From birth he is treated as special and also inhuman.
Alatus the Golden Winged King of the Sky sits not atop a throne but always veiled in a raised palanquin. As a child he watches through the translucent silk spun on the bleeding hands of people who believe in him. As an adolescent he watches through a second layer adorned from a headdress that hides his maturing features from any audiences who dare to gaze directly at him. And at the threshold of what constitutes an adult, he sits the picture of poise as people pray to him and cry on their hands and knees about the dead he has failed to save. All this happens in the hours touched by the sun.
His day ends and his night begins. The veil is removed and the curtains part as Alatus becomes Xiao, the masked conqueror of demons, granting certain wishes of the people of the Liyue Kingdom as a creature born of equal parts destruction and salvation can. Those guardians and priests that station themselves as his keepers shy away from him in this state, afraid of being tainted.
For all the wishes left unanswered, Alatus shoulders the blame. Corrupted emotions funnel into him like a stream of poisoned air, and the gold of his eyes is a flare of falling sun.
One of the generals who has come to see him this time, he has heard of. Several names if he recalls correctly: Morax, Rex Lapis, Zhongli.
It is rare to be sought out by the military though technically they "serve" him.
In truth, he doesn't know what to expect.
Draped in a ceremonial garment of many silken layers, golds and teals, Alatus sits inside the curtained palanquin under his veil. His slender hands rest folded in his lap and his gaze casts down the long way to the dais where his audiences always lower themselves before him. A sigh traps its wingbeat behind his teeth as he hears one of the priests announce the general's arrival.
Zhongli goes through the charade that is greeting priests and entertaining chitchat with them as they're led to the Golden King with patience and ease. He may seem a diplomat with how pleasantly he presents himself. Bosacius, instead, walking right behind him, keeps grumbling to Indarias about entitled pricks but she keeps shushing him and kicking his shin whenever he risks to be heard. To be fair, the priest accompanying them seems to be close to the century and he struggles to hear and see, and so they don't risk to accidentally offend anyone.
Zhongli is wearing a cerimonial armour, black and gold, brocade and velvet and silk, dragons befitting a king sewn on his chest piece and along his arms, scales of gold and copper on his shoulders and reinforcing his sleeves; his sword is in a matching sheathe, held in his left hand, his helmet is tucked under his right arm.
When he finally reaches the place where the Golden King keeps audience, rather than impressed by the opulence, he's saddened by the sight. So many curtains, even just the silhouette of him precluded to everyone; and so many priests and guards, scattered all around. A gilded cage, that's what it is.
There hardly is any king here: the true puppeteers are the priests, since nobody can meet the Golden King on their own, and so every message conveyed meets their ears and adds to their plans. They control him and he controls the people.
"I will have to take this." A middle-aged priest says, approaching them and reaching out for Zhongli's sword with a fake smile in place. He doesn't even greet formally --these people think everything is allowed, since they look after the most important figure of the kingdom. Despite the rudeness, the general's pleasant expression doesn't wane --but that is only because a purple-tattooed hand grips at the priest's clothes and tugs him farther away. Zhongli nods towards Bosacius, giving him permission, and his second-in-command's eyes light up as he drags the man away, who's sputtering threats, how dare you..! who do you think you are!.
There's only a second of disbelief, before the other priests start yelling at the guards to chase the general away, but the guards do not move, frozen in place until Zhongli waves his hand. At once, the soldiers turn on the holy men, pointing their spears at them and chasing them out, yells and incredulous whines filling the place until everyone is gone and it's just the two of them. The general and the Golden King.
Zhongli heaves a sigh. "It's better like this, don't you think? Precious alone time." He hums, looking around at the empty place with an approving expression. Bosacius and Indarias are no doubt sticking to the plan and keeping people from entering, together with the guards; quite naive of the priests not thinking that Zhongli, who technically controls the whole of the army, would have no influence on them.
He doesn't kneel. Rather, he sets aside his helmet and starts walking towards the other with careful, slow steps, like one may do to approach a wild animal. He stops only once he's right outside the curtains and he pulls them open, to peer at the frame of the young man behind them. He's wrapped in so many layers of silk and wearing such a thick veil, not much is revealed about him anyway.
Only then Zhongli lowers himself on one knee and holds his sword out, balancing it on both hands to show he has no ill intent, yet he's still impudent for he doesn't bow his head at all, staring in the direction of the other's face.
"My name is Zhongli. I'm the most decorated general in this kingdom and I am to be your husband."
To say Xiao is shocked is understatement. Yet it isn't in him to be offended. For as long as he can remember, his life has been a predetermined thing, from birth to living to even his death when he outlives his use as a god and a compass. His heart beats too fast, words confused in the cage of his mouth as he stares at the general before him. It is not that he doesn't know what to do with the sword, but rather that he cannot bring himself to move more than a slight, awkward jerk forward that sends some of the silks spooling down off of his shoulders. No longer translucent, closer to see-through in all their golds and teals, the shock of red lining his eyes is a bright bold knife of a thing. He stares, soundless.
How the priests had put it to him, Zhongli would come, do the typical prayer and worship, and then he would meet him properly when they were actually joined in marriage. "It is because we respect you that we have arranged this meeting first, oh revered one," the oldest of his priests had simpered and Xiao had murmured his thanks without really feeling it, knowing it was what was expected of him.
Unprepared to know how to behave, Xiao flounders, does a half dozen things he would never do: clumsily tries to leave the palanquin, lets more of his layers slip free until it is just the ceremonial hanfu and all of his jewels hanging from his hair bound up and his ears and around the thin of his neck, nestled perfectly between the sharps of his collarbones. For someone adept in the art of fighting as well as a dozen other things instilled in him by the priests: dance above all else, it bespeaks how unsettled Xiao is as he unconsciously curls pale hands inside the long sleeves of his adornment.
"My priests are displeased," he finds his voice, surprisingly even and calm, quiet. "Or so I imagine," he follows up, head cocking to one side thoughtfully as he peers at the general a little more. An aura comes off of him, a sense of ageless fortification Xiao cannot quite put his finger on. That he is unnervingly handsome is obvious enough, the sort of person a tyrant would find threatening for his good looks and his generally well-lauded charisma, intentional or not. A good portion of his own hair, gold hanging through it from the ornament encircling it in one place, spills over his shoulder, flickering like a gem in the here-there light.
"Regardless, you are welcome here."
Then Xiao does something that his priests would curse him for if they dared; he bows his head as he accepts the sword, laying it then carefully along the palanquin's side, leaving the minimal space between them clear. If he were to step down from the palanquin, the gold anklets would sound like bells as he moves, barefoot and otherwise silent, as though the bells are there for others to always know where he is. Since he has had them all his life, as far as he can recall at least, Xiao does not question them. Much as he does not question the way on every full moon the priests bring him to what to others would look like a table of sacrifice and feed him the "bad dreams" of the kingdom to keep it prosperous. When he meets Zhongli's gaze properly, to say he is wary is accurate, but it cannot be denied that he feels drawn to him too. Perhaps because Zhongli is the first person outside of those he must conquer or those who dictate his motions, to speak to him in a long, long time. Another slight motion of his head has one of the massive gold and gem laden earrings catching in his hair, but Xiao is so focused on Zhongli he does not notice.
"Why displeased? My yaksha are very good company." Zhongli replies naturally, not even flinching, irony dripping from his words and yet his face remaining calm and composed, like nothing wrong and completely forbidden has just happened in that room out of his own plotting. He finds the only telltale signs of Xiao's surprise are his movements, unrehearsed, instinctive; his voice sounds all too quiet and soft to give away anything at all.
Yet what strikes him most (besides the way his gaze lingers on the lines of the other's body, inconspicuous and yet with the greed of a man who's spent more of his days on battlefields, than tumbling in bed with someone) is Xiao's innate grace. It speaks of dance, yes, but also of battle; if they had a duel, Zhongli is not sure he would come out on top, and he hasn't had a feeling like this in a really long time. Even his Yaksha are formidable, but he's always been aware there was a slight difference in skill that would let him be triumphant. Xiao's potential is incredibly apparent, instead.
Zhongli smiles pleasantly, a slightly more sincere expression than what he's shown to the priests before, but the first genuine feeling that flashes on his face is surprise, upon seeing the venerated one bow his head at him when taking the sword. He holds his breath for a moment, observing him curiously. It would be a lie saying his heartbeat hasn't picked up.
The blurry outline of his features annoys him; it is a tease, how the fabric is translucent, not clear enough. And this is a man who's used to conquering by force: the urge to just rip that veil away is strong. So strong that Zhongli's now empty hands curl and then stretch, like he has to hold back the impulse.
"Given the nature of our future bond, I found it disrespectful that you would not get to meet me properly before the ceremony, but only after." Zhongli speaks softly, his low voice velvety at best, given how close they are. He slowly stands again, moving by holding back his every muscle, not to startle the Golden King, and he takes a step forward, his high ponytail swinging at the motion, his long long hair grazing his back. He bends forward just a little, slender fingers reaching out to the one earring that got stuck. With nothing but gentleness, warm fingertips dip under the veil to pry the stray hair off of it, letting the jewel dangle free again a moment later; the way his touch grazes against the other's ear could be called accidental. No matter his motions, he does his best not to touch the veil.
He rests his hands on either side of the palanquin, then, crowding the venerated one. He would most likely be beheaded for this, were he anyone else, blasphemous at best. The way he tilts his head reveals the tensing side of his slender neck, as he breathes in the fragrant scent coming off the silks and the demi-god himself. "Are you scared of me? What have they told you about me?" He would expect for the priests to have at least made Xiao wary --the marriage serves the purpose of tying the general down; they would never want for their revered one to suddenly start trusting anyone else. Especially not someone with such a strong backup and unpredictable behaviour.
It doesn't seem to bear the necessity of an answer, though Xiao notes that there has been no gratuitous violence, indeed as if the pure intent behind it all was as the general says, to meet. More courtesy than his own priests have given him, Xiao reminds himself of his duty to the kingdom and that the existence he leads is not his own; to have purpose is to serve. Yet the way Zhongli looks at him, speaks to him, makes him feel more close to human than he ever has felt, or what he imagines it ought to be. If he were anyone else. As far as he knows, the marriage is another way to provide safe-keeping for him. If it rings of other unspoken truths, Xiao is always too tired to pursue them, too dedicated to the role he was born into.
The knee-jerk reaction to back up is undeniable, but there is not much of anywhere to go when his betrothed closes in on him. This near, Xiao finds himself overwhelmed with the scent of him very nearly a taste on his tongue, eyes dilating and skin flushing. The General brings the warmth of the sunlit earth with him and Xiao has only ever known the isolatory cold touch of priests who hide him in a hundred ways. Summer, he thinks, and feels dizzy.
"I am not fearful," he says and it is true, peering up at him, adding, still quiet, "As for what they told me, it is only your praises in regards to your conquests, the fortification that reputation and presence brings to us."
With that, his gaze lowers, sharply aware of how his ear burns where Zhongli had touched, wondering if everywhere would burn the same. For the first time in his life to his memory, Xiao wonders what it would be like to wear something else, to go somewhere else. Even having been told their marriage will happen, to Xiao it is not real. A construct, a convenience. He wonders how much the priests offered to pay, not realizing this may not be the case.
His focus shifts to the other's clothing, his long hair impeccably kept despite being a man of the warfront, and then down to the side at his hands, also beautiful albeit battle worn on the underside, Xiao is sure. He has the foreign feeling of wanting to feel his touch again and stifles it, swallows it whole and unconsciously adjusts the veil responsible for shrouding most of his face. Through the sheer yet not quite truly see-through material, his mark glows in soft pulses, resonant. This, it has done since it came to him, and so it will always do, as long as Xiao is alive.
"Does...the arrangement displease the General? Did they not offer enough compensation?"
Not bitter, not worried, simply matter-of-fact. Xiao does know they do not hurt for money. The pious are generous even when they should not be. If his betrothed feels slighted or under-appreciated from the outset, that is not necessary nor acceptable. If nothing else, Xiao can make certain of this one aspect, though his hands are tied in most other ways. That someone would agree to this without money or some other valuable as a trade, does not occur to him, small hands folding neatly in his lap beneath the layers of silk.
