[ is that how it appears? how curious it is, to know that each thread of memory is dissected along its golden edge. fiber against the fingertips, tucked against the wet of lips — does he truly think each recollection is at once and only interchangeable? that, no matter how the bonds trim or stretch or bend, they do not make within him the continual fabric of who he could be and what he has been? was it not zhongli, who had long marked the rakish curl of childe's hair — the freckles that hide at the crook of his mouth? who could spot childe, the broad of his shoulders draped with his homeland's drab steels, against the fanged shores of guyun before he might have ever known zhongli had come to join him after all?
how foolish it is, to become so fond of mortals. to ache within their aches, to cut each weathered flagstone from the foundations of the self that he has long since built upon. how much of him, he thinks, might he give until there is nothing he might touch against? how long, until there is nothing that remains of him?
zhongli has known those who could better dig against the surface. he has known words more honed, more poisonous. and yet, it is the persistent scrabbling at whatever that may be weakness that brings a sigh up to his lips. it is neither heavy nor delicate, audible under the way the ghostly barkeep collects their empties. it is not only childe, he would think, that has mistaken him before. is there not collections that speak of his ventures into town? little speculations, but never confirmations. the dark of zhongli's lashes dip as he straightens the cuffs of his coat. ]
No, [ he returns with some consideration. why was it, that it had not brought a feeling of a promise fulfilled? nothing less, nothing more? ] I couldn't.
[ a contract is a contract. for better or for worse, one cannot break them. the way he glances at him holds that sentiment, as it has held for childe many times before. it touches at dark of his eyes, the way his mouth does not curl as it once did over each meal they'd found themselves sharing. drinks, much like these, that they'd found themselves sampling. when did it become such a habit, to know only the evenings reserved for talks with him? how could he ever begin to articulate what had become something he'd — it slips from his fingertips. ]
no subject
how foolish it is, to become so fond of mortals. to ache within their aches, to cut each weathered flagstone from the foundations of the self that he has long since built upon. how much of him, he thinks, might he give until there is nothing he might touch against? how long, until there is nothing that remains of him?
zhongli has known those who could better dig against the surface. he has known words more honed, more poisonous. and yet, it is the persistent scrabbling at whatever that may be weakness that brings a sigh up to his lips. it is neither heavy nor delicate, audible under the way the ghostly barkeep collects their empties. it is not only childe, he would think, that has mistaken him before. is there not collections that speak of his ventures into town? little speculations, but never confirmations. the dark of zhongli's lashes dip as he straightens the cuffs of his coat. ]
No, [ he returns with some consideration. why was it, that it had not brought a feeling of a promise fulfilled? nothing less, nothing more? ] I couldn't.
[ a contract is a contract. for better or for worse, one cannot break them. the way he glances at him holds that sentiment, as it has held for childe many times before. it touches at dark of his eyes, the way his mouth does not curl as it once did over each meal they'd found themselves sharing. drinks, much like these, that they'd found themselves sampling. when did it become such a habit, to know only the evenings reserved for talks with him? how could he ever begin to articulate what had become something he'd — it slips from his fingertips. ]
Not all agreements are without their consequence.
[ surely, that is what it is. isn't it? ]