we don't want to leave. as long as you don't mind i
[ in the endlessness of the dark, xiao dares to thread their fingers. he is not sure he is sweet to anyone, is anything at all except an objective existence that will one day pass. but while he exists, it is a kind of gift: to feel zhongli's love which is the foundation of his grief and his loss. if xiao were a cat he would deign to make zhongli his only human. if xiao were a bird, he would always fly back to him. if xiao is only xiao, he does as he can now: holds his hand and sends through the blind emptiness a fullness even he cannot wholly articulate. each fragment of memory is funneled towards zhongli's gold from the wisping breath of teal and star white. adoration. gratitude. fear. sadness. immeasurable joy. pleasure the shape of a perfect day in the daylessness of the world in-between. a kiss they have not shared amongst their kisses so-far in this life; a kiss that they have. it is all love. it is all a young demon with his head on the floor of the great timekeeper's study: please don't send me back.
and even though it killed him faster, xiao was stunned and overwhelmed by his wish being granted.
in the here and now, at xiao's job they find his prone body on the floor of one of the storage closets where he had been texting, phone fallen just out of reach.
unawares of this, in the dark xiao's light laces with zhongli's. it feels as it often does with zhongli; feels —
— like coming home.
at his job, someone will use his emergency contact, now zhongli and relay that they think xiao is sick. he isn't of course, but they have no way of knowing this. ]
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as long as you don't mind i
[ in the endlessness of the dark, xiao dares to thread their fingers. he is not sure he is sweet to anyone, is anything at all except an objective existence that will one day pass. but while he exists, it is a kind of gift: to feel zhongli's love which is the foundation of his grief and his loss. if xiao were a cat he would deign to make zhongli his only human. if xiao were a bird, he would always fly back to him. if xiao is only xiao, he does as he can now: holds his hand and sends through the blind emptiness a fullness even he cannot wholly articulate. each fragment of memory is funneled towards zhongli's gold from the wisping breath of teal and star white. adoration. gratitude. fear. sadness. immeasurable joy. pleasure the shape of a perfect day in the daylessness of the world in-between. a kiss they have not shared amongst their kisses so-far in this life; a kiss that they have. it is all love. it is all a young demon with his head on the floor of the great timekeeper's study: please don't send me back.
and even though it killed him faster, xiao was stunned and overwhelmed by his wish being granted.
in the here and now, at xiao's job they find his prone body on the floor of one of the storage closets where he had been texting, phone fallen just out of reach.
unawares of this, in the dark xiao's light laces with zhongli's. it feels as it often does with zhongli; feels —
— like coming home.
at his job, someone will use his emergency contact, now zhongli and relay that they think xiao is sick. he isn't of course, but they have no way of knowing this. ]