Zhongli looks at him like suddenly Xiao is speaking in an another language, a foreign one he does not know. Compensation? To marry their venerated god? Wouldn't the mere idea of such a transaction be inherently blasphemous? People kneel to him every day, in this place and outside, beg him for miracles, stick to the belief of him with absolute devotion. And yet this young man doesn't have an ounce of ego, so much so that he thinks the only way for someone to be willing to tie himself to him would be behind compensation.
"How could I be displeased, when Your Grace is the one I've sought for all my life." His voice is quieter, since they're close enough he can share that secret while being sure it'll stay between the two of them. This wasn't his plan, he wasn't supposed to reveal what he is until after the marriage, but he can't help himself, seeing Xiao look so fragile, his little finch who was stolen and shut in a cage. He eyes his glowing mark and sighs.
He keeps looking at him, trying to guess his expression from underneath the veil, when he feels he's definitely gotten warmer, maybe out of embarrassment for having him so close. Slowly, naturally, glowing yellow energy starts swirling around him, until the matter condenses into a radiant stone, much like a golden star, twirling around him while leaving a sparkling wake behind. It is clear no human would be able to summon something like this, no human would be able to now look at the revered one with his own eyes glowing starkly, like the sun on a clear summer day, hanging in the sky confidently.
He raises a hand and catches the stone between thumb and forefinger, a yellow topaz, that he then carefully places it in Xiao's palm, curling his fingers around it, to be able to feel its ever-present warmth: it is like there is sunshine trapped in it, a reminder of summer encrusted in a precious jewel.
"We are bound in ways you cannot imagine." He whispers, barely restraining his anticipation, and he fails at it, because he keeps inching closer, surprising even to himself. Who knew a day where his self-control faltered would come. He presses his lips to the other's veil, right where his mouth is, covered by the fabric. It is a fleeting thing, feather light, and yet warm and soft, no matter the flesh not touching. "I'll take this as my only compensation."
The truth is, even as Zhongli reveals himself, Xiao does not wholly understand. What he does: feel, impossible amounts. If he were not already sitting it would bring him to his knees, but instead he finds himself swaying, and it is as if he is caught by the golden one's kiss. His eyes flutter shut, lashes lying long and dark behind the veil, lined boldly in red like the setting sun. The mark on his arm glows to a near blinding luminescence and it is as though for long moments he cannot breathe. It is as if Zhongli's entire being shrouds him closer than any of the silks actually touching his skin, and when the kiss ends Xiao cannot help but lean a little after him, chasing before he stops himself.
"I feel as though I should understand more than I do." This, uttered with a distinct self-deprecation, almost loathing, a thing weighed by shadows and troubles that have been swallowing Xiao's being whole before the world knew of him. The lost wings too, forgotten. Indeed perhaps he would have long flown away if he could. Or perhaps not, beholden so many years to the people of this land, there has become a part of Xiao like every other vertebrae: the necessity of worth and discipline. He breathes a shuddering thing. It is cold while he feels incredibly warm, almost overheated, hazy. The veil and its many coordinating layers are supposedly there to protect him, but as he peers at Zhongli through them he finds himself...frustrated. It has never happened like this to him: to want to see more than he has been given.
In a way, he does not allow himself to think as his hand raises to gently discard the veil with a soundless tug save for the one or two jewels in his hair it takes with it as it tumbles to the floor, the ting of metal and gems, the whisper of fabric, and the coracle of air as Xiao inhales sharply. Zhongli is even more handsome unobscured, and what is more than that...familiar. He cannot place why, but before he can question it, one of his hands reaches out to cup the side of the general's face.
"It's strange," he whispers though there is no need in the least. "...I know you are telling me the truth, without any doubt. But I could not articulate...why."
Unspoken: will you tell me? Unspoken: and what if this moment had never come? Unspoken: yet all know where I dwell, why did you not come sooner?
This last breaks a part of Xiao's subconscious. It cries in his place, wretched with longing and no language to speak it. On the surface though, the venerated one remains calm albeit curious, the hand against Zhongli's skin so smooth one would never know how veteran he is with a weapon, nor how many lives he has taken and sent on in peace this existence could not give them. With the loss of the veil, the upward twist of Xiao's hair is more apparent, the topmost of it crowned in gold ornamentation and the jewels that did not fall. His mark on the arm travels further beneath his clothes, wraps around though still unseen.
He cannot help himself, the tenderness that surges when he hears Xiao speak with such self-loathing, as if it is his own bad not being able to understand and not of the ones who caged him and taught him only what they wanted for him to know --he takes his hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, offering comfort. "It is not your fault. But I cannot explain now; after the ceremony, when our bond cannot be broken." He promises softly.
Explaining would mean shaking his core, his foundation; it would also mean showing Zhongli's true form, the golden power that stains his arms. And he cannot undress now. But once they're married, once they're alone in the same bedroom, Xiao's frame enwrapped in gorgeous red silks --ah, how unbecoming, for his heart to beat so loudly at the sole thought of it. But isn't it understandable? He's been yearning for all these years.
He's surprised when Xiao takes his veil off himself, for he thought he'd see his face after their marriage --his chest aches so much at the beautiful sight that it feels like his heart has mistakenly skipped some beats out of shock. How pretty, those light yellow eyes that speak of the pale winter sun --so pretty that Zhongli's breath must get stuck in those eyelashes, because it comes with difficulty for a moment. He slides his gaze along the shape of them, smiles at the way both their eyes are rimmed red, as if the same motions have driven them, despite them being in such different places.
"Nobody else as beautiful as Your Grace exists in this world." He praises earnestly, the sincerity of it sparkling in his golden eyes and he sighs with pleasure at the touch of his cool hand, leaning into it, eyelids fluttering shut. He hums at his words, while he tilts his head for his lips to brush against his fingertips, gaze half-lidded, heavy with want. It is so difficult to be so close and behave, now that the veil isn't in the way anymore and Xiao's beauty shines even brighter than all the jewels he dons. Zhongli has never seen anyone this beautiful, it is true; his soul stirs, like it's just starting to wake up now after years of dozing.
"That is because I am yours. Your heart must recognize it." He smiles and he takes his hand to press a kiss to the heel of his hand and he can swear nobody has ever been this sincerely devoted to Xiao. "I am sorry for not coming sooner." With how their souls almost echo in each other, he somehow senses his distress; he could logically guess it too. Appearing just now and claiming he'd been looking for him, when he's been paraded around for years. Zhongli has to explain himself.
"I had to build strength, enough of it for my claim to you not to be in vain, enough of it to protect you and then do everything in my power to give you your wings back." He finally kneels now, between his legs and he brings his hand to wrap around his throat: he recognizes the power of Xiao no matter the smoothness of his skin, he knows there's the skill to break his neck in those slender fingers. "I deserve punishment for taking this long." He drops both hands and lets that palm rest against his adam's apple; and yet his gaze appears almost sultry, in offering all of himself to the other man.
As with Zhongli's first words, Xiao believes him on an implicit level. His heart responds before his mind can catch up, and when Zhongli kneels between his legs and holds his hand to his throat, a surge of heat makes him gasp. This is the most contact he had has in all his life, and more than that, it is the singular individual meant for him. The general might feel his heart ricochet. Instinctive, Xiao's fingers close at first, digging just so into Zhongli's neck, only to release as quick, alarmed with himself. He snatches his hand back, gracefully resituating the veil with his headdress, as if hiding.
"I will not punish you. I do not see...I do not agree that it is deserved. This one...hears your words and understands."
An awkward stumble, but it's tinged with a near vibrating sense of longing and heat. Its tendrils reach out as the mingling of soft blue-green and gold, and Xiao's heart aches. Return his wings? It is impossible, isn't it? The priests told him from as long as he can remember besides: it was his own fault, a sin, and the price he pays is a debt to the world; its vigil at night and its endless well by day, where wishes are thrown more as rocks into glass than seeds into the earth. But it would not be penance otherwise.
Some turmoil leaks from his energy, and Xiao trembles, wanting to touch Zhongli again, wanting to be touched, and also not wanting anything. He understands and does not understand. If he digs into his own dreams, he finds traces of Zhongli now, having met him face to face, and he wonders at how long those have been there, secretly encouraging him or saving him when death edged near to the land's would-be-king, his own godhood eating away at his life every night little by little, only to recover during the day in body and fall a little more in his heart. Yet never all the way. A golden light, if Xiao thinks carefully, feels deeply enough, would reach down through the dark to enfold him as if an apology of wings and earth and love he could not recognize, not believing he had ever had nor deserved it.
His eyes open on a gasp, only then realizing he'd closed them at all. To Zhongli it may have seemed as if Xiao had entered some kind of trance state for long minutes, and it is sharp and sudden when pale hands reach for him again, not his neck but to frame his face, everything in the physicality beseeching even though Xiao cannot find his words.
It's been you....all this time. It's you.
The gold bracelets that fall down the thin of Xiao's forearms sound as bells. Their ceremony is not long from now, the priesthood treating it as a procedural thing more than aught else.
Zhongli closes his eyes and exhales when those thin fingers press more into his neck, anticipating in equal parts the pain from the punishment and the pleasure from being touched at all --maybe he's grown twisted after so many wars. But none comes and his eyelids lift again, the shadow of amusement dancing in them --the way Xiao wears his headpiece again looks a lot like timidness. It's endearing how he stumbles on his words, it must be because he's not used to this feeling of heat and desire, bubbling under the surface. Xiao must've felt that spark too upon touching his neck, right?
When he closes his eyes, Zhongli stays in his spot, knelt on the floor and the realization that hits the other makes a smile bloom on his face in return."You remember now." It's not a question, but a statement, knowing from the warm touch to his face and the way the other's breath trembles that he has found Zhongli in his deepest memories. "I've kept you company for a long time, but I couldn't get closer." He explains --it's nearly impossible getting to speak with the venerated one, especially alone.
Without the power gathered, all his words would've been filtered by the priesthood to the point probably none of them would've reached Xiao. Not to mention that any attempt to remove the priests like he did today would've been met with violence by the guards and he would've gotten beheaded before he knew it. That is why it took him so long --and yet every night he reached out to him to offer some consolation, no matter the young man not remembering it once awake. Zhongli has always believed that, just like feeding earth, it would've all sprouted once it was the right time.
"After our wedding, I'll explain more, I promise. But I've always been with you." His large calloused hands wrap around his forearms as he closes his eyes in his touch. He wants to reach out again, to kiss him properly, to enwrap him in his arms to let him know that he's safer now that the general has finally managed to get close enough. But he knows it must be a lot to take in and probably Xiao has never had this much physical contact in the first place. He doesn't want to scare him. So he just tilts his head and rests his mouth on his wrist, where he can feel his quickened pulse. Zhongli's yearning is so thick that it could even reach such a powerful being as Xiao, who's well above physical desire --or maybe that's just what the priests have taught him. "I will keep serving you faithfully also as your husband." And everything words like that may entail.
It overwhelms Xiao, that yearning, that unbridled adoration and desire. He is learning much and close together, that to be worshipped is not to be loved, and to be guarded is not to be cared for. His dais here is a cage as much as a temple. And he had known it in ways, perhaps, all his existence, but he had known it too: that he owed the land a debt he could never pay as long as he lived. Under the heat of Zhongli's sentiment and calloused hands, Xiao is startled to hear himself whimper. An unbecoming utterance for an oracle of near god standing, but he aches so deeply, it is excruciating.
Zhongli says after the wedding but now they are close, Xiao is loathe to separate in a way he has never experienced before. His pale hands stay cradled to Zhongli's face, thumb of one smoothing under his eye, not daring to lean in but wanting to. With much of his movement, more of the silks have gone askew, and the cowl like pool of finery has slid open, baring his throat and collarbone, hardly covered at all by the edges of his veil, a tease of color against the moon of him. But his focus remains on his General, touching, looking, speaking. How many wars has Zhongli fought to come to this point? Was it all for this purpose? And how can Xiao repay him? Indeed, he wonders if it bothered him, if he has any regrets, and the fear seeded inside of such thoughts makes Xiao recoil. But perhaps his answer is more straightforward than all of that.
For, Zhongli is here, in front of him, holding him like something precious rather than poison, laying his words into the air and then unto Xiao's ears in a way that reminds him of honey. Here, telling him all he will continue to do not just as his general but as his husband and Xiao has not dared to feel anything like happiness in so long he's forgotten it, isn't sure he knows its shape or weight, the taste or the temperature. But maybe...
