[ discomfort doesn't deter him as it does so many others. and yet, it is curious to know that he still feels it. buried as a burr between the slat of his ribs, the pointed tip of childe's words carefully honed. he does not intend to soothe the throb of it. zhongli knows this too. but, the conversation continues. it does not flow as it once would, little exchanges about everything and nothing at all. and yet, it'd been all about the edge of either of them. now, with the partial lay of their hands, childe had come out shorter than he had. it is a bitter victory in some respects, but it'd been for the good of his people. it'd been something (for once, for once) for some tiny morsel of him. himself. the life that he'd hewn from the flagstones of his foundations. fissuring, imperfect - ugly, for how much he still gives.

but, against the chill of the liquor, zhongli breathes out. the sound of it might only just constitute as a huff. a laugh. if one tilts their head in the dim of the bar, listens to the way the glass moves against the grain. ]

I would wonder if it is as long ago as you suspect, [ zhongli tilts to him. the bass of his voice is steady, unwavering. childe does not look, but he does. for a little while. just long enough, to know the glass isn't the last one.

it isn't about the alcohol. he knows that too. he wonders if childe finds a comfort in the small win he manages in the next shot. it isn't unlike the nights at third round knockout. the liquor had been smoother. sweeter. he'd shared the varieties, told childe of their methods. he'd taken them all in readily, so - the burn of the clear liquid like a brand down the throat. it doesn't hurt. it is more the bitter chill that chases it, that wrinkles (just barely) the straight cut of his nose.

he stacks the glass neatly inside the other. he thinks of the snow. ]

Back then, only the most priceless batches of your fire water were so smoothly distilled.