123 » feeling lost and i don't know what to do now

[ironwind]

[They'd been interesting students, Aether and his sister — both had majored in history, with concentrations in sociology and ancient civilizations respectively. Not a common thing to study in today's day and age, but they had both been unwavering, unshakable in their decisions. They'd both excelled in their fields of study, as well: Lumine had chosen to focus her graduate thesis on Mondstadt's aristocratic area, putting her in touch with Venti, but Aether had written extensively about ancient Liyue, landing several remarkable publications in national science and history journals, all of which he'd run past Zhongli, department chair, for editing.

And yet, after graduation, Lumine had landed a highly respected archaeological survey in far-flung Sumeru, and Aether...

Aether, for some reason, had stayed behind.

Was there not enough room for two more researchers on the team? Had they just found Lumine the better candidate? More importantly, have there been no other opportunities for Aether since graduation? That's difficult to believe, given the quality of his graduate work, but it can't be denied that he hasn't seemed to have done much of anything in the field of history since he earned his degree. He's had no publications, no movements in his public profile; he doesn't even seem to be actively seeking employment.

In person, Aether's been vague about his prospects. Mysterious, even. And yet, despite everything, he's stayed in touch with Zhongli — stayed in touch with Zhongli and Zhongli alone, of all the professors he used to work with as a graduate student. He's gone to dinners and lunches and networking events with Zhongli; he's met him for coffee and tea and walks through local parks. It might be fair to say that they've moved past being professor-and-student and instead become simple colleagues and friends.

Case in point —]

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[ironwind]

[Zhongli could surely hire proper movers — but maybe that's too messy, too public for a man who is often as private and somber as an undertaker. Aether knows the man better than he himself would like to admit, so he doesn't ask any questions when he's asked to drop by and help his former professor move his things out of the home he's shared with his —

His wife? His girlfriend? Aether never quite got the full picture of who or what Guizhong was to Zhongli. But it doesn't matter now. He's not callous enough to ask.

What matters is that, for once, Zhongli needs his help. Dutifully, and without asking too many questions, Aether shows up in a rented SUV to help Zhongli move out of his home. Sighing, he pulls the key from the ignition, swings it into his pocket, exits the vehicle with leggy and practiced grace.

Zhongli is waiting on the front steps of his home — of the home that, pointedly, isn't a home anymore — and maybe that's the reason Aether deliberately softens his voice in greeting. It doesn't feel like a time to be loud and boisterous and boyish.]

Zhongli. Sorry, did you wait long?

[geosophic]

[ And it's not good manners, is it? Here he is, troubling one of his former students with the burden of helping lift heavy boxes taped meticulously and neatly, labeled on each side with a detailed, but hardly concise, list of their contents, of what could potentially fragile and what could be heartily thrown around. He should have gone with his instincts and hired movers--but they would have asked too many questions, would have said I've heard of that name before and done a quick Google search to find out all the lurid, harrowing details of his life, the tragedy that happened in this townhouse where he'd thought nothing bad could, or would, ever happen. The reason why he's moving? That's been blasted on gossip sites and the university chat board, discussed in hushed voices between students as they passed him in the halls on those final few days, visible in the sad, quiet looks from other professors as they struggled to tell him anything but the banal, trite well wishes for a good, relaxing vacation. What's relaxing about it? What could possibly be relaxing about being forced to rearrange his whole entire life in the small, insignificant amount of time the university gives for bereavement?

The new family moving into the townhouse know what happened--they aren't bothered by it. The crime scene cleaners did their due diligence, cleaned the whole study until it practically sparkled; it's a room that looks squeaky clean and unused, now, different from the rest of the place, like even the shadow of his sins has been scrubbed away, washed down the drain. He threw in all the furniture without any extra charge; they can put it in storage or sell it, even, he doesn't care so long as it doesn't follow him anywhere new. The sofa where Guizhong often sat to do her reading, the coffee table where he would meticulously serve them tea, the antique dining table, the bed frame, all of it: the only thing here for Aether, and himself, to move are the boxes, and even those aren't exactly numerous.

Maybe that's why he's sitting outside, despite how bad it looks, despite what manners dictate. Maybe this place isn't a home any more than it is the ghosts in a museum, haunted and hanging and daunting to look at. He needs the fresh air. ]

I hardly waited at all.

[ A lie, but a polite one: and there's a smile on his lips, easily shifted into place. He's practiced plenty of them, since the day it happened; this one may be his least convincing of all. ]

Shall we get to it, then?

[ The last thing he wants to do is go back inside, but it's a necessity, and he's always been a stickler for details--it's part of why he caught her to begin with, knowing precisely the sort of research he'd done, the sentences he'd written, enough to recognize without a doubt the plagiarism that she had been attempting, the way she'd been working so hard to publish his findings as her own before he could get to it. The fights, the backlash, and in dramatics, the suicide: all of it simply because he'd been such a narrow-minded fool to call her out on it. What would have happened if he had simply kept his mouth shut?