Maybe.
His lashes flutter, the wetting of his lips, the press of them and then quiet and calm and true:
"I trust you."
He's never said this to anyone before, and it seems to send a wave of pulsing want through his senses, as if admitting this at last, has made him more human than ever.
The whimper makes his throat tighten, his breathing come out with difficulty for a long moment after. Maybe he really has been on the front, fighting, for too long, because he can't recall ever hearing such a sweet noise. It is such a little thing and yet it threatens to collapse his facade. What does it translate into? Does Xiao need him too, or is he overwhelmed by the closeness and the warmth of them?
The way he holds onto his face seems to prove true the former. How gentle is his thumb, Zhongli can't help sighing. One of his hand leads to the skin that got bare out of its own will and fingertips trace the outline of his adam's apple, the sharpness of his collar bone, his forefinger slotting itself for a moment in the hollow in the middle. How blasphemous of him, to keep touching like this.
"Ah..." The noise is unbecoming, a low growl, almost a purr, when Xiao utters those three words Zhongli has only ever wished to hear, maybe after years of trying to break the walls the priests tried to build around the venerated one. He feels himself crumbling yet again and how peculiar, for Xiao to know of weak spots not even Zhongli is aware of; he keeps hitting them with raw precision. Maybe the truth is that Xiao is his weak spot at all.
"I'm honored, Your Grace." He murmurs and it holds sincerity. He can't help inching closer again, pressing an innocent peck to Xiao's cheek this time, landing yet again on his veil. "Will you think of me during these three days till our marriage?" He asks, still lingering close, nosing at his jawline.
"If you do, I will sense you and visit you when you close your eyes."
In a way, the innocent kiss is as excruciating as the other, draws like a fine nearly invisible line out of Xiao a need and want so well buried for years and years, one of the cornerstone marks of dehumanization. Not that he has ever been quite "human" anyway, the venerated one, the small god, the golden one. His shoulderblades ache with a phantom pain.
"Please." that he makes this request of him might seem strange and even blasphemous to anyone else, but they are the only ones here, and so Xiao infuses all his longing into that singular statement, gazes direct yet teeming with something unnameable at the eyes of someone who reminds him of a dragon as much as a person. Three days seems forever, and Xiao bites down on his tongue until it bleeds, fills his mouth with the metallic tang of quiet quiet quiet. Stop asking for things. Just stop. He tells himself over and over but cannot help leaning towards the general just a little more.
"I wait for you," he adds, also soft, incandescent with something warm and the mark on his arm that bleeds into the reminiscence of a wing on his back glows through the gauzy silks, casts the greens and golds of him into something almost holy, the pale of him like some distant star made to fall into Zhongli's open hands. In the three days and nights he must wait, Xiao will be beset by the priests, will give more audiences than he has before in such a small time frame, as if the faith wish to whittle down his barriers and power though he cannot quite understand why.
On the day of the wedding Xiao is dressed in heavy red silks, embroidered with gold. They weigh so much they cause him to walk as slowly as the ceremony calls for, and it looks like poise. Gold set gems hang from his hair, spindles of colored light lancing from each slight turn of his head, the gold necklaces and earrings somehow not overwhelming him despite his size, the red lined in a gentle flare along his wide eyes a perfect commonality between the robes and the jewelry. Even during the ceremony they are not treated as a conventional join because it is not one; they do not touch, indeed he cannot even look Zhongli in the face. Aspects of it all feel closer to the religion than their bond, as the priests help him up onto the raised dais.
From above his most loyal General, Xiao swears himself to their contract. From above, Xiao offers a pale hand adorned with no makeup or rings. From above, Xiao finally can look at Zhongli again, and he wonders not for the first or last time, what brings him this man's steadfastness without exception, for surely he has not done anything so worthy? His skin remembers his touch, and in mind of that his breath shivers, a silent warm curiosity as he hides well behind his veils.
The only sign of imperfection is a streak underneath the silk, where a hardheaded priest had grabbed him and his hand had slipped across the painstakingly painted lines of ceremony on Xiao's skin, smudging it at the edge and leaving the faintest scratch marks. Yet no one will see it save Xiao himself and...
...his husband.
After the ceremony they escort him first to the vast wing of the temple that has up to now been unused. Its open corridors echo eerily and when one of the priests lets him into 'his' room, Xiao feels his stare linger, but doesn't think overly on it as he enters and goes to sit, perched on the edge of the grand canopied bed, and does as he promised: waits.
When Xiao speaks it's once again words that Zhongli didn't expect: first he mentions trust, then he utters such a soft, heartbreaking please. Oh, Zhongli would give him everything and more already, there is no need to ask for it. He can sense the other's desperation, because it echoes his own.
"I'll come see you. And I'll be waiting impatiently for the day." He promises softly and of course so he does, even if Xiao may not remember it. The priests seem to work against him too, because with how busy they've made their god, Xiao has barely the time to close his eyes throughout the whole three days. Zhongli visits him quickly, checks on him, but he doubts the other would remember, such fleeting dreams, just the time of a flutter of eyelashes.
The day of the wedding comes excruciatingly slowly.
Zhongli is obviously dressed all in matching red and yet looking every bit the General he is, back straight and no hesitation in his step, no matter how heavy and billowing the many layers of his outfit. His hair is let down, long enough for the copper tips to reach past his hips, braided here and there, small coral beads keeping it all in place. There are thin golden chains dangling at the sides of his face and through his hair, one that carries a slightly bigger red gem loosely hanging across his forehead, the ruby at the very centre of it. His earrings are long and heavy, tinkling, matching the golden of his eyes, that are highlighted by red liner.
His Yaksha follow him, all four of them, dressed in ceremonial robes as well, their expressions giving away excitement even if Zhongli can sense how tense they are: they don't trust this to go well and they won't relax until it is done.
Upon seeing Xiao, his breath stops for a moment. What a gorgeous sight and yet at the same time, what an enraging one. They all still handle him like a puppet, move him here and there, don't let him even glance towards Zhongli --the General's temper boils under his perfectly kept facade and he looks at each of those priests intently, looks at the way their hands latch onto their god, too rough sometimes, like he's a toy. Zhongli will get rid of every last one.
By the time the ceremony is done, it hardly feels like it: he didn't get to see Xiao's face, didn't get to touch him, didn't get to stand next to him. It is obvious that no matter their fates now being official tied together, they are no equals. He could tell Xiao's discomfort in being led and moved, pulled at the strings as always, when he probably wanted nothing more than steal a glance of him --Zhongli isn't even too sure how much he sees, with those many veils.
The groom joins the room last, that is part of the ceremony too. So Zhongli plays along, gaze following the retreating figure of his husband as he disappears --yet he has to admit he feels anxious, not having him in his sight anymore. So the moment he's allowed to step into the corridor himself, his Yaksha are summoned with a flick of a finger. "I don't want any of them around here, not even remotely close. Nobody sets foot in this wing besides the four of you." He orders sharply and he storms down the corridor without even waiting to be accompanied, while he hears the hushed noises of his trusted warriors doing his bidding --gently move all the priests in the area.
Zhongli opens the sliding doors to the bedroom quietly and shuts them behind him with just as much care. He approaches the sight that is Xiao with slow, careful steps and, upon reaching the bed, he releases a deep, shaky sigh he didn't know he was holding at all. What a beautiful yet lonely sight. Enticing on that bed, and yet heartbreaking in his solitude. Zhongli's heart is stabbed by the want to embrace him, comfort him, make him his.
And yet he's so careful, like he was dealing with an injured finch, approaching slowly, speaking quietly, not to startle him. "To not even see your face during the ceremony after missing you so much..." He murmurs sadly and his fingertips trace on top of all the veils the features below with shocking gentleness, from a seasoned general. He follows the bridge of his nose, sweeps along his cheekbones, brushes against his chin and then holds it lightly, so that his thumb can caress the vague outline of his mouth. He lands a caress to his face and then eases himself on the bed gracefully, sitting next to him --equals, now.
He reaches for the other's hands and takes them in both his own, marveling at the different size, how they almost get lost in his, and how pale they are, moonlight held in the middle of sunlight. He warms them up skin to skin, softly stroking them too. "Where do you want us to start?" It's a rather vague question --does it refer to their marriage? does it refer to his many layers and which one should they remove first?
But there's a very solid part in this question: Xiao's will. Zhongli worded it purposefully, to let his intention be known --from now on, Xiao is not a puppet anymore: he takes his own decisions. And Zhongli will enforce each of them.
Xiao doesn't remember ever having had a sense of real individual choice, and for his entire life that has been fine, explained away by the reality and myth of his purpose: all worldly possessions sacrificed for the world itself, and this includes Xiao himself. Strip bare the demonstrative humanity; clean the vessel and let it be empty except for the kingdom's needs and wishes. So it is that when Zhongli presents him with such words, Xiao stares blankly at him through his veils, unclear until a pinch of his brow punctuates it, simultaneously distracted by the warmth of Zhongli's hands.
Want?
The cant of his head sends a trill of music with all of his jewelry, the blink of his eyes a wave of gold.
Want?
Zhongli's hands are warm.
"I don't know."
It is as honest an answer as he has ever given, the first, as this is the first time also he has been asked what he wants. Perhaps it is enough that Xiao does not immediately bequeath agency to Zhongli alone, instead once again vesting in him a singular kind of trust: I do not know, I am foreign to the world in which what I "want" exists much less matters, I think sometimes in these three days I would close my eyes and see you as if you were here.
Zhongli keeps his promises.
Xiao is not sure what to make of that either, the impossible pull to him, the shivering heat under his skin as if a red string has been drawn taut enough to snap if one is not careful; so careful.
His lower lip is swollen from biting it so much, red even beneath the paint infused with the sweet of some berry Xiao has never actually seen, a gilded cage made not of earth but the many grasping hands of expectations. If people stop believing in him, Xiao will disappear, or so the priests have told him. So it has been a mutual servitude, in ways. But when Zhongli holds his hands, Xiao feels that perilous temptation: to be more than the lines drawn already in the sand. Unbeknownst to him, his mark glows, and the way it follows through into a wing on his back aches, a strange pain he has never known what to make of either.
Peering at his husband through the veils, he thinks, a bit self consciously, their roles are confused, Zhongli who is a general but has all the air of a commanding god, and Xiao who is a god but embodies the position of allegiance and subordination. He has never held it against the people; they are not his origin nor his end; and in fact Xiao is curious of human beings, their fleeting lives. If he looks away too long, Zhongli too would slip through his pale fingers like golden sand and the pain of such a thought is so visceral a small sound of hurt escapes him. What a thing to consider on their wedding. But then, he has always had this sense that the General -- Rex Lapis, Morax, Zhongli -- was more than he seemed, felt it in him like sunlight, polarized into an unending star.
They should start with the very basics, he muses. Even mentioning his true nature to Xiao, the reason of their bond, may be overwhelming, to someone who's already experiencing a shift in his life. So Zhongli takes his time, observes him.
It is endearing as much as it is heart-wrenching, the way Xiao doesn't know what to do with his freedom. After being led for so long, every motion taken and every word spoken simply a reaction to the tug of strings by the priests, it is obvious he wouldn't have any idea what he wants. And yet he didn't simply tell Zhongli to decide himself. Small steps, but he likes how it started.
"That's okay." He reassures him with a soft laugh, warm no matter his baritone voice. "Let's start with undressing you, then. Your layers must be heavy." To be honest, Zhongli is not too well-versed in cerimonial robes. Living mostly in camps along the border, his way of dressing is proper but simple and when it comes to more convoluted outfits, he's helped out. So he has no idea how many layers of silk and veils were put on him, but surely they look crushing.
He brings his hands to his lips to press a kiss on top of each, before he lets go. Long fingers reach his veils then, taking them off gently one by one until he reaches the last and he lifts it, pressing another kiss to Xiao's forehead before he removes even that. Then he shifts closer, reaching around his neck to remove his jewelry, his breath brushing against Xiao's ear with how Zhongli has to check the fastening. He only takes care of the necklaces, afraid to accidentally hurt him were he to be careless with the jewels in his hair. That's when his hands slip under his outer robe, curling around his shoulders as he pushes it down and he can't quite resist anymore, seeing the column of his pale neck, a sliver of bare skin. He nudges his nose against it, exhaling softly.
