distance between them and the heart of the event. Then he smiles, hands on his hips. “Anyway. I’ll get going first, then. I’ll come find you when I’m done?”

“If I haven’t already left,” Morax says, because he genuinely does not know how much of this unbridled revelry he can tolerate. Even now, part of him wants nothing more than to walk off and find somewhere quiet to wind down for the rest of the evening.

Of course, his statement immediately gets Barbatos whining. “At least wait for me!!!”

“Just go before you’re late.” Morax shoos him off, though he doubts anyone present currently retains even the slightest sense of time.

“Fine, fine!” Barbatos relents, cheeks still puffed, “but I’m going to throw rocks at you if you really leave without me, alright?”

Morax halfheartedly assures he can throw as many rocks at him as he wants if it comes to it, then with a sudden rush of wind and a final harrumph, Barbatos turns on his heels and strides towards the stage, his people cheering his name the moment they spot him.

“Looking forward to what you have for us tonight, Venti!”

“Venti you rascal, you really made us wait this time!”

“Venti, you’re looking lovely as ever!”

Venti, Venti.

The descent of a god, unknown to his own people.

Barbatos takes his seat on the single stool placed on the stage, crossing his legs just so, his posture relaxed yet brimming with elegance. The wind carries the sounds of his lyre all the way to where Morax stands, clear and proud amidst the endless chatter of the crowd. He begins with a slow tune, a moment of calm cutting through the chaos. Demanding attention.

Quiet. Listen.

Morax too, catches himself holding his breath.

And then Barbatos strums another note and smoothly transitions into a new tune, and the crowd explodes with excitement. His next song matches more to the barely suppressed merriment around him, its melody upbeat and festive. He’s skilled at involving his audience, easily encouraging them to sing and dance along. Charming, radiant. He captivates all who behold him—even Morax, despite such genre of music never being to his tastes. It’s a rather belated realization to come to, but seeing him fully in his element like this, Morax can tell that Barbatos’ boastings indeed hold their weight, and that he truly has mastered the craft of a bard.

Barbatos leaves the stage around the middle of his fourth song, slipping into the crowd as he continues his performance. He sings and twirls and dances, one with his people—and somehow still, Morax spots him managing to down some drinks in between. His current song involves a back and forth; he sings one line, then prompting the nearest person to follow up. It seems to be a piece everyone’s wholly familiar with, all who enthusiastically join in barely stumbling on their turn.

Morax notices too, after a few minutes of observation, that it also seems to be endless; constantly looping around the chorus. He wouldn’t put it past Barbatos for doing this deliberately, for as long as it continued, he could drink.

And he does drink. He drinks so much that it’s almost impressive, since he only has a few seconds at a time to gulp down his alcohol. Morax wrinkles his nose from afar, already dreading the stench he would exude when he returns later.

Morax doesn’t see it, at first. He can pinpoint Barbatos’ general location based on the reaction of the people and when he hops onto benches and tables for some elevation, but he’s partly obscured from his sight most of the time. It’s only as Barbatos makes his way further towards the back of the crowd, closer to where Morax stands, that he notices how else some members of his audience interact with him.

People who take advantage of the general unruliness of a large-scale drinking session in a packed area, hands that touch places past normal boundaries. His thighs, his back, his neck.

Barbatos does not falter, either too immersed in his own performance or too intoxicated to realize and care. Or perhaps he is simply used to this, having been a bard for as long as he’d been a god. Morax does not know.

Fire flares in his stomach the longer he watches, filling his mouth with a bitter taste. It is truly an uncomfortable sight. Intoxication is not consent, nor is silence. Morax could not stand it for long, reaching for the flower crown on his head and tossing it aside before striding toward where Barbatos is lingering within the crowd.

He grabs a person by the wrist and wrenches their hand away from Barbatos, his grip hard enough to make them cry out. Barbatos must’ve heard the commotion, turning at the sound and eyes widening in surprise when he sees Morax right there behind him.

Morax glares at him—a misdirection of his anger, he admits—but he only breaks into a satisfied grin, and finally decides to move his song along. He leaps onto the nearest table, feet stepping delicately between the many glass mugs piled across its surface. His tune reaching a crescendo, his finale presented with flourish.

His audience, quite literally, erupts into cheers and applause.

Barbatos half stumbles down from the table amidst the cacophony of the reception, Morax moving to catch him just as his knees buckle beneath him and he loses his balance. He's trembling, his forehead visibly damp with sweat.

And before Morax can properly help him get back on his feet, he throws up all over his sleeve.

xXx

Barbatos supposes his age must finally be catching up to him.

Or perhaps he’d simply overestimated himself, thinking that participating in the Ludi Harpastum’s all-night drink session wouldn’t be too different from his usual gigs, only with a little more people.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have stepped off the stage in the first place, shouldn’t have danced quite so hard, and should’ve saved the drinking until after his performance ended. The lack of air, the thick haze of human odour mixed with the saccharine scent of alcohol, his own sweeping movements—Barbatos had not expected them to combine into an experience quite so nauseating, even for a god.

