[ it is foolish, to offer. it is foolish to spend any amount of time with him, when childe knows that nothing good will come of it. it is foolish to acknowledge him like this, to bait him with bland smiles and carefully crafted words, to invite zhongli to sit beside him. zhongli. the name is sour in his mouth. it is out of sheer stubbornness that childe, too, follows - how he mirrors; the tipping of the head, the glass set down on the polished wood of the bar none too gently. a little frown puckers between his brows, but they both know it isn't the strength or the alcohol or the burning taste of it, but the fact that it is so dissimilar to the liquor they are both referring to. ]
Must have been a while for you. It's not at all the same.
[ it isn't homesickness. it isn't even at all because he misses the taste of it - childe had indulged in things far sweeter, liyue's summers distilled in mellow gold. he knows what zhongli prefers is something very far removed from the cold and the sting of snezhnayan winters, the ache of something akin to frostbite that cuts to his chest. and maybe that is why.
two more. childe doesn't look at him, as he passes one on. ]
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Must have been a while for you. It's not at all the same.
[ it isn't homesickness. it isn't even at all because he misses the taste of it - childe had indulged in things far sweeter, liyue's summers distilled in mellow gold. he knows what zhongli prefers is something very far removed from the cold and the sting of snezhnayan winters, the ache of something akin to frostbite that cuts to his chest. and maybe that is why.
two more. childe doesn't look at him, as he passes one on. ]