[ it does him no good to keep going like this. drink against drink, glass against glass, upended in turn and similarly stacked. zhongli knows it better to cut through the burn of the alcohol before it can catch, but childe opens his mouth. he speaks, avoids the name he has chosen. does not recognize him, really, at all.
and still, zhongli does not volley back his strike. he does not turn his words against the tender of his ribs, press against the pink and sinew and hope he too bleeds as he once did. ]
You did not ask. [ to be determined deceptive and truthful in turn, to be kicked down the line of all and any detractions — what curious things they all do, when they are wounded. and yet, zhongli wonders the last time he'd shown the white of his teeth. he wonders, if it had been in the moments the dark had surged against them, left him and little more. ]
Even so, it brings me no pleasure to omit any such truths. [ it never had. since he'd shaken himself free from the heart of the mountains, he'd always been honest in all of his dealings. he had always made transparent his laws, his judgements, his rules — and yet, there are lashings that bind him too. there are boundaries he cannot cross, contracts he has made, higher powers left to listen to. here, freed from the weight of all their dominion, he is not freed at all. not yet. and still, he watches something too young and too boyish surface. something that stings not at all of his now loveless god, but of a truer filament.
zhongli does not aim for the throat. instead, he bridges. little similarities that remain, no matter the separation of their motivations in method, not flesh. ] I'd believed it the same for you.
[ he'd never perceived childe to be without his own intelligence. trusting, perhaps, but zhongli too was young. it is only now, that he is able to be softer. able to be kind. able to exit when the door is left open, the heart of his heart a fumbling absence. ]
no subject
and still, zhongli does not volley back his strike. he does not turn his words against the tender of his ribs, press against the pink and sinew and hope he too bleeds as he once did. ]
You did not ask. [ to be determined deceptive and truthful in turn, to be kicked down the line of all and any detractions — what curious things they all do, when they are wounded. and yet, zhongli wonders the last time he'd shown the white of his teeth. he wonders, if it had been in the moments the dark had surged against them, left him and little more. ]
Even so, it brings me no pleasure to omit any such truths. [ it never had. since he'd shaken himself free from the heart of the mountains, he'd always been honest in all of his dealings. he had always made transparent his laws, his judgements, his rules — and yet, there are lashings that bind him too. there are boundaries he cannot cross, contracts he has made, higher powers left to listen to. here, freed from the weight of all their dominion, he is not freed at all. not yet. and still, he watches something too young and too boyish surface. something that stings not at all of his now loveless god, but of a truer filament.
zhongli does not aim for the throat. instead, he bridges. little similarities that remain, no matter the separation of their motivations in method, not flesh. ] I'd believed it the same for you.
[ he'd never perceived childe to be without his own intelligence. trusting, perhaps, but zhongli too was young. it is only now, that he is able to be softer. able to be kind. able to exit when the door is left open, the heart of his heart a fumbling absence. ]