His hands smooth against the thighs of neat, pressed slacks, a dark turtleneck sweater tucked into it--the jacket he's got on is long and lightweight, silky like a trench coat and hitting just below the knee, and it shifts more solidly into place as he stands, climbs up the last two steps from where he'd been sitting and reaches for the door that's already unlocked to push it open. ]

I've gathered most of the boxes into the front room. It shouldn't be much, but I appreciate the help all the same.

[ironwind]

[Aether isn't callous enough to ask about the suicide, either — though in a way, maybe it'd be better if he did.

He'd never really spoken to Guizhong. An odd thing, really, when she'd been Zhongli's partner (life partner?) working in the same field if not the same university. But she had never seemed to be working on much of her own, and there were so many other things to speak about with Zhongli: hypotheses, new publications, speculation, the stories of ancient peoples long dead and gone. His family had never quite entered into it, and Aether, well, he'd been guilty of not really speaking about Lumine, either. Their relationship as teacher and student had been sort of innocent then, so focused on the pursuit of the work that other factors had not entered into it.

Secretly, he wonders if Guizhong had ever looked at the many appointments with Aether that Zhongli must have kept on his calendar, and seethed.

Not that he feels guilty, per se. Not that he thinks of himself as some kind of homewrecker, per se. If Aether thinks anything of the situation, it's this: no one commits suicide over a single disagreement. There were other things involved here — insecurity, inferiority, loneliness, envy. An admiration so intense it could very well have been hatred. Telling Zhongli this would be a mistake, though. It would make the situation both better and worse. It may be true that Guizhong brought an unspeakable violence to the end of their relationship, but telling him that she had probably suffered for years before what happened would only imply that he failed her as a friend.]

It's no trouble. I came because I wanted to help.

[Assessing the weight of his actions, Aether calmly steps over the threshold into Zhongli's broken home. He rolls up his sleeves to get to work. There aren't many boxes. Aether opts, as always, to move one labeled Books first. He doesn't have to look inside to know that Zhongli has probably thrown away several of those, too — maybe because he read them with her, or maybe because she'd left notes in each one, annotating descriptions and names and years in her fine, spidery print.]

Lumine says I'm due for a little cardio anyway. [What is he saying? He's not really sure. Trying to make some kind of small talk, some kind of distraction from the way they're trying to move the shattered pieces of Zhongli's life somewhere else.] Apparently I look pudgy over video calls. I —

[No, no, not like that, he thinks — they're not going to be honest with each other, if he keeps prattling on like this. In an instant, he's dropped the pretense, the forced, lighthearted cheer reverting into a more vulnerable concern. It's difficult, to be vulnerable and concerned. He doesn't want to force Zhongli to have to feel vulnerable, either.]

...Are you... going to be okay?

[Because he's obviously not, at least not right now — but going to, that's a different story.]

[geosophic]

[ Lumine: a beautiful name, for a beautiful sister, he imagines. Perhaps it's proof of his singlemindedness that he knows so little about her; it's not as though he hadn't known that Aether had a twin, no, he had spoken of her every once in awhile. In his due diligence of gentle research about his students, too, he had found the information easy and right at his fingertips. In some ways, Lumine was more talented than her brother, even, and in other ways, she paled in comparison; looking at her photograph in the university database did nothing to stir any sort of feeling in him except the polite interest in another academic who found the stories of ancient civilizations just as fascinating as he did himself, and yet she lacked something of Aether's flair, or perhaps they just found more in common.

Perhaps it had been wrong of him, to focus so solely on Aether; that's something that he can't change, now. Their friendship, or more accurately, in a sense, their relationship in terms of hierarchies--it had been the salve on many lonely nights, had helped him through many frustrations.

He wouldn't tell Aether this, of course. It would be something of a burden, he imagines: the kind of burden that would be there, too, should he tell Aether that his suspicions would be correct.

Guizhong had not been pleased with their friendship. She had even called it inappropriate, at times. He could never fathom it himself.

So when Aether goes for the box of books, something grateful sinks in him. He hadn't wanted to lift that box, anyway, to read the meticulous notes and see which books he had chosen to take away with him, and which books were no longer with him, sitting on the shelf of the university bookstore for reduced price. Used, they said, despite the pristine condition he kept them in. Maybe it's better to have gotten rid of them, in that case.

He reaches for a box with mostly supplies: things from his office, his desk drawers, things that are necessary but hold little meaning to him. Another box, of lighter things--sheets, pillows--he stacks on top of it, and is content to head towards the door again, always happier when focused on a task, when Aether speaks. ]

Of course I am.

[ There is an exhaustion in his voice: the answer is the cardboard cut-out of something flimsy, with nothing there to back it. He starts walking towards the door, his movements so automatic they look fluid, practiced. ]

There is no other choice.

[ironwind]

[He's so tired. So much more tired than he'd ever been during Aether's studies, dealing with narrow-minded school administrators or burning the midnight oil at the end of any finals grading session. And really, don't all those old problems pale in comparison to what he must be wrestling with now? A dead partner, a relationship broken beyond repair. The impossibility of rewinding the hands of time.]

Well. It's just — it seems to me...