"Would you like to share the bed tonight?" He asks, while breathing his scent in. He wonders if Xiao will know whether he 'wants' that or not.
Throughout the removal of layers, Xiao is silent but attentive, biting his tongue on each little noise that seems to want to escape him when Zhongli's fingers brush his skin or indeed especially when he can feel his mouth and his breaths at the skin of his neck. The nudge of his nose makes him shiver and his head cant, as if offering himself even more in answer to his question, gaze heady. The jewels in his hair yet weigh painfully, and it is only this that keeps him anchored vaguely, one small hand reaching up to finally and gently unfasten one, and then another, and yet another until all have been removed and set down blindly on the bedcovers. It makes his hair seem disheveled in a way he's sure would be unacceptable, and habit has him averting his eyes as if he is not the god or the oracle but someone meant to shy away. In some manners, the priests raised him like this, bred him for a triune purpose none of which housed any sense of self.
"I," he tries. He tries, truly. But words like "want to be with you" and "want you to stay" do not come. They exist and they circle as water ripples and sound echoes of honesty and presence even in his silence. But the frustration blooms hot and mortified in his cheeks, brows pinching lightly. The purple jewel on his forehead, not accessor nor jewelry but an actual part of him much like his mark that now glows with erratic anxieties, flickers with unnatural catches of what light there is.
Why can't he say it?
Assisted with the taking of his robes, they pool about Xiao in so many layers of red and one of gold that almost gets lost in all of the fire hues. The makeup Xiao wears is befitting of a bride of royalty or an offering or a sacrifice or all three.
"I," he tries again; fails.
His hands curl into pale fists in his lap, perfectly cut nails biting into his own skin until they are red enough to match his clothes. It should be enough that his general has made a space for him in which to say what he wants; it should be more than enough. But his voice is a silent stone in his throat like a nightingale who was born into a songless life, never acquainted until like a foreigner to one's own kingdom, someone they loved came to their cage door and said: this is yours.
It has always been yours.
Such is the gift Zhongli offers and yet Xiao cannot even make use of it.
That it will take time has not occurred to him; that they have time has also not occurred to him. All Xiao knows is his own inadequacy in the face of generosity and he wonders what use a god or oracle is to anyone if that god or oracle is himself.
The priests voices echo condescension in his head: this is why your role is as it has always been, Alatus. Conqueror of evil. Swallower of nightmares. That there is no room in him for his own happiness after so many years of imbibing the land's grief and corruption, has also not occurred to him.
Perhaps it should.
At present, what Xiao knows is this: the closeness of Zhongli and how he aches for him to be even closer and doesn't entirely know what he means by it, the warmth of him and how it is more soothing than any clothing or fire, the deep reverberation of his voice settling in under Xiao's skin like his own secret reassurance even if he doesn't deserve it.
It is enough that he tries. Zhongli's gentle gaze gives that away, sweet and tender as he observes Xiao while he tries to speak and cannot. He strokes his head with his large hand, somewhat through that motion fixing his hair now that his jewels are gone. He tries to soothe him, humming in reply every time Xiao utters that single word, patient. His long fingers start smoothing out his locks as best as he can, just to remove the larger tangles with delicate motions, but for anything else he will need to brush them, he muses.
He cups his small, beautiful face in both his hands, making it look even smaller like that, when he leans in to kiss his purple jewel with reverence, and then presses an innocent peck on each cheekbone to try and dissolve the flush on them, before pulling back. He doesn't try anything else, doesn't go further, simply offering him tenderness in the hope Xiao won't feel ashamed or embarrassed or unworthy. He has no idea what thoughts swirl in his mind, but it is enough to see him always looking away, always punishing himself through those nails pressed into his palms. That he feels insecure is obvious. Zhongli despises the way the priests raised him, clearly for their own purposes, never allowing him to even understand the concept of happiness, but solely the one of sacrifice.
Zhongli wants to give him everything. So he will start with himself. Rather than continuing with undressing Xiao, hoping that he's more comfortable since they've removed two thirds of his layers already, Zhongli starts taking his own clothes off. They're way less than his husband's and he quickly gets to the last one.
It's then that he takes Xiao's hands, coaxing them to loosen up and stop hurting his palms, and he leads them to his frame, guiding them into undoing and removing the sash that kept his last layer in place. Then, he drives them to push the two halves apart to reveal his torso, skin pale but of a healthy, rosy hue compared to Xiao's, muscles tight and defined. He's littered with scars from the battlefields and badly stitched wounds, but he pays them no mind.
He leads those elegant, lithe fingers across the pronounced thickness of his pectorals and then down his lean stomach and the rows of his abs --his breathing trembles, but he tries to pretend he hasn't noticed. He keeps his golden eyes trained on him, to watch any possible change in his expression. He can't fully admit it to himself, but he would like for Xiao to desire him. "This is yours now, my dear husband. All of this, all of me, belong to you. You are allowed to want and take, without asking or prompting or permission. You will learn that you have wishes and I long to fulfill each and every one of them.".
The soothing nature of Zhongli's fingers in his hair is excruciating with gentleness. Xiao leans into that touch, lets his eyes flutter shut replete with trust and something else incredibly lonely. His breaths are shuddering, curious things balanced between anxiety and affection, both of which only blur and halo as Zhongli removes his own layers.
In some ways it is almost too much. Xiao's gold eyes follow rapt the way Zhongli guides his fingertips, and here and there Xiao's perfect nails catch against a scar a little less old than the others, still raised and healing down into a pale sliver. It takes Zhongli's words along with his physical guidance to somehow both ground and focus Xiao despite his inexperience in these wants and hopes knotted and tangled inside him like a secret heartbeat. If he had wings he would enfold Zhongli in them, a bold sweep of motion both in gratitude and adoration. He wonders as he raises his chin to let his gaze find Zhongli's again, what bad dreams his husband has that he might consume for him. To Xiao, this is the only way to properly thank him, or at least, the only one that occurs at first.
He is reminded of how Zhongli would find him in his own scant moments of sleep, would reach out for him even in that nameless darkness and frame his whole being not unlike he framed his face just moments before. He is reminded of his touch just three days prior on the dais where Xiao felt more human than ever in his entire life, which does not always seem real to him to begin with. He is reminded of how after feeling on death's door from someone's corruption or nightmare, he would reach out blindly to a light that looked golden and smelled of sun-kissed earth.
Much of the gold is gone, pupils dilated with that very word of 'want' even if it would be impossible for Xiao to articulate it in words, drawing the feather touch of his fingers up back the path Zhongli had led, to then branch off, skimming along the jut of his collarbone. His hand seems very small against Zhongli, even as he smooths it up to touch fingertips to his throat and then his jaw as if learning his image by touch as much as sight. "Yours" Zhongli says and Xiao can barely fathom it.
"This seems to be a dream," he says and it's quiet and thoughtful at the same time that the weight of it closes in all the air in the space, the gasp after holding one's breath too long. Not disbelief of Zhongli himself but the unavoidable question against his own daringness to feel...what is it? He doesn't know. Wanted? As himself, not as the oracle. Happy? Maybe it is all of these things, waiting to be recognized by Xiao, waiting for him to open his heart like palms faced up in acceptance of prayer and love. When he cranes his neck to lean up it is not quite a kiss despite being told he can take what he wants. Time. They need time. But the utterance of "I" and the barest touch of his lips to the corner of Zhongli's mouth, for Xiao, is perhaps more than he thought himself capable of even so. Whether it is enough he does not know.
Xiao's touch has his heart shiver, a sensation aptly similar to feathers brushing against it and Zhongli bites onto his tongue until it bleeds not to give way to any unbecoming noise or thought. The way in which he wants him is absolute, it echoes in each heartbeat and sings in his flowing blood. He was made for Xiao, and so it cannot be any other way.
Even as fingertips travel to his neck and his face, he stays perfectly still, barely swallows to get over the tightness in his throat. But his eyelids flutter close and he sighs deeply at the little kiss, breath trembling, while he buries his hand in the other's hair to keep him close. It is the hardest battle he's ever fought, against himself. He has to hold back, because if he doesn't, he risks to take too much, too soon --he knows Xiao is too sweet, too pliant with him, he wouldn't fight any of his decisions.
Patience is a virtue he never thought he lacked until now. He finally realizes how wrong he was: the difficult part wasn't making his path to Xiao; it is now, controlling himself in the face of the one he adores, give him his time and space. He was Xiao's even before the other was born, he belonged to the idea of him that the universe had carved in his soul. As a familiar, he was born first, to be ready to take care of him and lead him and protect him, but Xiao was taken away too young, too soon, tricked into an unbreakable contract that bleeds him dry, one drop at a time. Was it more haunting for Zhongli to live while knowing of their bond, or for Xiao, who wasn't aware he could hope for something different?
"A good dream, I hope." He whispers, not trusting how his voice would sound any other way. He takes Xiao's hand to kiss his palm, before he scoops him up in his arms and easily rests him on his lap, letting the other's side lean against his chest. He hugs his waist, keeps him close so he can warm him up and protect him and he nuzzles into his hair, presses pecks onto it. "Can you tell we're meant to be close, like this?" He wonders, deep voice poured directly in his ear, unsure how deep the bond runs on the other half of it.
Despite his good purposes, with the way Xiao's robes resemble more a bride's than a groom's, Zhongli slowly slides a hand under the layers until he finds his leg and he rubs long, large fingers into his thigh, marveling at how much smaller than him Xiao is. If he were to wrap his whole hand around his thigh, not much would be left out. It is enough to make him shiver with desire. "Do you know what human couples do, on the night of their wedding?" It's a soft question, his smile suffused into it --it is a bit of a tease as much as it is curiousity: he wonders how much about the world he was told and he learnt, raised as he was.
Were Xiao a bird, his feathers would ruffle gently.
"They...lie together," he says carefully, wondering if he betrays himself in admitting he does not know what those words entail exactly. To over explain what he knows feels somewhat embarrassing however, and anyway Xiao finds himself quite distracted by the way Zhongli's fingers smooth across the pale of his thigh. He shivers, eyes fluttering even as he adds, thoughtful, "And ... I think I can. It...feels better. To be close."
The tips of his ears go pink. Makeup obscures much of this flush in his face, but when more layers are removed the blush will make itself known all over.
This time when he lifts his gaze, his mouth purses on a soft O shape, curious,
"Do you want...?" ...me.
If someone were watching they might ask Xiao how he can even make such a question, but they would have to follow him back to the days of near birth, when he was first taken and locked away on a golden palanquin as the small god he is now known as today. He learned rather quickly that "want" was not a word to form on his lips except in the shape of someone else, and, for most of his life, he has not been embittered by this fact. It was taught well to him how much of his life if not all of it was a sort of karmic retribution. He would do what he could for the people that needed him, and in a twisted quiet way perhaps it was also nice to be needed, of worth. But the times when he would feel Zhongli's presence, before he even knew that it was his light and earth and soul, it would be as if a spindle of fresh air had somehow haloed into his lungs, drawn him up out of clear cold water for the first time.
So it is now, nearly a first time again: Xiao breathes.
He wonders.
And it must be because it is Zhongli: he does not feel guilty for it.
His body moves before his mind can catch him off, struggling a little in his garments to turn so that he sits in Zhongli's lap facing him rather than sideways, the sharps of his knees on either side of Zhongli's waist, most of him still layered and petaled in his remaining robes. A strange gust of air thrushes through the room and one of the two candles extinguishes, casting them into a majority darkness. But Xiao sees Zhongli with almost visceral clarity, leaning up once again enough as he dares, their noses not quite touching. Everything about his motions feels closer to animal than human, the curiosity of a caged bird offered a hand to land upon that does not seek to trap it any longer.
Zhongli smiles, a full-fledged adoring smile, when Xiao explains so easily what a married couple does. With how easily he says it, it seems obvious he has no idea what that entails. If anything, it makes his heart surge. He's endeared and just about to speak again, when Xiao adds more and Zhongli's throat suddenly tightens. This silly little bird, offering himself when he doesn't even know what for: does he really trust Zhongli so much? That, even while knowing he may lack information, he doesn't mind entrusting himself to him?
Zhongli inhales deeply, his stomach twisting as unfamiliar heat pools at the bottom. He has to close his eyes, afraid he'll show the beast within, when Xiao admits he likes being close. Eyelids fluttering up, he finds he wants to devour that little red mouth, perfectly rounded now. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything." He confesses, a low murmur and his golden eyes like a solar eclipse, his pupils growing and shading the sun.
