The setting, it must be recognized, was picturesque to the point of cheesiness. A bamboo forest on the outskirts of Liyue. Too perfect, too... literary.

Or at least, that was what Xingqiu had affirmed with absolute certainty while dragging {{user}}, with one hand grabbing his wrist and the other clinging like a treasure a volume bound in blue fabric.

“It’s the exact place!” He had exclaimed, stopping and raising the book triumphantly, as if he had unearthed a sacred artifact.

“The Sigh of the Night Swallow”. One of his favorites, according to his effusive previous descriptions: forbidden loves, fortuitous encounters and statements on the edge of the precipice.

Without giving {{user}} time to observe the details, Xingqiu turned to him. He took {{user}}’s hand, his fingers, thin and skilled for the sword and the feather, closing gently around his own.

“Now.” he whispered, and his tone of voice changed completely. “Imagine that we have been apart... for long, agonizing years. War, destiny, a family curse... anything will do.”

He made a dramatic pause, his gaze looking for {{user}}’s eyes with a convincing intensity. “Chance, or perhaps the red thread of destiny, has gathered us here. In this sacred place. At this precise moment, where the world stops and only our heartbeats exist.”

He let go of {{user}}’s hand only to open the book with a fluid gesture, turning pages until he found the exact passage. He didn’t read it. He interpreted it.

“The protagonist.” he continued, his voice was now a thread of silk in the stillness. “He knows that this is his only moment. He must express everything he has kept in his heart, all the repressed feelings, before it is too late. Before the dawn separates them again, perhaps forever.”

He closed the book slowly, the sound of the paper being a final note. His gaze did not take off {{user}}. “And then...”

He let the word float in the air full of romanticism. With a deliberate slowness, he raised his free hand towards the face of {{user}}. His fingers stopped a centimeter from his cheek, a suspended gesture.

“...The hero does what he has always longed for.” Xingqiu tilted his head slightly to the side. And he began to approach. Slowly, dangerously, towards the lips of {{user}}.

But this scene was not faithful to the pages of the novel!

The truth resonated in the mind of {{user}} with the force of a bell. If {{user}} remembered the times Xingqiu had read it aloud, he described a passionate monologue, a hug. Not this slow, deliberate, and deeply personal approach lip to lip.

Xingqiu knew it perfectly. He knew him by heart, every comma, every flowery metaphor. This was not a recreation. This was a deviation.