Chapter Text
He got home from work just before dinner, usually, and most of the time Zhongli would be standing in the kitchen over some soup in the pot, or handling the wok somehow, cooking something that smelled unbelievably appetizing.
But today he’d had to stay late, and picked up dinner and ate on the way home instead. It had been cold outside, nipping Ajax’s cheeks and nose into a ruddy blush, and snow dusted the shoulders of his coat and the tips of his hair. Zhongli was in the living room reading, wearing those slender tortoiseshell reading glasses that made him look even more unfairly handsome than he already was.
“A-Li,” he said, standing in the door. “I’m home.”
“Welcome home, Ajax,” Zhongli replied.
Ajax pulled his shoes off, put them on the rack, and then immediately beelined for the couch to try and melt into Zhongli’s side. Zhongli laughed at his eagerness and pushed him away.
“Bath first,” he said, and Ajax groaned.
“Come on,” he pleaded.
“Bath first,” Zhongli insisted.
When he came out of the bathroom, Zhongli had settled on the end of the couch next to the side table, with a plate of tangerines, his slim hands working to remove the peel in one piece. Then he took the fruit in his palms and split it in half, the membranes pulling apart, one half for each of their twosome.
Ajax went and curled up into his side immediately, closing his eyes and deeply inhaling the smell of Zhongli’s collar, silk-flower and incense and ink. His favorite smell in the world. It smelled like heaven.
Zhongli nudged him. “Sit up,” he said.
“Nnn,” grunted Ajax.
“Sit up,” said Zhongli again, and Ajax could not refuse, even as heavy as the bones in his body were. Groaning, he pushed himself off of Zhongli, only for Zhongli to sit right up against him, hips flush together, and to raise a slice of peeled tangerine to his mouth.
Ajax let him push the fruit into his mouth, teeth sinking into sweet flesh. The juice was tangy on his tongue. The sugar left his lips a little bit sticky. He licked it off, catching Zhongli’s fingers with his tongue when it returned to feed him another slice—his hand, too, was sweet with the fruit. He closed his lips around Zhongli’s fingers and sucked.
“Ajax,” said Zhongli, pulling his hand away with a soft pop. “I’m not edible.”
“But A-Li, you taste good,” Ajax said. Zhongli flicked him playfully.
“If you eat too much you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” he said.
“What does that even mean? No, I won’t.”
Zhongli rubbed his cheek with a thumb. “Listen to your elders, won’t you?”
“Not if they make any sense, I won’t.” Ajax licked Zhongli’s palm, and Zhongli laughed and pushed another slice into his mouth.
It was not his way to say things out loud with words. It was not the way to do things in Liyue, in general. Saying it out loud was too rash and strange and forward, a novelty that was directly translated from other languages where it was not so unusual. I, love, you. Three words.
But there were other words that sounded better, tasted better, looked better. Fruit peeled and fed by hand, sweet and sticky and tender in flesh. A warm apartment full of books and things and a warm bath with silk-flower scented soap. Leftover bamboo shoot soup and rice in the fridge, made hours before, just in case. Soft, firm hands toweling dry his wet hair, because he shouldn’t leave his hair wet, it’ll be bad for you. And questions, so many questions: are you hungry, have you eaten? Did you sleep well? Are you thirsty, do you want some tea? Is it too hot, should I turn the heater on for you?
I’m fine, I’m fine, he always told Zhongli. And then Zhongli would give him that soft look that felt as warm and wonderful as a kiss and say all right, then.
It was late, so they went to bed, skin against skin, back to chest, chest to back, fingers curled against the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Is this all right?” asked Zhongli. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes,” Ajax murmured as sleep took him. “More than fine.”
By Zhongli’s side, he could only ever be warm.