sorry. you did. i guess i was thinking of anything else. but that's my answer.
[ he doesn't need to be in front of zhongli to feel the pang of resonance. it's crippling in a quiet way, as if one were to inverse the shape of a cage to reveal another heart: not his own and yet more important to him. the bird zhongli spoke of was not a bird, or he was; a bird; a demon; a creature flourishing in the light not intended to belong to it. sometimes xiao dreams and remembers so much. then he wakes and what is left is like the half sustained drawing on the shoreline.
in a way, he feels bad for asking. however unintentional, it may have seemed like prying. or indeed as though he did not trust zhongli's story before of the bird. and while none of this is true, xiao worries.
tentatively, not knowing if it will have any effect at all or if he is insane for even considering it, he tries to reach out through that echo of feeling, trying to find the thin gold glimmer of a line to follow and feel and curl his slender fingers around. what is he even trying to tell him by doing this? he's not sure, but the painful ache in his chest cannot be ignored. ]
[ the swell of grief is bearable and deeply familiar. zhongli closes his eyes and settles in its all-encompassing grip. xiao hadn't meant to remind him of it again. he knows this, and so he waits for the heartache to subside before answering him again.
in the blackness behind his eyelids, there is the faint shape of something—a hand reaching forward, dazzling white, outlined with a glow of teal.
from where the golden thread leads into pitch blackness, the ends of the thread bend and spin and slowly take shape. soon, a golden and incandescent hand appears out of the blackness.
it holds xiao's fingers delicately in his—a fragile teacup, a thin leaf of paper, a glass figurine. its thumb runs gently over the soft joint of xiao's finger. it says, you are so sweet to me. thank you. please stay. ]
It's all right. While you and your companions stay with me, I'm perfectly content being in your company. Not that I mean to keep you here, if you'd prefer to leave.
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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no subject
of anything else. but that's my answer.
[ he doesn't need to be in front of zhongli to feel the pang of resonance. it's crippling in a quiet way, as if one were to inverse the shape of a cage to reveal another heart: not his own and yet more important to him. the bird zhongli spoke of was not a bird, or he was; a bird; a demon; a creature flourishing in the light not intended to belong to it. sometimes xiao dreams and remembers so much. then he wakes and what is left is like the half sustained drawing on the shoreline.
in a way, he feels bad for asking. however unintentional, it may have seemed like prying. or indeed as though he did not trust zhongli's story before of the bird. and while none of this is true, xiao worries.
tentatively, not knowing if it will have any effect at all or if he is insane for even considering it, he tries to reach out through that echo of feeling, trying to find the thin gold glimmer of a line to follow and feel and curl his slender fingers around. what is he even trying to tell him by doing this? he's not sure, but the painful ache in his chest cannot be ignored. ]
no subject
in the blackness behind his eyelids, there is the faint shape of something—a hand reaching forward, dazzling white, outlined with a glow of teal.
from where the golden thread leads into pitch blackness, the ends of the thread bend and spin and slowly take shape. soon, a golden and incandescent hand appears out of the blackness.
it holds xiao's fingers delicately in his—a fragile teacup, a thin leaf of paper, a glass figurine. its thumb runs gently over the soft joint of xiao's finger. it says, you are so sweet to me. thank you. please stay. ]
It's all right.
While you and your companions stay with me, I'm perfectly content being in your company.
Not that I mean to keep you here, if you'd prefer to leave.
no subject
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. ]