[It seems to me, Aether says, and he hates his voice and his choice of words the minute they leave his throat: he has a kind of scholarly bent to his tone. In times past, their conversations were so lighthearted, so fun. Well, professor, it seems to me that the civilization at Sal Vindagnyr...

Now, nothing is very fun at the moment, but maybe it doesn't have to stay that way. The nature of life and of history is that all things come to pass.]

...that the other choice is — you could tell me that you're tired.

[The box is moderately heavy, but Aether doesn't make to move it to his rented car just yet. He stands still with Zhongli's burden in his hands, patiently looking at the man with his mechanical movements. He wishes, suddenly, that he wasn't carrying the box.]

And I... I would help you rest.

[geosophic]

[ The offer is kind: far kinder than any of the others that he's had, of late, though that isn't to say that others haven't tried. There have been those angry on his behalf--those who care for him a little too fiercely, perhaps, threatening to smear Guizhong's name just as much as his own, he fears, has been sullied--and those that have coolly, calmly, told him what to do with himself, who have helped walk him through the steps that have gotten him this leave in the first place. He's not ungrateful to any of his 'friends', if he might call them that, but he also hasn't felt compelled to show them anything beyond what he feels he must show: a calm face, muted with sorrow, but with the same steadying weight of a person capable of fixing things for themselves, eventually. No one wants to see him unable to return back to his old self--no one wants to look at him and think that this may, in fact, be the thing that breaks down the solid rock of his resolve to live, once and for all.

But Aether, by some miracle of kindness, seems to want to give him the space to fall apart: and he doesn't know at all what to do with it, doesn't know how to react or how to even admit to himself that all he wants to do is find himself on the floor of his new apartment with the blinds shuttered and the rest of the world locked away at a distance.

He's silent, in the moment, where he gently elbows the door back open, takes the steps down to the curb, and tucks the boxes meticulously into Aether's rented car; he's silent, as he climbs the stairs diligently, comes back in and finds Aether still standing there with the ridiculous burden of that box of books, and rather than reach to take anything different, he steels himself for the emotional turmoil and comes close, slides his arms in between Aether's and shrugs the weight of the box into his own grip, instead. ]

I am tired. [ He says, slowly--standing there, with his back curved to accommodate for the difference of height, his arms braced for the weight of the books, his face smooth, his golden eyes exhausted; he closes them, once, opens them again and then straightens, stands to his full height. ] But I would never ask that of you, Aether. You don't have to do anything for me, and what you do now is a kindness that I would like to repay as soon as I am able.

[ A nod, to Aether's feet. ] Perhaps that box, next. If you could.

[ And he turns to make his way to the door, again. Stubborn as stone. ]

[ironwind]

[Like stone unyielding, Zhongli presses on. He takes the box from his student when the young man finds himself at a loss for words to say and actions to take, and suddenly — quite acutely — Aether has to contend with a distance between himself and his professor which he's never had to feel before.

It's not for lack of wanting to bridge the distance. You don't have to repay me is what Aether wants to say, but he knows Zhongli well enough by now to know that the man never makes an offer he does not fully intend to fulfill. It isn't kindness so much as what's right is another thing that he would say, but after what happened with Guizhong, Aether suspects that Zhongli has little tolerance to hear things like wrong and right spoken of in such grand, sweeping terms. You can ask anything of me is something more desperate, but honest. I just want to help you is the most honest thing of all, but Aether will never say it for how desperate, how selfish it is. How pushy, for someone who might not yet be ready to accept that help.

In the end he says nothing, because of all the possible paths open to him, nothing seems to be the kindest thing he can do for Zhongli right now: offer nothing, say nothing, because anything else might be impressing the hurried expectation to get better that he, in his grief, is not yet ready to take.

But even so — even so. When they pass each other on the way to the car once more — Zhongli coming back in, Aether on his way out, carrying what he was asked to carry — the blond pauses. He reaches out. Very gently, balancing his box in one hand, he does something he's surely done a hundred times before: he tugs on the hem of Zhongli's sleeve to draw his attention, the way a very small child might attract his father's regard. And, really, maybe there were things that weren't entirely appropriate about it — when he was still a student, Venti often said things like aww, he's just a little puppy when he's with you, isn't he, Zhongli? and deep down, Aether knew what he meant — but it just happened, the same way all those appointments had happened: because it was easy, and fun, and they'd both been happier then.

Zhongli's sleeve is soft between Aether's fingers.]

...I'm here because I want to be.

[And that's it — that's all he has to say. There's not much more he can say but this, the reassurance that his time here isn't about have to but want to, and so Aether lets his hand drop back to his side before it hoists the box in his arms again, and he continues on his way to load up the car with those precious few things Zhongli thought he might need before he turns his considerable intellect to the impossible problem of closing this chapter in his life.]

