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.
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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.