CONTINUED
@galactia ↤ always accepting :: RANDOM / XMAS ↩
Zhongli presents Kaeya with a gift, folded beneath a covering of fabric. It is a set of clothing, personally commissioned, sewn of the finest Liyuese materials. The shirt is sheer black, loose and elegant at the sleeves and tapered at the waist, soft and breathable. The coat to accompany it is white, dusted in inlayed golden designs that resemble fractals of ice and snow. The buttons are polished granite, flecked with gold, and the stitching that weaved its image together was black. With it is a cape, split to allow for it to drape over Kaeya's shoulders and leave his arms free, but its collars is close and around the shoulders and neck is fur enough to keep him warm, even in the winters of Mond.
With this fine suit, is a smaller box. Inside is a stone, no larger than a coin, smooth and gleaming. Its amber depths glitter such black and orange it nearly shines iridescent, and over its surface are expertly carved, in Liyue script, the symbols for protection, security, and safety. "You deserve fine things." Zhongli breathes, and as he presents this, a far smaller token, he adds, "And this, which I formed from a piece of Cor Lapis from the mountains of Guyun Stone forest, is something so you might remember my affections, even while apart."
With steady fingers, the god led Kaeya's fingertips over the carved impressions, "This, is a promise of protection. While this, a blessing of safety. And the last, a seal of security."
KAEYA you deserve fine things - none of which he can be compensated for. at least, not in the... proportionate sense.
funny how hard it can be not to feel cheap. a line up of confrontations with the fact of this: how harsh, how hollow, how acrid kaeya is. there isn’t much to gift to, or to respond with. not here, where anything more than honesty defeats the point.
another gift beyond his value; another instance of his fingers closing around something craved for what it means. even if expressed in only monetary terms, this states value.
kaeya nearly bites through his lip as he lets himself take it. the bills are stacking up. he’s no lasting intention to pay.
if zhongli intends for this to be a partnership
he can be trusted to know what it takes—no? pre-empt the breaking point of generosity’s impulse meeting the brick wall of exhaustion. those millennia are supposed to be good for something.
ah... & they’ve moved on to matters of divine protection. kaeya’s eyes are glued to the colour of zhongli’s eyes - but safer, & less meaningful.
“bold words,” it is a low grumble. “have you not noticed,” t h i c k, voice of silk ripping across the gravel of emotion. he’d not intended to bare this today, but zhongli makes- zhongli... it’s not an opportunity to squander, no matter what. “how thoroughly you are writ into my being?”
not the right words. sure, get it wrong. why not. by now the truth has become so wrung out it is misshapen even when uttered into daylight. “i cannot forget.
regardless how much i enjoy your reminders.”
perhaps the emotion isn’t unworthy. ( i’m going to need this beyond its expiration date. ) it is TERROR.
ah, fuck. what it means to be loved by a god indeed- although kaeya remains hard-pressed to believe a mere god would forfeit so much of its time just by dint of its nature.
now, if they were to discuss individual nature...
but this is his god, so it does not matter what the others are like. ( not until he needs them &, with the courage of the bitterly damned, will try the one thing that has worked. to likely less satisfactory results.
but that’s what make-belief is for. )
THE ONLY SECURITY I NEED YOU’VE ALREADY GIVEN ME — a promise carved into his own flesh. a day that won’t be forgot until he forgets himself.
the amber of zhongli’s eyes is of the stone that is slipped, delicately, into the pressure under his corset. under his blouse - tucked right below the sharp point of a cleavage’s v. it nudges into his breastbone like a stomach ache, & he smiles.
“dress me in your colours,” it’s not that the gift isn’t appreciated, when laid firmly aside. no, he’s rather fond of being spoiled- “recognise me in your blood,” that chiselled jaw cupped by greedy fingers that card into his hair to grip it, “drown me in your scent.” the stroke of his cheek along the bare column of another’s warm throat. when he hums it is closer to a growl: 3 different kinds of excitement / all satisfaction.
his claws are always out, when embracing this one.
everything pales in comparison to t h i s:
that this motherfucker is his.