He vaguely remembers throwing up once more while Morax carried him somewhere, then a third time in a washroom he didn’t recognize. Then he draws a blank after that.

He stirs to find himself on a bed, his clothes replaced with a set of loose cotton pajamas and his body smelling faintly of floral soap. His head throbs with a dull ache, but he figures he’s seen worse days. More than anything, he feels dehydrated, his lips dry and throat like sandpaper. He braces his palms against the mattress, and slowly pushes himself upright.

He's in a dimly lit room, probably one in an inn not too far off from the venue of the drink fest. He hears the sounds of running water from behind the door opposite the bed; Morax is probably there cleaning up after the mess Barbatos made. There’s a jug on the bedstand, a fresh glass of water already poured out for him. Barbatos’ chest warms as he reaches for it, endeared by how fastidious Morax remains, despite everything.

He returns to lying down a little later, admittedly just a little bitter at how things have turned out. He’s had such an amazing day. He'd always wanted to enjoy a Ludi Harpastum with Morax, making so many empty promises with him over the years to go together one day. A festival of fun and games close to his own heart, it’s a change of pace he always thought Morax could appreciate, since he’s constantly at work. They finally manage this after all these centuries, yet Barbatos just had to be an idiot at the very end.

He rests his arm over his eyes, exhaling a slow breath. He's such an idiot.

The sounds of the shower eventually come to a stop, leaving a ringing sort of silence in their absence. The ruckus of the ongoing party not far off carries all the way to their window; people laughing, cheering, singing. Fireworks bursting in the sky.

He'd wanted to show Morax the fireworks too, damn it.

He lowers his arm and turns when he hears Morax stepping out of the bathroom. He’s wearing a similar set of pajamas as himself, though admittedly it looks so out of place on him that Barbatos almost lets out a snort.

“Hey,” he greets, because he’s genuinely not sure how else he should start. Morax meets his gaze from behind his damp fringe, his face betraying no particular emotion.

“Hey,” he returns, every bit as curt. Barbatos cracks a lopsided smile, and decides there’s no point trying to go around it.

“Listen, Morax, I’m so sorry things ended up like this,” he says, twisting to lie on his side facing him. Morax doesn’t respond to that immediately, and neither does Barbatos see much of a change in his expression.

“Barbatos, how many times do you think I've had to handle your drunk antics over the years?”

Barbatos winces at that. “Now you’re making me feel even worse.”

“You should,” Morax agrees, running a towel over his damp hair. “It’s about time you realize how self-centered and inconsiderate and – “

“Okay, okay, I get it!!” Barbatos interjects before his feelings are actually hurt. “I’m sorry!”

Morax only shoots him a meaningful look and says nothing else, knowing at the end of the day he’d do it all over again anyway. Barbatos supposes he can’t blame him; he’s more aware than anyone that he’s been the way he is for more than a millennium, never once giving even the slightest indication that he would change.

Maybe it’s time he considers, after all that’s happened today, but he decides he’ll mull over that some other time.

His eyes follow Morax as he steps away to hang his towel on a rack, his confusion growing when Morax proceeds to stand rooted in place, frowning slightly and arms crossed as though deep in thought. Barbatos stares at him for a solid couple of minutes before speaking up.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking about what I should do next,” Morax answers, in all seriousness. Barbatos can’t believe this man is for real. He bursts into laughter, earning himself a puzzled look.

“You really don’t know what ‘rest’ means, do you?” he marvels, then scooting closer against the wall and patting the empty spot before him. “Come here and lie down, we’ve been up and about the entire day. Aren’t you tired?”

Morax’s frown deepens by a fraction. “But I don’t think there’s sp-”

“There’s more than enough space for the both of us!” Barbatos assures, chest light with newfound mirth. Morax really is too much of a gentleman at times. “This bed’s huge!”

Morax remains hesitant for a moment longer, but with just a little more gentle pestering, he relents in the end. “Then, if I may.”

Barbatos watches as he moves to take the space beside him, watches the way his long hair falls over his shoulders, the way the collar of his shirt shifts to reveal the hollow of his throat, a small window of his chest.

Morax fully lies down, and Barbatos realizes there really is just enough space for them to stay still like this. Huh. Has Morax always been such a big person? Or maybe the bed really isn’t that wide to begin with, and whatever alcohol lingering within his system is just messing with his perception of space. Not that it matters at this point. Morax still smells fresh from his shower, his uncharacteristically messy hair and comfortable clothes giving him an air of innocence Barbatos never expected to see on him. Unguarded, youthful. They’re a mere half-arm's length apart, close enough that Barbatos can almost feel his every exhale of breath.

“So how did you find the Ludi Harpastum?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, perhaps part of him being rather conscious about the little distance between them. Did it live up to the expectations he set for him by constantly inviting him to one over the years, he wonders? Did Morax at least enjoy himself a little with all the festivities? Barbatos noticed he’d mostly followed his lead, trying the many things he’d recommended to him, visiting only the places he brings him. Barely making many choices for himself. It’s too late at this point, yet Barbatos still worries about being overbearing without meaning to. Could Morax really have had fun without as much as a freedom of decision?