[geosophic]

[ And it is like closing a chapter, isn't it? By the time they've cleared out the meager amount of boxes lingering in the front room, by the time he takes one last walk through the shadowed halls of a life that isn't his anymore, checking to ensure that he hasn't left anything behind, that the sets of keys are on the counter and that the lights are all off and that everything is in perfect presentation for the new family moving in, it feels as though he's reached the last page, read the last paragraph to a conclusion that isn't really a conclusion at all. The story should carry on, then, from that last page: but where is it to go? How is he supposed to find his way past it? He barely even has a title for this next chapter in his life: which begins, of course, with the steady drive from the luxurious townhouse to the quaint apartment building, where Aether sits in the driver's seat and he, uncharacteristically, sits prim in the passenger seat and looks out the window.

There is some level of embarrassment here, or at least he figures, there should be: the apartment is in a good part of town, fancy enough to suit his rather eclectic and particular tastes, but despite the beautiful countertops and polished wood floors, when he unlocks the door to the site of the new chapter of his life, there are no furnishings to speak of, no bed to lay in, no television to turn on in the background. The apartment is stark and empty: and even as they carry in all the boxes, stack them up neatly into the living room, his meager belongings only seem to make the dead space even more apparent. He knows Aether will be concerned about this; he doesn't say anything until they've carried in the last box, when he pats a hand against his own forehead, wipes a small bead of sweat from beneath the curtain of his bangs. ]

Don't fret. I can sleep on the floor for a few days.

[ The confidence in his voice is well-matched: even if he can't proclaim himself in a stable, good place, he knows that much, at least. He has, of course, endured much worse, especially in his youth during expeditions. ]

If there is nothing else... [ And is there? For a moment, his eyes lose their focus--calculating, he turns them back to Aether, steps closer to him in the cold of the apartment that has little life in it, and then reaches inside his jacket pocket. ] ...I should at least pay you for the expense of the rental. I should have covered it to begin with.

[ And how lonely is it, to think that this is how the next story of his life begins? With some level of shame, a wood floor to sleep on, the uncertain, quiet sounds of a place unknown to him cradling him into the night? He feels exhausted all over again. ]

[ironwind]

[The apartment is beautiful. It is also hauntingly empty. Aether's lived a paycheck-to=paycheck life before; he's worked enough odd construction jobs (always with skepticism from the more hardened men who thought he wasn't cut out for such work) to appreciate the evenly painted walls and the beautiful hardwood beneath his heels — but Zhongli's new apartment is entirely unfurnished, bare to make room for the person whose life would be coming into it, save for the fact that Zhongli's life is now shattered and lies in vague pieces at his feet.]

Zhongli...

[What is it that he should say? His fingers have reached out before he can stop himself; he wraps his fingers around Zhongli's wrist before the man can reach for his wallet. No, it's not about that right now, not about the money, as much as Zhongli would like to pretend that everything is normal, that everything is fine. There's nothing here that's calculated, not for Aether, who is only furiously adding and subtracting the information he sees

He has the terrible feeling that he can't leave Zhongli alone like this.]

...Let me stay here with you. [He doesn't try to force a smile.] My apartment's locked up, so it's no big deal.

[What is he thinking, really? It's all impulse, which is fairly uncharacteristic for him: Aether doesn't have anything on hand, doesn't even have clothes to wear to bed here, but he knows he can't leave. Can't leave Zhongli like this, so wrapped up in hurt and the doggedly stubborn desire to keep the world turning around him that he won't acknowledge his own clear need to make everything stop.

Something silly does occur to Aether then, something entirely absurd — something which he's certain, perhaps, Zhongli has never, ever done before — and it really does make him smile, boyish and genuine in a way that he hasn't been since he graduated.]

We don't have to unpack your things. There's a department store just a few blocks from here, right? [A soft little laugh, but he's entirely serious:] I'll buy a bunch of pillows and we can make a pillow fort.

[geosophic]

[ The hand that lands on his wrist: it's a gentle weight, a pleading weight, and while he would normally shrug something like that off, or at the very least, work with his other hand to carefully remove himself from the grip, with Aether, he can feel that it means something else. It's not about the calculation of what he is owed, or about stopping him from giving him anything in compensation--it's not even, ironically, about the money, or whether he feels awkward accepting it from his professor or whether he feels that it's a bad time to try to work it all out. It goes beyond that, he thinks, to a place where he feels as though Aether refuses him for his own sake: as though he feels like he has to take care of him, in some respects, and for that, he almost thinks that he should be ashamed of himself.

No matter their relationship, or worse, no matter his own feelings, he shouldn't be making Aether uncomfortable--he shouldn't be putting him a position where he feels like he has to do any more than he already has. Accepting the assistance with the move had been a mistake, he realizes; it opens doors that Aether should not be forced to walk through, leaves him standing in doorways where manners would dictate he cannot simply turn his back to them and walk away. Even as he relents, as his hand falls out of the side of his jacket, he feels Aether's warm fingers slip against the cool hem of his sleeve and thinks that just once, he would like to know what it feels like to be touched by them: not out of pity, not out of necessity, but the kind of touches that he should not imagine, the kind of touches that are not permitted, given their stations.

The smile is peculiar--the suggestion, too, even more peculiar still. For a moment he hesitates, thinks, narrows his eyes out towards the room and then, abruptly, lays them back onto Aether's face. ]

What is a pillow fort?

