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He loved Guizhong in the way that he loves tea.
Quiet and subtle, to most at first glance. After the first sip—just a few moments with her—her personality would become apparent. She had a bite to her being, and a sharp wit and tongue. Zhongli never could quite keep up with her, even when he tried.
Guizhong understood mortals and their complexities. She listened to them and their whims. She loved their people of the plains, and as a result, Zhongli loved her. She was a warm hearth with calming words that soothed the soul, the perfect counterpoint to a war-torn god such as himself.
There was an order to their days.
They would wake and break their fast with tea. Guizhong liked medium-roasted green tea that was steeped just a little too long, leaving it slightly bitter. Paired with rice porridge, she claimed it made for a welcome morning.
Then, she would study; books, mortals, their Assembly that stretched wide before them. There wasn’t a thing that she wouldn’t consider or try to learn, and Zhongli would just sit and watch the way that she would light up with every new discovery.
She would share her idioms, and they would discuss them. Guizhong would contemplate the mortal equation, and Zhongli would just listen, never quite understanding, though that was perfectly fine.
Meals were quiet affairs, full of soft words and well-cooked food, courtesy of Marchosias himself. Guizhong and Zhongli would share osmanthus wine, and talk of military strategy, and the art of war because she wasn’t the kind of woman who spoke only of her interests.
Guizhong collected ruin guards. She tilled the soil with her own hands, and cultivated glaze lilies that glittered against her fingertips. And, when they would retire at night, they would sit on the porch of their modest home. Guizhong would lean against him, and sigh softly in contentment, and that would be that.
They were not married. He did not mate her, nor did he desire to. But he was fond of Guizhong, and he cherished her as his greatest and closest friend.
Zhongli did not blame her at the end, when she laid among her glaze lilies, blood bubbling from her throat. And even with her head in his lap, and Zhongli petting through her hair as she told him to forget about that damned dumbbell, he couldn’t find words. He didn’t know what to say.
He never got to tell her goodbye.
#
He loved Retuo in the way that he loves war.
When Zhongli was young and stupid, he found comfort in his power. It wasn’t that he wanted to wage war—he had no choice—but even then, he delighted in his ability to protect others. When given a world of lemons, he chose to make lemonade, as Guizhong would say. There wasn’t a point in refuting the pleasure of standing above everyone else upon a leveled battlefield.
But that soured with every day that passed, and eventually, Zhongli was left feeling obsolete because what use is a god of war and contracts, when he wins the wars he fights, and his contracts lose their shape?
He felt a pulse of Geo, a fluttering little creature who only wanted to see the world. Zhongli’s hand dipped into the earth and cradled this small life, and with a contract of friendship, he crafted him eyes.
Retuo was loyalty incarnate, the sort of close companion and brother-in-arms that most cannot fathom to know. They spent their days knocking back finely distilled alcohol and swapping old stories from the front. They’d relive those moments deep into the night until they staggered back to Zhongli’s home, collapsing onto the soft pile rugs, and roaring with laughter.
Zhongli does not miss the terrible headaches in the morning, but he does miss the way that Retuo would quietly cook breakfast even though he wasn’t very good at it.
But, even creatures like themselves, blessed with eternally-long lives and a lot of time in their palms—do not live forever.
Zhongli watched as Retuo broke down with each and every chip off his stony shoulders. Erosion, he called it, because how else could it be described? There is so little that wears away stone, something that Zhongli knows better than anyone else. And even he isn’t immune to it, even he feels the tug of weariness and age in his bones.
It just got to Retuo first, and he crumbled into dust that slipped right between Zhongli’s fingers.
Time and the power that rests in Zhongli’s hands are what brought his downfall. Retuo was sealed away with heartache and regret, Zhongli’s palm pressed flat against the carefully woven spell. A contract with himself, and the land of Liyue, one that left a bitter taste in his mouth.
They did not date. He loved him, sure, and trusted him above all; but he wasn’t in love which left the pain a little bit dull. Easier to manage in a strange sort of way.
Zhongli got to say goodbye, but it meant so little because Retuo could not comprehend.
#
He loves Childe.
That is it, Zhongli just loves him to the ends of the earth. There is nothing else; only the smell of the ocean and the worn leather of Childe’s gloves. Those devilishly keen eyes and that rapscallion smile.
It has taken six thousand years, but Zhongli finally understands. There are different types of love, and while the average person might experience many of them, very rarely will they come to know this.
Childe is the completion of his being, his end-all, and everything. Zhongli was going to retire—and not the type of retirement that a shopkeeper talks about when it becomes too hard to stand on their feet during the day. Creatures as old as he have a choice this late in life, and that is whether or not to leave it with dignity.
Zhongli had prepared for it: a trial and a test; the death of a god and his funeral; the quietness of his Serenitea Pot, pulled from storage, swept and dusted with care.
Then Childe crashed into his life like a tide against a rocky beach. Zhongli has never wanted another so wholly. He has never felt the need to claim another, the way that he has claimed Childe, and it still isn’t enough.
It doesn’t matter how many lunches they share, or how many nights he spends curled against Childe’s back. The whispers against his ear, or the way Zhongli drags his fingers through his hair—he cannot lose the peace that he has finally found.
Childe is stubborn in all that he does, so when Zhongli confesses this, he laughs. Kisses Zhongli’s forehead and tugs gently at his ponytail. “It’s a good thing, then,” he says, “that I intend to become a god.”
Most would think he is joking. Zhongli knows that he is not, so he kisses Childe’s knuckles with lips that linger, the both of them melting into the touch.
They skip the dating because Zhongli crafts him a ring made of stone, and asks Childe to marry him instead. Zhongli takes him as a mate, despite knowing that it’s a decision that lasts a lifetime. It is bliss, this retirement he has found. He spends his days watching Childe, and kissing that ring that sits stubbornly on his finger.
Zhongli hasn’t said goodbye yet. He doesn’t want to, not that Childe will let him.
“What are you thinking about?” Childe’s voice is quiet in their dark room.
Zhongli leans closer, pressing his nose to the back of his neck, inhaling deeply. “Nothing,” he says softly.
It isn’t an outright lie. There is no use in worrying about a teacup that is half full. He’d much rather live in the moment.