“It was...” Morax trails off ominously, pausing to weigh his words while Barbatos braces himself for the continuation. “Different, I suppose.”

“A good different or a bad one?”

“Just different,” Morax affirms. “It certainly feels livelier than the celebrations in Liyue.”

“Then,” Barbatos perks up, a little more hopeful now with the way Morax has responded so far. “What did you like most?”

Morax hums to that, silent in a moment of contemplation. “If I were to choose, I quite enjoyed some of the places we visited.”

He goes on to recall the few locations he’d found a liking to, admiring the history and cultural significance of each that Barbatos had explained to him, the various architectural designs and artistic liberties that define Mondstadt’s trademarks. The motifs of the cobbled streets, the poems framed and hung inside windmills serving as charms for Barbatos’ blessings, even the theme of the patterns carved on many a doorplate—Morax seems to have been quite fascinated by them.

He wears a different expression when he talks about the things that strikes his fancy. A slight upturn of his lips, the faintest crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Even his voice adopts a different tone, laced with a smallest hint of excitement—perhaps even joy, because someone cares to listen.

Barbatos could listen to him like this for an eternity, if he had the chance.

“You’re staring at me,” Morax stops to say at some point, a slight knit across his brow. Barbatos supposes he must be wearing quite the expression, for him to look at him like that. But he could not help it; after all, who wouldn’t be utterly captivated by someone as quietly radiant as this god before him?

“I think I'm in love with you, Morax.”

Are the words that take form, a confession he’s surely taken long enough to make. He no longer even remembers when was the first time it’d dawned him, that his feelings for Morax had progressed into something that wasn’t platonic. How many years has it been since he started seeing him with a different sort of admiration, with the barely suppressible urge of wanting to be closer to him?

Morax blinks at him once, twice. Processing what he’s just heard; understandable, as it really had come out of nowhere.

Then he averts his gaze, reaching to cover his mouth as a wave of red creeps up his entire face.

“Why don’t you tell me that again when you’re sober?” he mumbles into his hand, and Barbatos effectively short-circuits for a moment.

“This is the most sober I’ve been all day, though???”

Morax is adamant, shifting to turn away from him as though to physically end the conversation. “That’s what a drunk person would say. Now stop talking and go back to sleep.”

“No, no, no, isn’t this a little sudden?? Morax??” Barbatos is half laughing now, seeing how desperately Morax is trying to deal with his own embarrassment. It is surprisingly contagious, though; even he’s starting to feel a little shy the longer he badgers him.

“Morax?? Heyyy, Morax? Rex Lapis?”

And yet he refuses to let it stop him. He can see how red Morax’s ears are even from behind him like this. Barbatos pokes at his back, a mix of fondness and mischief welling in his chest when the idea occurs to him.

He squirms forward, closing the little distance between them.

“Zhongli.”

Morax tenses at that, the slightest reaction that Barbatos would’ve missed if he as much as blinked. He's...really cute when he’s like this. Part of Barbatos refuses to believe that this is happening. Morax, the Geo Archon, the honourable Rex Lapis, Adepti Prime—has this absurdly adorable side to him.

“Zhongli,” Barbatos dares to say again, just to see what other sort of response he could elicit from him. “Zhongli.”

He leans out of the way just in time before Morax twists to face him once more, bracing himself for a well-deserved smack—but is instead pulled into a tight embrace.

“You’re so obnoxious,” Morax says, his exasperation obvious even in his quiet tone. Barbatos smiles as he returns the hug with just a much intensity, leaning into their contact with a sigh, a swell of his heart.

Morax is much warmer than he could’ve ever imagined.  

xXx

They say that both the Geo and Anemo Archons are fond of disguising as humans, often descending from their divine residence in Celestia to mingle with the commonfolk of their respective nations.

No one knows what are their preferred appearances, as oftentimes they are indistinguishable from the everyday person. No one knows if they preferred to present as men or women or even children, or if the rumours of them taking human form even hold any truth. After all, who’s to say they wouldn’t choose to appear as an animal, a sprite, or perhaps a fragment of the elements they embody?

Not many in the nations of Liyue and Mondstadt have ever had the chance to see their respective gods, nor to realize that they’ve lain eyes upon them at all. It is something the people have accepted to simply leave up to chance, as there is no point to obsessing over the miniscule possibility of coming face to face with the deity they worship. There are enough mundane things worth paying attention to on the daily; the clarity of the skies, the specials available in the markets, the trees newly bearing fruit.

A particular sight has grown more common as well within the borders of the two neighbouring nations in recent years, one of a pair often spotted strolling together through the busy city streets, the bustling villages, and even the vast wilderness, when the weather is agreeable.

Should one have their stars aligned just right, they may just chance upon a certain bard and gentleman, both usually engrossed in jovial chatter or some lighthearted bickering no matter the location. Oddly out of place sometimes, seeming right at home the rest. Greet them if you wish, and they would usually respond warmly in return. But take heed, at times you may notice their hands linked and fingers intertwined, the pair lost in a world of their own—and that will be your sign to give space, for even gods would appreciate a little time to themselves.