[ Whatever it is, it requires a dire amount of pillows--and that, he thinks, is not something he will simply let Aether take care of on his own. While his own childhood hadn't consisted of such things, he imagines that it is precisely as it sounds: that they will take an abundance of pillows and perhaps blankets and other things, and create some kind of boxed kingdom to sleep in for the night. It's a ridiculous notion, and yet--

He finds his lips turning up, slightly, at the corners, as he gently shakes Aether's hand off, like he'd imagined before, and reaches inside his jacket again. ]

...In which case, you will take my card. [ There is going to be no argument about it, especially not since he's already produced one, holding it between slim fingers as he hands it down to Aether. ] I'll see about ordering us a bit of dinner, while you're gone.

[ Is it right to let him go alone? Aether is not a child--far from it, but he still feels something tugging at him, like he should say or do something more to protect him. ]

Be careful. Do not get more than you are able to handle.

[ironwind]

[As expected, Zhongli has never had the childish, ridiculous experience of building a pillow fort before, and that, in its own way, is good: Aether will be able to show him, in actions if not in words, that life will have still more to offer him in the wake of his partner's death.

Smiling, he takes the card. He's not unaware that there's a joke to be made here, a crass one, maybe, in the vein of things that Venti would say. A slightly unkind and lascivious corner of his heart might say something like yes, daddy, whatever you say, daddy, but Aether, having not actually grown up with a father in his life, isn't so ridiculous as to actually say that out loud.]

I won't! Don't worry. I'm sure whatever you pick for dinner will be good.

[Dinner is good, since at least it's setting Zhongli's mind to things that don't involve Guizhong's suicide. Aether's not sure if the man intends to order pickup or delivery, but either way, he'll have to do things — he'll have to go out, or call, or even just input instructions into an app on his phone (is he even tech-savvy enough?) — and it won't be difficult, it won't be hard. It'll be mechanical and easy and comfortable, and that's all Aether wants for him right now: things that are easy and comfortable and full of life.]

I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? Don't worry. It'll be just fine.



[The pillows come in big, unwieldy parcels, kept together with lengths of stapled cardboard, but the duvets are a bit more vacuum-sealed, stuffed into the kinds of packages where they'll air out and fluff up after they're taken out of them. As such, Aether can manage the whole load of them on his own, and it's really very fun, balancing a big stack of pillows in his arms down the block and back to the apartment. A small child on the street pointed to him and said "Piwwows!" The doorman looked like he was stifling a laugh.

What's Zhongli going to do with the extra pillows and blankets afterward? Admittedly, Aether isn't entirely sure — but it doesn't seem like a bad idea to just get more. He didn't go into the bedrooms to see if Guizhong and Zhongli shared a conjugal bed, but in any case, after such a traumatic event, one probably wouldn't want to keep the sheets, and there's no harm in having new ones set aside in a closet somewhere, for guest use if nothing else.

When Aether bustles back into the apartment again, it's with a distinct sense of wintry cheer; his cheeks are slightly pink from the cold, and there's a chilly bluster about him, cold air wafting off of his skin. He's balancing several large parcels and bags in his arms, but all of it is big rather than heavy. Again, it's just blankets and pillows.]

Zhongli, I'm back!

[One could easily imagine him saying I'm home in that same sort of tone.]

[geosophic]

[ It turns out that his phone is good for more than just phone calls and the few errant text messages that he sends out from time to time: with Aether gone out on his pillow mission, there's a strange, uncomfortable emptiness to the apartment, the kind of emptiness that makes it feel as though he's taking in a lungful of cold, icy air instead of the stagnant chill of the apartment, and so he turns to his phone. The kitchen is bright, cabinets and countertops done up in beautiful white marble, and it's there that he bends, at the island, presses his elbows into it and holds his phone firmly between both hands; there are those at the university who have always tried to teach him of the wonders of food delivery, but he had never had to think of it. She had always--

No. Brows furrowed, he continues his search through the meager applications that he has, finds the one that's been installed on a whim, and settles into it.

It takes him an absurd amount of time to discover precisely how to add and take away things from the cart, but the result is this: there's Japanese food on the way, noodles and sushi and a container of mochi ice cream that he doesn't regret adding at all despite the cost, and it's with a self-satisfied look that he sets his phone down, as though it has done him the greatest service all day. And it's true, really, what Aether thinks: these small things, however ridiculous, help center him into the reality that is now, the reality that will be his for some time to come.

The sound of the door opening makes him straighten up, though it's only Aether calling out to him--at once he crosses down the hall, comes with long arms and firm hands to take most of the packages from Aether with a concerned click of his tongue. ]

You got more than you were able to handle. [ There's a scolding to it, but also a tease--and he's almost risking a smile, almost hiding it perfectly; he takes the bundles of pillows and deposits them in the living room, then reaches again as though there might be more to take. Instead, there's just Aether: his hands land on his shoulders, brushed against them, before he drops them away again. ] Ah. There you are. I thought I had lost you in all the down.