"We can be close for as long as you want, whenever you want." He grants him easily, insisting on that 'want'. He'd give Xiao anything he wishes, he would give him all of himself, if Xiao wanted it. "There are ways to be even closer." He whispers and yet he doesn't act on it, because he is unsure: maybe Xiao would play along simply to please Zhongli himself, and not because it is something he desires himself.
Xiao doesn't have the furthest idea of what he does to him, how the weight shifting in Zhongli's lap threatens to make him crazy if he focuses properly on the position the other is moving in, how they're parted only by mere layers of silk and brocade and nothing more. The closest they've ever been. "Xiao..." He calls quietly, his deep voice turned into almost a purr, round and pleased. It's the first time he says his name out loud and he tastes it thoroughly.
He should explain to him what lie entails in a marriage, for himself and so if someone asks, they don't get the wrong idea of him. He should tell him it's dangerous, to have shifted on his lap like that, to sit astride him and lean up that way. But he can't find in himself the strength to pull back; his large hands cup his small, pretty face and Zhongli fills the distance, letting their lips touch, with no veil in-between.
He lands small, sweet little kisses, to have him get used to the feel of the display of affection, the noise short and wet and maybe even endearing in the almost completely dark room. Slowly, the kisses turn warmer, more lingering, tasting the other's lips with no rush and his head tilting from one side to the other. He pulls back only once their breathing has turned heavier.
"Part your lips." He instructs, voice sounding like a growl, more of the general than he's ever been today, fully expecting Xiao to obey. If he does, upon licking into his mouth Zhongli will almost groan. An arm wraps around his narrow waist and his opposite hand curls around his thigh again, tugging him even closer if possible, slotting their bodies together as he savours him deeply, long fingers squeezing into his taut muscles.
Although it technically counts as obedience, to Xiao, when he replies to Zhongli's instruction, it is as much a gift as a compliance. Everything feels many times the impression an ordinary person might experience; the intersection of a creature who has been touch starved all his life but also never thought he wanted that to change until this specific person crossed that threshold. Because Zhongli holds his face, and Zhongli draws him close by the waist, and Zhongli tells him to open his mouth but all of it feels like Zhongli responding to Xiao's almost painstaking trust. It overwhelms him, elicits the thin needy gasps from the caged bird as much as the kisses do, the acknowledgment of existing not as a thing but as a living being...wanted for himself and not only nor merely what he is supposed to do or embody.
Zhongli's touch carries weight with it but also heat, a molten core to the earth or the sun basked mountainside. Xiao shivers almost violently, the beading trill of a keen in his throat with the longer deeper kiss, soft little sounds that escape him in a flurry so unlike his usual stoic decorum, like he's being unraveled in a way only his general can achieve. Small hands grasp with near desperation with fists full of beautiful silk, clinging to him as if somehow afraid he will disappear or change his mind, Xiao's legs pinned in even tighter in a way that makes it impossible not to notice both his own body and Zhongli's. He doesn't really understand, only that it incites something in him to want to chase that feeling that's both uncomfortable and dizzily pleasant, acting on instinct, craning his thin neck back to better kiss him while grinding his hips down in a way that sends heat flooding from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.
In the past, any touches he received were those of demand and expectation as the kingdom's oracle. A golden king but only in name. The priests held the real power and because Xiao was raised to recognize this system as the truth, despite his prowess that protected this country at his own cost, despite everything, he never questioned it...or at least, not enough to change it. Those times he has found any enough courage to wonder a little more, wound themselves up with the visitations of his general, most of which he did not fully understand either for the longest time, the shred of comfort golden lit and yet the very firmament of the land on which they all dwelled: ageless and undaunted. Not swayable as the wind, which had Xiao not been taken so very young, perhaps not capturable either, but the pieces on the board fell where they had.
Still, Xiao doesn't know if he can regret any of it if it has brought him to this place and time now, Zhongli's touch a scalding brand he wishes would scar to help him never question if it is real or not. The glow of his own mark is effervescent even in the dark, and indeed the light of Xiao itself almost seems incandescent with a barely-there sound, a song no one else can hear but the general who holds him. When the kiss stops for breath alone, Xiao is dizzy, only the dark saving him from showing the full pink flush across his skin, though the swollen nature of his mouth is obvious still, and eyes dilated so widely that the gold of them is like the crown of a solar eclipse. One hand stays curled in Zhongli's garment, the other tentatively, shakily reaching up to touch his face, fingertips dancing across his cheekbone: this is real, you are real, you are here.
This is what the bird seems to say without saying, trembling with want he did not know he was capable of.
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oracle
Alatus the Golden Winged King of the Sky sits not atop a throne but always veiled in a raised palanquin. As a child he watches through the translucent silk spun on the bleeding hands of people who believe in him. As an adolescent he watches through a second layer adorned from a headdress that hides his maturing features from any audiences who dare to gaze directly at him. And at the threshold of what constitutes an adult, he sits the picture of poise as people pray to him and cry on their hands and knees about the dead he has failed to save. All this happens in the hours touched by the sun.
His day ends and his night begins. The veil is removed and the curtains part as Alatus becomes Xiao, the masked conqueror of demons, granting certain wishes of the people of the Liyue Kingdom as a creature born of equal parts destruction and salvation can. Those guardians and priests that station themselves as his keepers shy away from him in this state, afraid of being tainted.
For all the wishes left unanswered, Alatus shoulders the blame. Corrupted emotions funnel into him like a stream of poisoned air, and the gold of his eyes is a flare of falling sun.
One of the generals who has come to see him this time, he has heard of. Several names if he recalls correctly: Morax, Rex Lapis, Zhongli.
It is rare to be sought out by the military though technically they "serve" him.
In truth, he doesn't know what to expect.
Draped in a ceremonial garment of many silken layers, golds and teals, Alatus sits inside the curtained palanquin under his veil. His slender hands rest folded in his lap and his gaze casts down the long way to the dais where his audiences always lower themselves before him. A sigh traps its wingbeat behind his teeth as he hears one of the priests announce the general's arrival.
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Zhongli is wearing a cerimonial armour, black and gold, brocade and velvet and silk, dragons befitting a king sewn on his chest piece and along his arms, scales of gold and copper on his shoulders and reinforcing his sleeves; his sword is in a matching sheathe, held in his left hand, his helmet is tucked under his right arm.
When he finally reaches the place where the Golden King keeps audience, rather than impressed by the opulence, he's saddened by the sight. So many curtains, even just the silhouette of him precluded to everyone; and so many priests and guards, scattered all around. A gilded cage, that's what it is.
There hardly is any king here: the true puppeteers are the priests, since nobody can meet the Golden King on their own, and so every message conveyed meets their ears and adds to their plans. They control him and he controls the people.
"I will have to take this." A middle-aged priest says, approaching them and reaching out for Zhongli's sword with a fake smile in place. He doesn't even greet formally --these people think everything is allowed, since they look after the most important figure of the kingdom. Despite the rudeness, the general's pleasant expression doesn't wane --but that is only because a purple-tattooed hand grips at the priest's clothes and tugs him farther away. Zhongli nods towards Bosacius, giving him permission, and his second-in-command's eyes light up as he drags the man away, who's sputtering threats, how dare you..! who do you think you are!.
There's only a second of disbelief, before the other priests start yelling at the guards to chase the general away, but the guards do not move, frozen in place until Zhongli waves his hand. At once, the soldiers turn on the holy men, pointing their spears at them and chasing them out, yells and incredulous whines filling the place until everyone is gone and it's just the two of them. The general and the Golden King.
Zhongli heaves a sigh. "It's better like this, don't you think? Precious alone time." He hums, looking around at the empty place with an approving expression. Bosacius and Indarias are no doubt sticking to the plan and keeping people from entering, together with the guards; quite naive of the priests not thinking that Zhongli, who technically controls the whole of the army, would have no influence on them.
He doesn't kneel. Rather, he sets aside his helmet and starts walking towards the other with careful, slow steps, like one may do to approach a wild animal. He stops only once he's right outside the curtains and he pulls them open, to peer at the frame of the young man behind them. He's wrapped in so many layers of silk and wearing such a thick veil, not much is revealed about him anyway.
Only then Zhongli lowers himself on one knee and holds his sword out, balancing it on both hands to show he has no ill intent, yet he's still impudent for he doesn't bow his head at all, staring in the direction of the other's face.
"My name is Zhongli. I'm the most decorated general in this kingdom and I am to be your husband."
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How the priests had put it to him, Zhongli would come, do the typical prayer and worship, and then he would meet him properly when they were actually joined in marriage. "It is because we respect you that we have arranged this meeting first, oh revered one," the oldest of his priests had simpered and Xiao had murmured his thanks without really feeling it, knowing it was what was expected of him.
Unprepared to know how to behave, Xiao flounders, does a half dozen things he would never do: clumsily tries to leave the palanquin, lets more of his layers slip free until it is just the ceremonial hanfu and all of his jewels hanging from his hair bound up and his ears and around the thin of his neck, nestled perfectly between the sharps of his collarbones. For someone adept in the art of fighting as well as a dozen other things instilled in him by the priests: dance above all else, it bespeaks how unsettled Xiao is as he unconsciously curls pale hands inside the long sleeves of his adornment.
"My priests are displeased," he finds his voice, surprisingly even and calm, quiet. "Or so I imagine," he follows up, head cocking to one side thoughtfully as he peers at the general a little more. An aura comes off of him, a sense of ageless fortification Xiao cannot quite put his finger on. That he is unnervingly handsome is obvious enough, the sort of person a tyrant would find threatening for his good looks and his generally well-lauded charisma, intentional or not. A good portion of his own hair, gold hanging through it from the ornament encircling it in one place, spills over his shoulder, flickering like a gem in the here-there light.
"Regardless, you are welcome here."
Then Xiao does something that his priests would curse him for if they dared; he bows his head as he accepts the sword, laying it then carefully along the palanquin's side, leaving the minimal space between them clear. If he were to step down from the palanquin, the gold anklets would sound like bells as he moves, barefoot and otherwise silent, as though the bells are there for others to always know where he is. Since he has had them all his life, as far as he can recall at least, Xiao does not question them. Much as he does not question the way on every full moon the priests bring him to what to others would look like a table of sacrifice and feed him the "bad dreams" of the kingdom to keep it prosperous. When he meets Zhongli's gaze properly, to say he is wary is accurate, but it cannot be denied that he feels drawn to him too. Perhaps because Zhongli is the first person outside of those he must conquer or those who dictate his motions, to speak to him in a long, long time. Another slight motion of his head has one of the massive gold and gem laden earrings catching in his hair, but Xiao is so focused on Zhongli he does not notice.
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Yet what strikes him most (besides the way his gaze lingers on the lines of the other's body, inconspicuous and yet with the greed of a man who's spent more of his days on battlefields, than tumbling in bed with someone) is Xiao's innate grace. It speaks of dance, yes, but also of battle; if they had a duel, Zhongli is not sure he would come out on top, and he hasn't had a feeling like this in a really long time. Even his Yaksha are formidable, but he's always been aware there was a slight difference in skill that would let him be triumphant. Xiao's potential is incredibly apparent, instead.
Zhongli smiles pleasantly, a slightly more sincere expression than what he's shown to the priests before, but the first genuine feeling that flashes on his face is surprise, upon seeing the venerated one bow his head at him when taking the sword. He holds his breath for a moment, observing him curiously. It would be a lie saying his heartbeat hasn't picked up.
The blurry outline of his features annoys him; it is a tease, how the fabric is translucent, not clear enough. And this is a man who's used to conquering by force: the urge to just rip that veil away is strong. So strong that Zhongli's now empty hands curl and then stretch, like he has to hold back the impulse.
"Given the nature of our future bond, I found it disrespectful that you would not get to meet me properly before the ceremony, but only after." Zhongli speaks softly, his low voice velvety at best, given how close they are. He slowly stands again, moving by holding back his every muscle, not to startle the Golden King, and he takes a step forward, his high ponytail swinging at the motion, his long long hair grazing his back. He bends forward just a little, slender fingers reaching out to the one earring that got stuck. With nothing but gentleness, warm fingertips dip under the veil to pry the stray hair off of it, letting the jewel dangle free again a moment later; the way his touch grazes against the other's ear could be called accidental. No matter his motions, he does his best not to touch the veil.
