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A-Li, he hears sometimes.
A whisper of a memory, a fragment of conscience. The echo of a beloved friend long gone. Fingers like feathers in his hair.
You've gotten soft in your old age.
Zhongli keeps his eyes on the red. The only thing in his line of vision these days. Red, like fire, like blood. Red, like the eyes of a dignified man, like hair that crowns a head. Red, red, red.
If I had, he thought, musing, as if Guizhong is still by his side, here to see him crash and burn. He knows she would have loved the red. Would I have fallen for the flames?
Zhongli looks at Diluc, across the camp, over the fire—and feels something inside of him go up in flames.
Goodness, he thinks, and praises Murata for her choices. No vision would have suited Diluc better than pyro. It's in his eyes, his hair; it is in the way he carries himself—day to day, battle through battle. Wildfire solidified and shaped into the form of a man.
Even if Zhongli has selfishly wished he had been more perceptive, quicker when bestowing his gifts—it all vanishes upon knowing Diluc received his vision at the tender age of ten.
Morax has never given a vision to anyone that young. A child is not meant to carry the weight of the earth, of the world. If any Liyuen child found themselves in peril, Zhongli trusted the Yakshas first and foremost.
A-Li, says Guizhong's voice in his head, his eternal conscience. Don't deny your heart from its desires.
He wants, he wants so much. He has never felt so human and finite before. So helpless.
(He has, of course, when Guizhong died and he had to be both the muscle and the brain from then on. He has, when four of his Yakshas succumbed and only one remains. Bound to their duty and stained by it.
But that was different. He was a god. Now he is no longer one)
Is this what it feels like to be mortal, with a human heart and human instincts?
Zhongli has lived for thousands of years, but all it took was giving away his God's Heart for everything to click into place. Everything suddenly feels transient and easily destroyed, and he has never possessed such a desperate desire to preserve it all.
🔥🔶
When night falls, Lumine whisks them all through the waypoints that only she can access, and brings them back to the house where they’ve all been staying. She compliments their hard work before retreating to her shared room with her floating companion.
Fontaine has certainly taken its toll on them, it's no surprise that the others immediately scatter to their own rooms or to find entertainment elsewhere.
And it is no surprise that Zhongli and Diluc are the only ones left by the fireplace.
This is not the first time it has happened throughout their travels together. Country to country, from an archon to another—in friendship and loyalty toward the enigmatic traveler. For Zhongli and Venti, specifically, it is also in favor of how much she has done and given for their respective nations. Great deeds that cannot be exchanged with truths, so they offer their strengths and devotion instead.
But Zhongli and Diluc, it is an easy companionship that has grown with time and shared moments. Both sleepless and weary, they often find themselves occupying the same quiet space, occurring enough for it to become a routine—something to be expected, and missed when it's not there.
"I would like to dance."
Zhongli watches, patient, as Diluc blinks in surprise and confusion—once, twice; wide-eyed and catlike—until his face settles into something more neutral, and he cautiously offers, "Would you like me to play the music for you?"
Diluc eyes the lyre nearby that Venti has left behind in his haste to catch up to Kaeya. It would be interesting for sure, Zhongli has heard enough from the others that Diluc is much more proficient at the arts than he lets on; but as much as Zhongli would like to hear him play—
"No," Zhongli chuckles, offering his hand in return. "A dance for two, Master Ragnvindr."
Diluc's brows furrow, but he accepts the offered palm nonetheless.
Zhongli looks down, only for a second, to hide his brief smile. Diluc has never denied him anything. Even when things are unspoken between them, Zhongli would sooner or later find whatever whim he has resolved.
As long as it's within my power, was the only explanation Diluc would ever offer.
(It can be amusing, sometimes, because there's a former god between them, and it is not Diluc; yet it feels like he's granted both Zhongli and their team more favors than Zhongli himself ever has)
And so, the things Zhongli does ask for ends up being simpler than even Diluc might expect. Like this, here and now: a moment of Diluc's time, and an excuse to hold his hand. Slow dancing in the dark.