[ A small tease, but: at least it's something. And then, with a proud quirk of his mouth again-- ]

The dinner will arrive in twenty-seven minutes exactly, pending any traffic. It is being brought by a wonderfully beautiful woman, per her headshot on the application. Is that a typical experience with these delivery programs?

[ironwind]

[It's wonderful to see Zhongli in better spirits again — wonderful to hear the warmth in his voice, hear him scold and tease and almost-smile as he relieves Aether of his pillow burden. It makes Aether smile, bright as sunshine... even as his mind clouds with mild doubt.

(The mention of the delivery driver being a beautiful woman gives Aether pause. He doesn't think of Zhongli as the kind of shallow man who would immediately go for some sort of rebound conquest, no, but he finds himself wondering, very irrationally, if it's only beautiful women that can catch Zhongli's eye. It's an odd thing to wonder. It really shouldn't make a difference. Most men in Aether's life like women. This isn't anything unusual.)

The odd twinge of jealousy — he has no right to feel it. He swallows it down.]

You got a pretty lady? [A laugh, slightly forced, but mostly genuine.] Lucky. I always get middle-aged men.

[Relieved of his pile of down, Aether stretches, long and languid, then settles again. There isn't any kind of couch set up in the living room, so the young man sets about unpacking all the bedding from its protective packaging, evidently eager to build the pillow fort of which he spoke.]

She might come a little earlier or later than that, but that's pretty normal. I'm excited to see what you picked for us.

[geosophic]

It is something that I know you like.

[ --which is said with a confidence that isn't feigned, a confidence that speaks to the many times that they've ended up eating together, though usually in the midst of research discussions or the sort of idling wonder at certain historical debates that typically filled their interactions together. Even when they would step out of the school to dine in a restaurant, instead of the lush, rich comfort of his office, seated at the desk with take-out containers and wooden chopsticks, he would rarely think of it as anything more than a student being treated to a meal by their favored teacher; he had never really thought much of it, despite being teased about it.

Perhaps he should have considered that more, in the end. It would be shameful to admit thinking about anything beyond that sort of support; that may be why he has avoided that thought entirely, put up a roadblock there to prevent from ever venturing towards it.

Yet Aether looks so disappointed, almost, at the words--he has to stand there for a moment, watching him rip carefully into the pillow packaging, and all the plastic casing around it and the blankets, one hand pressed to the counter to balance his weight while the other lifts up to hold his own chin in thought. ]

Would you prefer it? [ He decides to venture, like an experiment; he moves away from the counter, crosses from the boundary of the kitchen to the living room and begins, neatly, to stack up the pillows that Aether has unpackaged, although they do not sit more than three high, toppling over if he tries more than that. What ends up happening is more a pile of pillows, rather than anything neat and tidy. ] Beautiful women, delivering your food.

[ There is no hint of a tease, or irritation, in his voice--on the contrary, he simply sounds contemplative, like he's assessing something about Aether, now. ]

Or is it something else?

[ironwind]

[Somehow this conversation has turned toward him. Aether panics. He feels as if he's in lecture hall again, being cold-called for something he isn't entirely prepared to discuss, and Zhongli knows full well that he was always capable of putting together an answer even if he knew little about the subject material, but this innocent question, it seems, is something he can't steel himself against.

It's not as though his head is empty. He can't focus on the question at hand because he's thinking three steps ahead, trying to figure out how this relates to the lesson material; he is trying to figure out what Zhongli's aim is, what this line of questioning is supposed to lead to.]

N-No, it's not like that. I...

[Why is this so hard to answer? Aether pauses in the middle of unfurling one of the brand-new comforters from its package. He shakes it out, trying to buy time, but he's short enough that it's easier for him to stand up than try to unfold it while he's sitting down.]

I... [And it's so halting, so slow, as if he's never had to say it before, or maybe just never even had to think about it —] Prefer men... I guess.

[Abruptly — maybe it's the playful nature that led him to suggest making a pillow fort with his beleaguered professor to begin with — Aether drapes the blanket over his head and back, like a cape, and then sits down, wrapping it around his body. Only his head is visible past the sheets. His expression is carefully neutral and blank.

He's never talked to anyone about this. Not Lumine, not any of his friends. He certainly never expected to talk about this with Zhongli of all people. And it wasn't as though they would have hated him — it just seemed like something that wasn't worth bringing up, no matter how many of his fellow students cajoled him to go out for drinks or attend raucous frat parties. It just seemed like something he didn't want to trust anyone with knowing.]

But I mean, everybody likes looking at pretty ladies. [Now a disembodied head, Aether looks vaguely at the floor, as if anticipating some kind of rejection.] So...

[geosophic]

[ It is likely a thing he shouldn't have asked--he realizes this only when Aether is in the midst of unfurling that blanket, but he can't go back and take the words away from himself, as much as he would like to. It's one of those moments where he wishes he had thought better of it all; it might have been a worthy experiment, certainly, and knowledge that he's grateful to have, but--looking at Aether's face almost forlorn, smothered in the wrap of the down comforter, he feels like some knowledge is better off being left undiscovered. Perhaps that is a terrible thing for a professor to think; then again, he hasn't been the best professor to begin with, but that is a private struggle that he should put aside, for now.