He rests his hands on either side of the palanquin, then, crowding the venerated one. He would most likely be beheaded for this, were he anyone else, blasphemous at best. The way he tilts his head reveals the tensing side of his slender neck, as he breathes in the fragrant scent coming off the silks and the demi-god himself. "Are you scared of me? What have they told you about me?" He would expect for the priests to have at least made Xiao wary --the marriage serves the purpose of tying the general down; they would never want for their revered one to suddenly start trusting anyone else. Especially not someone with such a strong backup and unpredictable behaviour.
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The knee-jerk reaction to back up is undeniable, but there is not much of anywhere to go when his betrothed closes in on him. This near, Xiao finds himself overwhelmed with the scent of him very nearly a taste on his tongue, eyes dilating and skin flushing. The General brings the warmth of the sunlit earth with him and Xiao has only ever known the isolatory cold touch of priests who hide him in a hundred ways. Summer, he thinks, and feels dizzy.
"I am not fearful," he says and it is true, peering up at him, adding, still quiet, "As for what they told me, it is only your praises in regards to your conquests, the fortification that reputation and presence brings to us."
With that, his gaze lowers, sharply aware of how his ear burns where Zhongli had touched, wondering if everywhere would burn the same. For the first time in his life to his memory, Xiao wonders what it would be like to wear something else, to go somewhere else. Even having been told their marriage will happen, to Xiao it is not real. A construct, a convenience. He wonders how much the priests offered to pay, not realizing this may not be the case.
His focus shifts to the other's clothing, his long hair impeccably kept despite being a man of the warfront, and then down to the side at his hands, also beautiful albeit battle worn on the underside, Xiao is sure. He has the foreign feeling of wanting to feel his touch again and stifles it, swallows it whole and unconsciously adjusts the veil responsible for shrouding most of his face. Through the sheer yet not quite truly see-through material, his mark glows in soft pulses, resonant. This, it has done since it came to him, and so it will always do, as long as Xiao is alive.
"Does...the arrangement displease the General? Did they not offer enough compensation?"
Not bitter, not worried, simply matter-of-fact. Xiao does know they do not hurt for money. The pious are generous even when they should not be. If his betrothed feels slighted or under-appreciated from the outset, that is not necessary nor acceptable. If nothing else, Xiao can make certain of this one aspect, though his hands are tied in most other ways. That someone would agree to this without money or some other valuable as a trade, does not occur to him, small hands folding neatly in his lap beneath the layers of silk.
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"How could I be displeased, when Your Grace is the one I've sought for all my life." His voice is quieter, since they're close enough he can share that secret while being sure it'll stay between the two of them. This wasn't his plan, he wasn't supposed to reveal what he is until after the marriage, but he can't help himself, seeing Xiao look so fragile, his little finch who was stolen and shut in a cage. He eyes his glowing mark and sighs.
He keeps looking at him, trying to guess his expression from underneath the veil, when he feels he's definitely gotten warmer, maybe out of embarrassment for having him so close. Slowly, naturally, glowing yellow energy starts swirling around him, until the matter condenses into a radiant stone, much like a golden star, twirling around him while leaving a sparkling wake behind. It is clear no human would be able to summon something like this, no human would be able to now look at the revered one with his own eyes glowing starkly, like the sun on a clear summer day, hanging in the sky confidently.
He raises a hand and catches the stone between thumb and forefinger, a yellow topaz, that he then carefully places it in Xiao's palm, curling his fingers around it, to be able to feel its ever-present warmth: it is like there is sunshine trapped in it, a reminder of summer encrusted in a precious jewel.
"We are bound in ways you cannot imagine." He whispers, barely restraining his anticipation, and he fails at it, because he keeps inching closer, surprising even to himself. Who knew a day where his self-control faltered would come. He presses his lips to the other's veil, right where his mouth is, covered by the fabric. It is a fleeting thing, feather light, and yet warm and soft, no matter the flesh not touching. "I'll take this as my only compensation."
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"I feel as though I should understand more than I do." This, uttered with a distinct self-deprecation, almost loathing, a thing weighed by shadows and troubles that have been swallowing Xiao's being whole before the world knew of him. The lost wings too, forgotten. Indeed perhaps he would have long flown away if he could. Or perhaps not, beholden so many years to the people of this land, there has become a part of Xiao like every other vertebrae: the necessity of worth and discipline. He breathes a shuddering thing. It is cold while he feels incredibly warm, almost overheated, hazy. The veil and its many coordinating layers are supposedly there to protect him, but as he peers at Zhongli through them he finds himself...frustrated. It has never happened like this to him: to want to see more than he has been given.
In a way, he does not allow himself to think as his hand raises to gently discard the veil with a soundless tug save for the one or two jewels in his hair it takes with it as it tumbles to the floor, the ting of metal and gems, the whisper of fabric, and the coracle of air as Xiao inhales sharply. Zhongli is even more handsome unobscured, and what is more than that...familiar. He cannot place why, but before he can question it, one of his hands reaches out to cup the side of the general's face.
"It's strange," he whispers though there is no need in the least. "...I know you are telling me the truth, without any doubt. But I could not articulate...why."
Unspoken: will you tell me? Unspoken: and what if this moment had never come? Unspoken: yet all know where I dwell, why did you not come sooner?
This last breaks a part of Xiao's subconscious. It cries in his place, wretched with longing and no language to speak it. On the surface though, the venerated one remains calm albeit curious, the hand against Zhongli's skin so smooth one would never know how veteran he is with a weapon, nor how many lives he has taken and sent on in peace this existence could not give them. With the loss of the veil, the upward twist of Xiao's hair is more apparent, the topmost of it crowned in gold ornamentation and the jewels that did not fall. His mark on the arm travels further beneath his clothes, wraps around though still unseen.
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Explaining would mean shaking his core, his foundation; it would also mean showing Zhongli's true form, the golden power that stains his arms. And he cannot undress now. But once they're married, once they're alone in the same bedroom, Xiao's frame enwrapped in gorgeous red silks --ah, how unbecoming, for his heart to beat so loudly at the sole thought of it. But isn't it understandable? He's been yearning for all these years.
He's surprised when Xiao takes his veil off himself, for he thought he'd see his face after their marriage --his chest aches so much at the beautiful sight that it feels like his heart has mistakenly skipped some beats out of shock. How pretty, those light yellow eyes that speak of the pale winter sun --so pretty that Zhongli's breath must get stuck in those eyelashes, because it comes with difficulty for a moment. He slides his gaze along the shape of them, smiles at the way both their eyes are rimmed red, as if the same motions have driven them, despite them being in such different places.
"Nobody else as beautiful as Your Grace exists in this world." He praises earnestly, the sincerity of it sparkling in his golden eyes and he sighs with pleasure at the touch of his cool hand, leaning into it, eyelids fluttering shut. He hums at his words, while he tilts his head for his lips to brush against his fingertips, gaze half-lidded, heavy with want. It is so difficult to be so close and behave, now that the veil isn't in the way anymore and Xiao's beauty shines even brighter than all the jewels he dons. Zhongli has never seen anyone this beautiful, it is true; his soul stirs, like it's just starting to wake up now after years of dozing.
"That is because I am yours. Your heart must recognize it." He smiles and he takes his hand to press a kiss to the heel of his hand and he can swear nobody has ever been this sincerely devoted to Xiao. "I am sorry for not coming sooner." With how their souls almost echo in each other, he somehow senses his distress; he could logically guess it too. Appearing just now and claiming he'd been looking for him, when he's been paraded around for years. Zhongli has to explain himself.
"I had to build strength, enough of it for my claim to you not to be in vain, enough of it to protect you and then do everything in my power to give you your wings back." He finally kneels now, between his legs and he brings his hand to wrap around his throat: he recognizes the power of Xiao no matter the smoothness of his skin, he knows there's the skill to break his neck in those slender fingers. "I deserve punishment for taking this long." He drops both hands and lets that palm rest against his adam's apple; and yet his gaze appears almost sultry, in offering all of himself to the other man.
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"I will not punish you. I do not see...I do not agree that it is deserved. This one...hears your words and understands."
An awkward stumble, but it's tinged with a near vibrating sense of longing and heat. Its tendrils reach out as the mingling of soft blue-green and gold, and Xiao's heart aches. Return his wings? It is impossible, isn't it? The priests told him from as long as he can remember besides: it was his own fault, a sin, and the price he pays is a debt to the world; its vigil at night and its endless well by day, where wishes are thrown more as rocks into glass than seeds into the earth. But it would not be penance otherwise.
Some turmoil leaks from his energy, and Xiao trembles, wanting to touch Zhongli again, wanting to be touched, and also not wanting anything. He understands and does not understand. If he digs into his own dreams, he finds traces of Zhongli now, having met him face to face, and he wonders at how long those have been there, secretly encouraging him or saving him when death edged near to the land's would-be-king, his own godhood eating away at his life every night little by little, only to recover during the day in body and fall a little more in his heart. Yet never all the way. A golden light, if Xiao thinks carefully, feels deeply enough, would reach down through the dark to enfold him as if an apology of wings and earth and love he could not recognize, not believing he had ever had nor deserved it.
His eyes open on a gasp, only then realizing he'd closed them at all. To Zhongli it may have seemed as if Xiao had entered some kind of trance state for long minutes, and it is sharp and sudden when pale hands reach for him again, not his neck but to frame his face, everything in the physicality beseeching even though Xiao cannot find his words.
It's been you....all this time. It's you.
The gold bracelets that fall down the thin of Xiao's forearms sound as bells. Their ceremony is not long from now, the priesthood treating it as a procedural thing more than aught else.
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When he closes his eyes, Zhongli stays in his spot, knelt on the floor and the realization that hits the other makes a smile bloom on his face in return."You remember now." It's not a question, but a statement, knowing from the warm touch to his face and the way the other's breath trembles that he has found Zhongli in his deepest memories. "I've kept you company for a long time, but I couldn't get closer." He explains --it's nearly impossible getting to speak with the venerated one, especially alone.
Without the power gathered, all his words would've been filtered by the priesthood to the point probably none of them would've reached Xiao. Not to mention that any attempt to remove the priests like he did today would've been met with violence by the guards and he would've gotten beheaded before he knew it. That is why it took him so long --and yet every night he reached out to him to offer some consolation, no matter the young man not remembering it once awake. Zhongli has always believed that, just like feeding earth, it would've all sprouted once it was the right time.
"After our wedding, I'll explain more, I promise. But I've always been with you." His large calloused hands wrap around his forearms as he closes his eyes in his touch. He wants to reach out again, to kiss him properly, to enwrap him in his arms to let him know that he's safer now that the general has finally managed to get close enough. But he knows it must be a lot to take in and probably Xiao has never had this much physical contact in the first place. He doesn't want to scare him. So he just tilts his head and rests his mouth on his wrist, where he can feel his quickened pulse. Zhongli's yearning is so thick that it could even reach such a powerful being as Xiao, who's well above physical desire --or maybe that's just what the priests have taught him. "I will keep serving you faithfully also as your husband." And everything words like that may entail.
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Zhongli says after the wedding but now they are close, Xiao is loathe to separate in a way he has never experienced before. His pale hands stay cradled to Zhongli's face, thumb of one smoothing under his eye, not daring to lean in but wanting to. With much of his movement, more of the silks have gone askew, and the cowl like pool of finery has slid open, baring his throat and collarbone, hardly covered at all by the edges of his veil, a tease of color against the moon of him. But his focus remains on his General, touching, looking, speaking. How many wars has Zhongli fought to come to this point? Was it all for this purpose? And how can Xiao repay him? Indeed, he wonders if it bothered him, if he has any regrets, and the fear seeded inside of such thoughts makes Xiao recoil. But perhaps his answer is more straightforward than all of that.
For, Zhongli is here, in front of him, holding him like something precious rather than poison, laying his words into the air and then unto Xiao's ears in a way that reminds him of honey. Here, telling him all he will continue to do not just as his general but as his husband and Xiao has not dared to feel anything like happiness in so long he's forgotten it, isn't sure he knows its shape or weight, the taste or the temperature. But maybe...
Maybe.
His lashes flutter, the wetting of his lips, the press of them and then quiet and calm and true:
"I trust you."