Zhongli pulls him to his feet and places an arm on Diluc's shoulder, the other hand still keeping a firm grip on Diluc's own palm. Diluc, with the trained expertise of a nobleman, instantly recognizes the dance and dutifully places a hand on Zhongli's waist.
Like the rest of him, Diluc's hands are warm. Zhongli has lived six thousand years, and has no shortage of experience with pyro users—but none of their warmth has ever appealed to him as much as this one man's fire does.
He thinks of conversations amidst tea in the evening, playing board games and the steady push and pull between them; of battling side by side and tending to each other's wounds; reading a book while Diluc rests his head on Zhongli's lap, fast asleep—all the moments that had came easily and effortlessly, wondering if Diluc would still see him as he is, once the contract he is bound by is finally revealed.
Once the chaos finally begins, he thinks, selfishly, greedily— would I still be someone you want by your side?
Zhongli has lived far too long to deny what has been engraved in his heart. Like the mountains he carved with his own hands, the thing inside his chest that yearns for Diluc is stubborn, unmoving. It bends to no one's will except for the things Zhongli could do to make Diluc smile at him—ruby eyes soft at the edges, lips parted to reveal a glimpse of teeth.
Zhongli is shaken from his thoughts when Diluc clears his throat, saying, "You're staring."
Zhongli smiles, gentle. It is so much easier to be gentle these days, now that he is no longer the earth that Liyue stands on, no longer their foundation and their shield, hardened earth on every surface.
No need for him to conceal the honesty in his eyes, or his voice.
"Am I not allowed to?" He asks.
Diluc's eyes narrow, "Why would you?"
Beloved, beloved, beloved— chants Zhongli's heart, reverent, fervent. His now human heart, lovesick. How can I not look at you?
Morax has had statues built in his own likeness, worshipped and revered, equally admired and feared. Zhongli, despite how little he can escape a personality that has been forged for over six thousand years, finds himself on the other side of said worship these days.
Diluc's expression had gradually softened with every step they took, swaying gently by the fireplace. Zhongli looks at him—the crimson of his hair and in his eyes, this kind and solemn man; the dark side of dawn, lovely in the autumn evening.
Zhongli, with his six thousand years of reign and ruin, and the one man capable of bringing him to his knees. Zhongli sees Diluc, and as always, is overcome with the desire to be the stone hearth that houses his flames.
Zhongli doesn’t answer, he briefly considers burying his face on the man's shoulder, but opts to move his free hand—previously gripping Diluc's shoulder—up to Diluc's face instead, carefully framing his cheek in hand.
Free from his gloves, the vision-imbued warmth of Diluc's skin greets his palm like an old friend. The hearth that welcomes you after a day out in the cold.
“What do I do," Zhongli murmurs, like the beginning of a prayer, like kneeling before a god in hope of salvation. "What do I do with all these feelings I hold for you?"
Diluc leans into his touch, mouth on his palm, eyes shut.
"Do as you please," he hums, pleased. "I will simply… adjust accordingly."
Zhongli raises a brow. "You are not surprised."
"You haven't been the most subtle." Diluc smiles, something soft and small. Like a secret that can only be seen by Zhongli, a secret that only he's allowed to be in on. This man, in the palm of his hands.
Zhongli thinks that he's made it this far to be embarrassed, and decides to face this as he's faced most things when it comes to his personal relations: with his heart out on his sleeve, as unmoving as bedrock.
"Have dinner with me," he requests.
"It's past midnight."
"Not today. Tomorrow. A proper courting this time."
They've danced around each other long enough, it's only fair that as the one who initiated this dance in the first place, Zhongli gets to arrange another one.
"You know," Diluc begins, eyes open, cheek still buried in Zhongli's palm. He seems bashful about whatever he's about to say, ears reddening. "Aside from several attempts when I was young, no one has ever tried properly courting me. Some nobles with ulterior motives maybe, but not ones out of sincerity. From people who know me. Hm."
"Is that a yes?"
"I would be out of my mind to say no," Diluc smiles again, this time wider than the last. "I am… simply glad that you're the first to do it."
"I am happy to be that as well," Zhongli hums, delighted. "Now, what was it that you said about playing music for me?"