The pillow project is unmanageable, and he leaves them in the grand pile that they are, toppled on and around each other; instead, he moves closer to Aether, crouches himself down in front of him and looks at him for a moment, wondering.

What sort of a reaction is he expecting? Has he done this before? Admitted something like this, something he believes to be shameful, and has been met with disgust? Maybe even ire?

There is a small hint of a smile, a glimmer of reassurance, on his lips, before he shakes his head. ]

It is nothing to be ashamed of. [ --said, again, with that stone confidence, slow and measured. A part of him thinks it would be inappropriate to reach for Aether, as much as he wants to; his hand curls in at his side, where he remains crouched. ] I have never had a clear preference, myself.

[ It may be something else that is far too personal to admit to a student; then again, Aether knows everything. The world knows everything, now, and there is little that he can keep to himself. Perhaps it is better to start to volunteer the information himself, instead of waiting for it be pulled out of him. With another half-smile, he twists on his heels, moves to pick up another packaged comforter and rise to his feet to open it up.

The blanket unfolds as soon as he frees the plastic from it, which makes him laugh, a little--it feels like the first time he's laughed in such a long time. ]

How are we meant to arrange all this? I'll admit that I may have to follow your lead on this one, Aether.

[ironwind]

[At first, Aether doesn't outwardly react. There's a pause, but then it sinks in very slowly, the way he's been quietly accepted where he feared some sort of horrific rejection; it sinks in, what Zhongli has divulged to him. It tastes like something in his throat, but he can't identify the flavor. It's a little sour. It's a little sweet. Tart, like a lemon. Tender as sugar.

He swallows down on it. When he looks up, Aether's eyes sparkle with an innocent sort of hope — and it makes him look younger than he really is, though the way he laughs, vibrant and warm, is too knowing to be truly without sin.

And it's not, really, that he needed a role model; it's not as though he thought he was the only boy who liked other boys in the world. It's not as though he's happy that there's some kind of chance that Zhongli might like him too (though if Aether dug down deep enough, he might find that, admit it to himself, then hate himself bitterly for being selfish, and clutch that selfishness to his chest). It's just that it's nice to feel accepted, to not have to brace himself for questions about it. It's just that it's nice to see Zhongli smile, too, even if the circumstances are what they are.]

...We can arrange it however we want!

[His sweetness and light rediscovered, Aether grins, rising to his feet (his own blanket is still on top of his head) to help Zhongli gather up, and reposition, the blanket he himself just unfurled.]

But if you ask me, we should start with a comfortable space, and then build our way outward. Since we don't have a mattress, we can just lay down some of the blankets and pillows here to start us off. Now, I think we can both agree on the architectural advantages of a moat...



[The pillow fort emerges with the clumsiness of two adults attempting to be children, and a well-reasoned debate over whether the 14th-century civilization of Lingju Pass would have built turrets into their fortifications (they wound up grounding their pillow fort in historical context, somehow), but in the end, something takes shape among the feather pillows and down comforters. In the end, it is less about structure and more about imagination, about mutually agreed-upon rules and representations and letting themselves both be free of the restraints of the waking world.

Aether forgets when he changed into something more appropriately resembling sleepwear — he wasn't originally planning to stay, so he's just borrowed one of Zhongli's shirts for now, and pants were nowhere to be found among the still-sealed moving boxes — but, freshly showered from the completely unfurnished but working bathroom, he flops down into the pillow fort next to Zhongli, warm and smelling faintly of an unfamiliar soap. He slips his hands beneath his chosen pillow and then smiles.]

How do you fare, my liege?

[It's an open-ended question. He has, evidently, decided that Zhongli must be the emperor of their castle.]

[geosophic]

[ There is an urge--an unhealthy one, which eats away at the slim cover of comfort that Aether has managed to build around them, and around this place, to pull up the news on his phone, once Aether disappears into the bathroom for a bedtime shower and a change of fresh clothes. He should have planned to have more to offer, but as it stands, it is only what is left in one of his neatly-packed duffel bags that affords them anything to wear for bed--he lets Aether have his shirt, and he, in turn, opts to take the pants of the outfit. One of his robes, silken and long, seemingly ancient and yet in surprisingly good condition, has been rolled into the bag as well; he slips that on over bare shoulders, changes out of his day clothes and into the silken bottoms and settles himself, again, in the depths of the fort.

There's a pillow propped up beneath his head, and one of the comforters pushed down at his feet; he's feeling a little too warm to pull it up over himself in the semblance of a proper bed. He may let Aether have the whole thing, and simply sleep like this, on his back, undisturbed.

But the urge: it's tempting, to continue scrolling through all the different opinions and comments and speculation, around his life, to try to make sense of the way that some people say he must be to blame, or that he is to be pitied, the spectrum swinging wildly from one side to the next. For a long while, he listens to the foreign sound of water in a bathroom he isn't used to, echoing through to the living room--and eventually, stubborn, he switches his phone off entirely. He'll have to get up and charge it tomorrow; for now, he lays and looks up at the shadows of the haphazard form of pillows around them, as though trying to imagine Lingju Pass around them.