He's never said this to anyone before, and it seems to send a wave of pulsing want through his senses, as if admitting this at last, has made him more human than ever.
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The way he holds onto his face seems to prove true the former. How gentle is his thumb, Zhongli can't help sighing. One of his hand leads to the skin that got bare out of its own will and fingertips trace the outline of his adam's apple, the sharpness of his collar bone, his forefinger slotting itself for a moment in the hollow in the middle. How blasphemous of him, to keep touching like this.
"Ah..." The noise is unbecoming, a low growl, almost a purr, when Xiao utters those three words Zhongli has only ever wished to hear, maybe after years of trying to break the walls the priests tried to build around the venerated one. He feels himself crumbling yet again and how peculiar, for Xiao to know of weak spots not even Zhongli is aware of; he keeps hitting them with raw precision. Maybe the truth is that Xiao is his weak spot at all.
"I'm honored, Your Grace." He murmurs and it holds sincerity. He can't help inching closer again, pressing an innocent peck to Xiao's cheek this time, landing yet again on his veil. "Will you think of me during these three days till our marriage?" He asks, still lingering close, nosing at his jawline.
"If you do, I will sense you and visit you when you close your eyes."
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"Please." that he makes this request of him might seem strange and even blasphemous to anyone else, but they are the only ones here, and so Xiao infuses all his longing into that singular statement, gazes direct yet teeming with something unnameable at the eyes of someone who reminds him of a dragon as much as a person. Three days seems forever, and Xiao bites down on his tongue until it bleeds, fills his mouth with the metallic tang of quiet quiet quiet. Stop asking for things. Just stop. He tells himself over and over but cannot help leaning towards the general just a little more.
"I wait for you," he adds, also soft, incandescent with something warm and the mark on his arm that bleeds into the reminiscence of a wing on his back glows through the gauzy silks, casts the greens and golds of him into something almost holy, the pale of him like some distant star made to fall into Zhongli's open hands. In the three days and nights he must wait, Xiao will be beset by the priests, will give more audiences than he has before in such a small time frame, as if the faith wish to whittle down his barriers and power though he cannot quite understand why.
On the day of the wedding Xiao is dressed in heavy red silks, embroidered with gold. They weigh so much they cause him to walk as slowly as the ceremony calls for, and it looks like poise. Gold set gems hang from his hair, spindles of colored light lancing from each slight turn of his head, the gold necklaces and earrings somehow not overwhelming him despite his size, the red lined in a gentle flare along his wide eyes a perfect commonality between the robes and the jewelry. Even during the ceremony they are not treated as a conventional join because it is not one; they do not touch, indeed he cannot even look Zhongli in the face. Aspects of it all feel closer to the religion than their bond, as the priests help him up onto the raised dais.
From above his most loyal General, Xiao swears himself to their contract. From above, Xiao offers a pale hand adorned with no makeup or rings. From above, Xiao finally can look at Zhongli again, and he wonders not for the first or last time, what brings him this man's steadfastness without exception, for surely he has not done anything so worthy? His skin remembers his touch, and in mind of that his breath shivers, a silent warm curiosity as he hides well behind his veils.
The only sign of imperfection is a streak underneath the silk, where a hardheaded priest had grabbed him and his hand had slipped across the painstakingly painted lines of ceremony on Xiao's skin, smudging it at the edge and leaving the faintest scratch marks. Yet no one will see it save Xiao himself and...
...his husband.
After the ceremony they escort him first to the vast wing of the temple that has up to now been unused. Its open corridors echo eerily and when one of the priests lets him into 'his' room, Xiao feels his stare linger, but doesn't think overly on it as he enters and goes to sit, perched on the edge of the grand canopied bed, and does as he promised: waits.
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"I'll come see you. And I'll be waiting impatiently for the day." He promises softly and of course so he does, even if Xiao may not remember it. The priests seem to work against him too, because with how busy they've made their god, Xiao has barely the time to close his eyes throughout the whole three days. Zhongli visits him quickly, checks on him, but he doubts the other would remember, such fleeting dreams, just the time of a flutter of eyelashes.
The day of the wedding comes excruciatingly slowly.
Zhongli is obviously dressed all in matching red and yet looking every bit the General he is, back straight and no hesitation in his step, no matter how heavy and billowing the many layers of his outfit. His hair is let down, long enough for the copper tips to reach past his hips, braided here and there, small coral beads keeping it all in place. There are thin golden chains dangling at the sides of his face and through his hair, one that carries a slightly bigger red gem loosely hanging across his forehead, the ruby at the very centre of it. His earrings are long and heavy, tinkling, matching the golden of his eyes, that are highlighted by red liner.
His Yaksha follow him, all four of them, dressed in ceremonial robes as well, their expressions giving away excitement even if Zhongli can sense how tense they are: they don't trust this to go well and they won't relax until it is done.
Upon seeing Xiao, his breath stops for a moment. What a gorgeous sight and yet at the same time, what an enraging one. They all still handle him like a puppet, move him here and there, don't let him even glance towards Zhongli --the General's temper boils under his perfectly kept facade and he looks at each of those priests intently, looks at the way their hands latch onto their god, too rough sometimes, like he's a toy. Zhongli will get rid of every last one.
By the time the ceremony is done, it hardly feels like it: he didn't get to see Xiao's face, didn't get to touch him, didn't get to stand next to him. It is obvious that no matter their fates now being official tied together, they are no equals. He could tell Xiao's discomfort in being led and moved, pulled at the strings as always, when he probably wanted nothing more than steal a glance of him --Zhongli isn't even too sure how much he sees, with those many veils.
The groom joins the room last, that is part of the ceremony too. So Zhongli plays along, gaze following the retreating figure of his husband as he disappears --yet he has to admit he feels anxious, not having him in his sight anymore. So the moment he's allowed to step into the corridor himself, his Yaksha are summoned with a flick of a finger. "I don't want any of them around here, not even remotely close. Nobody sets foot in this wing besides the four of you." He orders sharply and he storms down the corridor without even waiting to be accompanied, while he hears the hushed noises of his trusted warriors doing his bidding --gently move all the priests in the area.
Zhongli opens the sliding doors to the bedroom quietly and shuts them behind him with just as much care. He approaches the sight that is Xiao with slow, careful steps and, upon reaching the bed, he releases a deep, shaky sigh he didn't know he was holding at all. What a beautiful yet lonely sight. Enticing on that bed, and yet heartbreaking in his solitude. Zhongli's heart is stabbed by the want to embrace him, comfort him, make him his.
And yet he's so careful, like he was dealing with an injured finch, approaching slowly, speaking quietly, not to startle him. "To not even see your face during the ceremony after missing you so much..." He murmurs sadly and his fingertips trace on top of all the veils the features below with shocking gentleness, from a seasoned general. He follows the bridge of his nose, sweeps along his cheekbones, brushes against his chin and then holds it lightly, so that his thumb can caress the vague outline of his mouth. He lands a caress to his face and then eases himself on the bed gracefully, sitting next to him --equals, now.
He reaches for the other's hands and takes them in both his own, marveling at the different size, how they almost get lost in his, and how pale they are, moonlight held in the middle of sunlight. He warms them up skin to skin, softly stroking them too. "Where do you want us to start?" It's a rather vague question --does it refer to their marriage? does it refer to his many layers and which one should they remove first?
But there's a very solid part in this question: Xiao's will. Zhongli worded it purposefully, to let his intention be known --from now on, Xiao is not a puppet anymore: he takes his own decisions. And Zhongli will enforce each of them.
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Want?
The cant of his head sends a trill of music with all of his jewelry, the blink of his eyes a wave of gold.
Want?
Zhongli's hands are warm.
"I don't know."
It is as honest an answer as he has ever given, the first, as this is the first time also he has been asked what he wants. Perhaps it is enough that Xiao does not immediately bequeath agency to Zhongli alone, instead once again vesting in him a singular kind of trust: I do not know, I am foreign to the world in which what I "want" exists much less matters, I think sometimes in these three days I would close my eyes and see you as if you were here.
Zhongli keeps his promises.
Xiao is not sure what to make of that either, the impossible pull to him, the shivering heat under his skin as if a red string has been drawn taut enough to snap if one is not careful; so careful.
His lower lip is swollen from biting it so much, red even beneath the paint infused with the sweet of some berry Xiao has never actually seen, a gilded cage made not of earth but the many grasping hands of expectations. If people stop believing in him, Xiao will disappear, or so the priests have told him. So it has been a mutual servitude, in ways. But when Zhongli holds his hands, Xiao feels that perilous temptation: to be more than the lines drawn already in the sand. Unbeknownst to him, his mark glows, and the way it follows through into a wing on his back aches, a strange pain he has never known what to make of either.
Peering at his husband through the veils, he thinks, a bit self consciously, their roles are confused, Zhongli who is a general but has all the air of a commanding god, and Xiao who is a god but embodies the position of allegiance and subordination. He has never held it against the people; they are not his origin nor his end; and in fact Xiao is curious of human beings, their fleeting lives. If he looks away too long, Zhongli too would slip through his pale fingers like golden sand and the pain of such a thought is so visceral a small sound of hurt escapes him. What a thing to consider on their wedding. But then, he has always had this sense that the General -- Rex Lapis, Morax, Zhongli -- was more than he seemed, felt it in him like sunlight, polarized into an unending star.
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It is endearing as much as it is heart-wrenching, the way Xiao doesn't know what to do with his freedom. After being led for so long, every motion taken and every word spoken simply a reaction to the tug of strings by the priests, it is obvious he wouldn't have any idea what he wants. And yet he didn't simply tell Zhongli to decide himself. Small steps, but he likes how it started.
"That's okay." He reassures him with a soft laugh, warm no matter his baritone voice. "Let's start with undressing you, then. Your layers must be heavy." To be honest, Zhongli is not too well-versed in cerimonial robes. Living mostly in camps along the border, his way of dressing is proper but simple and when it comes to more convoluted outfits, he's helped out. So he has no idea how many layers of silk and veils were put on him, but surely they look crushing.
He brings his hands to his lips to press a kiss on top of each, before he lets go. Long fingers reach his veils then, taking them off gently one by one until he reaches the last and he lifts it, pressing another kiss to Xiao's forehead before he removes even that. Then he shifts closer, reaching around his neck to remove his jewelry, his breath brushing against Xiao's ear with how Zhongli has to check the fastening. He only takes care of the necklaces, afraid to accidentally hurt him were he to be careless with the jewels in his hair. That's when his hands slip under his outer robe, curling around his shoulders as he pushes it down and he can't quite resist anymore, seeing the column of his pale neck, a sliver of bare skin. He nudges his nose against it, exhaling softly.
"Would you like to share the bed tonight?" He asks, while breathing his scent in. He wonders if Xiao will know whether he 'wants' that or not.
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"I," he tries. He tries, truly. But words like "want to be with you" and "want you to stay" do not come. They exist and they circle as water ripples and sound echoes of honesty and presence even in his silence. But the frustration blooms hot and mortified in his cheeks, brows pinching lightly. The purple jewel on his forehead, not accessor nor jewelry but an actual part of him much like his mark that now glows with erratic anxieties, flickers with unnatural catches of what light there is.
Why can't he say it?
Assisted with the taking of his robes, they pool about Xiao in so many layers of red and one of gold that almost gets lost in all of the fire hues. The makeup Xiao wears is befitting of a bride of royalty or an offering or a sacrifice or all three.
"I," he tries again; fails.
His hands curl into pale fists in his lap, perfectly cut nails biting into his own skin until they are red enough to match his clothes. It should be enough that his general has made a space for him in which to say what he wants; it should be more than enough. But his voice is a silent stone in his throat like a nightingale who was born into a songless life, never acquainted until like a foreigner to one's own kingdom, someone they loved came to their cage door and said: this is yours.
It has always been yours.
Such is the gift Zhongli offers and yet Xiao cannot even make use of it.
That it will take time has not occurred to him; that they have time has also not occurred to him. All Xiao knows is his own inadequacy in the face of generosity and he wonders what use a god or oracle is to anyone if that god or oracle is himself.
The priests voices echo condescension in his head: this is why your role is as it has always been, Alatus. Conqueror of evil. Swallower of nightmares. That there is no room in him for his own happiness after so many years of imbibing the land's grief and corruption, has also not occurred to him.
Perhaps it should.
