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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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.