When Aether joins him, his gaze slides over, golden and warm, to look at him--and then back up above, to the high ceilings and the pillows that try to encroach on them. ]

If I am your liege, what would that make you?

[ He's certainly not above playing, but: of course he wants to try to speculate around making it as realistic as possible. A smile ghosts across his lips; he figures Aether will laugh. ]

Only a mistress would see such finery, isn't that right? Lavish bedding, beautiful silk screens...

[ironwind]

[Realistic scenarios and playful fantasy go hand-in-hand for Aether, who only laughs at the new role he's been given. The sunshine smile with which he fixes Zhongli betrays how content he is to be this fictional emperor's mistress, but he protests his casting all the same.]

A mistress? I think I'm too cunning to be a mere mistress.

[And yet, even as he says this, the young man takes on an exaggeratedly statuesque pose in their makeshift bed, putting his weight on his elbow, angling his legs and hips just so. Paint him like one of your girls from Fontaine, Zhongli. Despite the sultry pose, the wide grin on his face suggests that this really is — in the moment — only an extension of their play.]

How about this? I'll be your court advisor. At first, the reason I occupy your chambers from midnight to dawn is because we discuss matters of state and political concerns, but then we grow closer, more intimate...

[He's going too far, perhaps, but he doesn't think about it. Smiling, Aether reaches out and plants a hand over his former professor's ribs, walking his fingers up the man's chest and toward his neck in a playful facsimile of seduction —

— before his fingers walk off the "edge" of Zhongli's collarbone, and Aether softly snaps one finger against his palm to accentuate his point.]

...angering the concubines of your harem, who now scheme and plot to have me poisoned. What will you do to appease them, Emperor Zhongli?

[geosophic]

[ It's not as though he thinks that Aether has gone too far, but more that he worries that he himself has encouraged something that he shouldn't; there is no shortage of longing for touch, within himself, where Aether's fingertips brush up and walk their way along his bare chest, as though he can't recall the last time he had a private moment like this with anyone.

Certainly in the last of their days, Guizhong was not particularly receptive to touch or any sort of intimacy--and perhaps he made it all worse by locking himself in his study, drowning his thoughts into books and papers and the comforting weight of history, but this is the first time in a long time that he can feel himself find interest in the little licks of blossoming intrigue in the pit of his stomach. Careful, his gaze watches, his chin tipped down to follow Aether's path along his chest and towards his neck.

There, Aether's finger snaps against his palm, and he's pulled out of the fantasy. Or is it that he's pulled back into it? It's hard to say where their make-believe ends or begins, or what part of this is truly put upon, like some bid to make him feel better. He wants to lift up a hand and trace the slender bones of Aether's wrist, but he keeps his hands folded atop each other at his stomach; there's a considering hum, replaying the situation in his head for thought. ]

Must I appease them? If they seek to do you harm, then I will simply stand in their way.

[ It's a brave notion, but one that doesn't trouble him, or make him feel as though he's being deceitful; as emperor, he thinks he would take those sorts of risks. There is nothing to be had from small promises or bids that go nowhere, and for Aether, in particular, he doesn't see why he wouldn't. ]

I imagine they will dissolve their plot once they see that any attempt to poison you may end up with their liege poisoned instead.

[ And then, there's a break in his solemn expression, a small hint of a chuckle-- ] Although this is ridiculous. I don't think I would have a harem, would I?

[ironwind]

[Zhongli only half-chuckles, but it makes Aether outright laugh. Snickering into his pillow, the young man nods in defeat. Point raised and point taken, professor.]

No, I guess you wouldn't! It seemed like a good plot development, though. Maybe you inherited it or something.

[Do kings inherit their harems? Well, it hardly matters now. There's nowhere for Aether's hand to go but down. Somehow, he doesn't put it in the space between his body and Zhongli's. Instead, the tips of his fingers rest delicately over Zhongli's ribs; his wrist rests closer to Zhongli's sternum, and his hand is a little stiff, like he knows full well what he's done but remains too shy to splay his palm out over Zhongli's body.

He looks down, his gaze lingering vaguely in the folds of the sheets. Zhongli's staring at him, and while Aether's not unfamiliar with the intensity of his piercing golden eyes, he's not sure he can look into them and not have the guilt radiate through in his own expression. It's things like how he knows he's placed his hand ever so casually where it is on purpose; it's things like how he knows he can't take his eyes off the expanse of Zhongli's bare chest, but he's trying anyway. He's trying anyway.]

...Mm. You wouldn't have a harem. I... I always thought of you as the sort of man who would be wholly devoted to a single person.

[Maybe he's a horrible person in his own way, deep down.]

...Always thought that... whoever had you... was so incredibly lucky.

[What is he saying? What is he really trying to say? Does he even know? Does Zhongli? Maybe Zhongli knows —]