At present, what Xiao knows is this: the closeness of Zhongli and how he aches for him to be even closer and doesn't entirely know what he means by it, the warmth of him and how it is more soothing than any clothing or fire, the deep reverberation of his voice settling in under Xiao's skin like his own secret reassurance even if he doesn't deserve it.
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He cups his small, beautiful face in both his hands, making it look even smaller like that, when he leans in to kiss his purple jewel with reverence, and then presses an innocent peck on each cheekbone to try and dissolve the flush on them, before pulling back. He doesn't try anything else, doesn't go further, simply offering him tenderness in the hope Xiao won't feel ashamed or embarrassed or unworthy. He has no idea what thoughts swirl in his mind, but it is enough to see him always looking away, always punishing himself through those nails pressed into his palms. That he feels insecure is obvious. Zhongli despises the way the priests raised him, clearly for their own purposes, never allowing him to even understand the concept of happiness, but solely the one of sacrifice.
Zhongli wants to give him everything. So he will start with himself. Rather than continuing with undressing Xiao, hoping that he's more comfortable since they've removed two thirds of his layers already, Zhongli starts taking his own clothes off. They're way less than his husband's and he quickly gets to the last one.
It's then that he takes Xiao's hands, coaxing them to loosen up and stop hurting his palms, and he leads them to his frame, guiding them into undoing and removing the sash that kept his last layer in place. Then, he drives them to push the two halves apart to reveal his torso, skin pale but of a healthy, rosy hue compared to Xiao's, muscles tight and defined. He's littered with scars from the battlefields and badly stitched wounds, but he pays them no mind.
He leads those elegant, lithe fingers across the pronounced thickness of his pectorals and then down his lean stomach and the rows of his abs --his breathing trembles, but he tries to pretend he hasn't noticed. He keeps his golden eyes trained on him, to watch any possible change in his expression. He can't fully admit it to himself, but he would like for Xiao to desire him. "This is yours now, my dear husband. All of this, all of me, belong to you. You are allowed to want and take, without asking or prompting or permission. You will learn that you have wishes and I long to fulfill each and every one of them.".
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In some ways it is almost too much. Xiao's gold eyes follow rapt the way Zhongli guides his fingertips, and here and there Xiao's perfect nails catch against a scar a little less old than the others, still raised and healing down into a pale sliver. It takes Zhongli's words along with his physical guidance to somehow both ground and focus Xiao despite his inexperience in these wants and hopes knotted and tangled inside him like a secret heartbeat. If he had wings he would enfold Zhongli in them, a bold sweep of motion both in gratitude and adoration. He wonders as he raises his chin to let his gaze find Zhongli's again, what bad dreams his husband has that he might consume for him. To Xiao, this is the only way to properly thank him, or at least, the only one that occurs at first.
He is reminded of how Zhongli would find him in his own scant moments of sleep, would reach out for him even in that nameless darkness and frame his whole being not unlike he framed his face just moments before. He is reminded of his touch just three days prior on the dais where Xiao felt more human than ever in his entire life, which does not always seem real to him to begin with. He is reminded of how after feeling on death's door from someone's corruption or nightmare, he would reach out blindly to a light that looked golden and smelled of sun-kissed earth.
Much of the gold is gone, pupils dilated with that very word of 'want' even if it would be impossible for Xiao to articulate it in words, drawing the feather touch of his fingers up back the path Zhongli had led, to then branch off, skimming along the jut of his collarbone. His hand seems very small against Zhongli, even as he smooths it up to touch fingertips to his throat and then his jaw as if learning his image by touch as much as sight. "Yours" Zhongli says and Xiao can barely fathom it.
"This seems to be a dream," he says and it's quiet and thoughtful at the same time that the weight of it closes in all the air in the space, the gasp after holding one's breath too long. Not disbelief of Zhongli himself but the unavoidable question against his own daringness to feel...what is it? He doesn't know. Wanted? As himself, not as the oracle. Happy? Maybe it is all of these things, waiting to be recognized by Xiao, waiting for him to open his heart like palms faced up in acceptance of prayer and love. When he cranes his neck to lean up it is not quite a kiss despite being told he can take what he wants. Time. They need time. But the utterance of "I" and the barest touch of his lips to the corner of Zhongli's mouth, for Xiao, is perhaps more than he thought himself capable of even so. Whether it is enough he does not know.
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Even as fingertips travel to his neck and his face, he stays perfectly still, barely swallows to get over the tightness in his throat. But his eyelids flutter close and he sighs deeply at the little kiss, breath trembling, while he buries his hand in the other's hair to keep him close. It is the hardest battle he's ever fought, against himself. He has to hold back, because if he doesn't, he risks to take too much, too soon --he knows Xiao is too sweet, too pliant with him, he wouldn't fight any of his decisions.
Patience is a virtue he never thought he lacked until now. He finally realizes how wrong he was: the difficult part wasn't making his path to Xiao; it is now, controlling himself in the face of the one he adores, give him his time and space. He was Xiao's even before the other was born, he belonged to the idea of him that the universe had carved in his soul. As a familiar, he was born first, to be ready to take care of him and lead him and protect him, but Xiao was taken away too young, too soon, tricked into an unbreakable contract that bleeds him dry, one drop at a time. Was it more haunting for Zhongli to live while knowing of their bond, or for Xiao, who wasn't aware he could hope for something different?
"A good dream, I hope." He whispers, not trusting how his voice would sound any other way. He takes Xiao's hand to kiss his palm, before he scoops him up in his arms and easily rests him on his lap, letting the other's side lean against his chest. He hugs his waist, keeps him close so he can warm him up and protect him and he nuzzles into his hair, presses pecks onto it. "Can you tell we're meant to be close, like this?" He wonders, deep voice poured directly in his ear, unsure how deep the bond runs on the other half of it.
Despite his good purposes, with the way Xiao's robes resemble more a bride's than a groom's, Zhongli slowly slides a hand under the layers until he finds his leg and he rubs long, large fingers into his thigh, marveling at how much smaller than him Xiao is. If he were to wrap his whole hand around his thigh, not much would be left out. It is enough to make him shiver with desire. "Do you know what human couples do, on the night of their wedding?" It's a soft question, his smile suffused into it --it is a bit of a tease as much as it is curiousity: he wonders how much about the world he was told and he learnt, raised as he was.
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"They...lie together," he says carefully, wondering if he betrays himself in admitting he does not know what those words entail exactly. To over explain what he knows feels somewhat embarrassing however, and anyway Xiao finds himself quite distracted by the way Zhongli's fingers smooth across the pale of his thigh. He shivers, eyes fluttering even as he adds, thoughtful, "And ... I think I can. It...feels better. To be close."
The tips of his ears go pink. Makeup obscures much of this flush in his face, but when more layers are removed the blush will make itself known all over.
This time when he lifts his gaze, his mouth purses on a soft O shape, curious,
"Do you want...?" ...me.
If someone were watching they might ask Xiao how he can even make such a question, but they would have to follow him back to the days of near birth, when he was first taken and locked away on a golden palanquin as the small god he is now known as today. He learned rather quickly that "want" was not a word to form on his lips except in the shape of someone else, and, for most of his life, he has not been embittered by this fact. It was taught well to him how much of his life if not all of it was a sort of karmic retribution. He would do what he could for the people that needed him, and in a twisted quiet way perhaps it was also nice to be needed, of worth. But the times when he would feel Zhongli's presence, before he even knew that it was his light and earth and soul, it would be as if a spindle of fresh air had somehow haloed into his lungs, drawn him up out of clear cold water for the first time.
So it is now, nearly a first time again: Xiao breathes.
He wonders.
And it must be because it is Zhongli: he does not feel guilty for it.
His body moves before his mind can catch him off, struggling a little in his garments to turn so that he sits in Zhongli's lap facing him rather than sideways, the sharps of his knees on either side of Zhongli's waist, most of him still layered and petaled in his remaining robes. A strange gust of air thrushes through the room and one of the two candles extinguishes, casting them into a majority darkness. But Xiao sees Zhongli with almost visceral clarity, leaning up once again enough as he dares, their noses not quite touching. Everything about his motions feels closer to animal than human, the curiosity of a caged bird offered a hand to land upon that does not seek to trap it any longer.
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Zhongli inhales deeply, his stomach twisting as unfamiliar heat pools at the bottom. He has to close his eyes, afraid he'll show the beast within, when Xiao admits he likes being close. Eyelids fluttering up, he finds he wants to devour that little red mouth, perfectly rounded now. "I want you more than I've ever wanted anything." He confesses, a low murmur and his golden eyes like a solar eclipse, his pupils growing and shading the sun.
"We can be close for as long as you want, whenever you want." He grants him easily, insisting on that 'want'. He'd give Xiao anything he wishes, he would give him all of himself, if Xiao wanted it. "There are ways to be even closer." He whispers and yet he doesn't act on it, because he is unsure: maybe Xiao would play along simply to please Zhongli himself, and not because it is something he desires himself.
Xiao doesn't have the furthest idea of what he does to him, how the weight shifting in Zhongli's lap threatens to make him crazy if he focuses properly on the position the other is moving in, how they're parted only by mere layers of silk and brocade and nothing more. The closest they've ever been. "Xiao..." He calls quietly, his deep voice turned into almost a purr, round and pleased. It's the first time he says his name out loud and he tastes it thoroughly.
He should explain to him what lie entails in a marriage, for himself and so if someone asks, they don't get the wrong idea of him. He should tell him it's dangerous, to have shifted on his lap like that, to sit astride him and lean up that way. But he can't find in himself the strength to pull back; his large hands cup his small, pretty face and Zhongli fills the distance, letting their lips touch, with no veil in-between.
He lands small, sweet little kisses, to have him get used to the feel of the display of affection, the noise short and wet and maybe even endearing in the almost completely dark room. Slowly, the kisses turn warmer, more lingering, tasting the other's lips with no rush and his head tilting from one side to the other. He pulls back only once their breathing has turned heavier.
"Part your lips." He instructs, voice sounding like a growl, more of the general than he's ever been today, fully expecting Xiao to obey. If he does, upon licking into his mouth Zhongli will almost groan. An arm wraps around his narrow waist and his opposite hand curls around his thigh again, tugging him even closer if possible, slotting their bodies together as he savours him deeply, long fingers squeezing into his taut muscles.
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Zhongli's touch carries weight with it but also heat, a molten core to the earth or the sun basked mountainside. Xiao shivers almost violently, the beading trill of a keen in his throat with the longer deeper kiss, soft little sounds that escape him in a flurry so unlike his usual stoic decorum, like he's being unraveled in a way only his general can achieve. Small hands grasp with near desperation with fists full of beautiful silk, clinging to him as if somehow afraid he will disappear or change his mind, Xiao's legs pinned in even tighter in a way that makes it impossible not to notice both his own body and Zhongli's. He doesn't really understand, only that it incites something in him to want to chase that feeling that's both uncomfortable and dizzily pleasant, acting on instinct, craning his thin neck back to better kiss him while grinding his hips down in a way that sends heat flooding from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head.
In the past, any touches he received were those of demand and expectation as the kingdom's oracle. A golden king but only in name. The priests held the real power and because Xiao was raised to recognize this system as the truth, despite his prowess that protected this country at his own cost, despite everything, he never questioned it...or at least, not enough to change it. Those times he has found any enough courage to wonder a little more, wound themselves up with the visitations of his general, most of which he did not fully understand either for the longest time, the shred of comfort golden lit and yet the very firmament of the land on which they all dwelled: ageless and undaunted. Not swayable as the wind, which had Xiao not been taken so very young, perhaps not capturable either, but the pieces on the board fell where they had.
Still, Xiao doesn't know if he can regret any of it if it has brought him to this place and time now, Zhongli's touch a scalding brand he wishes would scar to help him never question if it is real or not. The glow of his own mark is effervescent even in the dark, and indeed the light of Xiao itself almost seems incandescent with a barely-there sound, a song no one else can hear but the general who holds him. When the kiss stops for breath alone, Xiao is dizzy, only the dark saving him from showing the full pink flush across his skin, though the swollen nature of his mouth is obvious still, and eyes dilated so widely that the gold of them is like the crown of a solar eclipse. One hand stays curled in Zhongli's garment, the other tentatively, shakily reaching up to touch his face, fingertips dancing across his cheekbone: this is real, you are real, you are here.
This is what the bird seems to say without saying, trembling with want he did not know he was capable of.