||20+|| Multi-Fandom Blog. NOT Spoiler Free. Mostly games, and whatever strikes my fancy. Feel free to shoot me an ask. Don't worry, I don't bite, much (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞
Yet another post that reads like four shakespeare characters who come out in the middle of the play to talk about something completely unrelated for comic relief
I’m sorry but the THOUGHT that has been put into this, I actually CAN’T—
The fact that nearly every line is so metrically considered- near perfect iambic pentameter witb the occasional trochee for emphasis, but usually retaining a strong sense of rhythm nonetheless. And then the king comes in at the end, so wound in his disbelief that his response is reduced to prose.
And the even better thing about this is how easy it would have been to structure the king’s line into iambic pentameter: it is effectively already said as such because of the way wizardlyghost has phrased it, yet they haven’t!! They did not break the line, rendering what, by all typically of both Shakespearean canon and other periods context should be the character with the most command and authority in the whole play. If there was ever a more effective way to convey a genuine “what the fuck??”, I know of it not.
But it gets better!! Shakespeare regularly uses meter in order to represent class divide; the nobility usually speak in iambic pentameter, save for a few particularly chosen moments (e.g. Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness, Othello’s realisation of Desdemona’s “betrayal”) or just lines where Shakespeare needs to suggest high emotion or when a character is lost in thought. Supernatural characters like the fairies in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Witches in Macbeth usually speak in trochaic tetrameter, an inversion of iambic pentameter. Lower class characters, particularly those used for comic relief (usually under the influence of alcohol), speak with no structure at all: their language is plain prose. Therefore, if this is a conversation between these types of characters, as the prompt from silvergirachi suggests, why the hell are the characters speaking so eloquently???
Now, this is Tumblr. It is subsequently logical to assume that this may have merely been a humorous recreation (and a very good one at that) of the Shakespearean style in a way that is widely recognisable to an audience that may or may not have read a great deal of Shakespeare, which is understandable. However, logic is boring so I’m going to probe further into this to the point where future historians will look to this as an example of overanalysing.
The inherent eloquence of the characters here suggests an unusual subversion of the roles typically assumed in Shakespearean comedy. This could be interpreted along two major avenues: firstly, that the rhetoric displayed by the speakers is fundamentally representative of how truth can be expected even from the most seemingly pointless or ludicrous discussions. Furthermore, it could suggest that it matters not how well constructed your speeches are: if you talk bullshit, it’s going to sound that way despite your attempts to hide it.
This is similar but not identical to the second avenue of interpretation: there is the implication that the noblemen in the play are in fact the comic relief characters, therefore implying that the “common people” of the play are the ones whose influence, though not expressed in such a highly spoken manner, makes a lot more sense than whatever the hell this is. If this was a real Shakespeare play, I would call it a subtle exploration into the innate corruption of the rich and powerful. Well done, op.
Now, I doubt any of this is actually grounded analysis in any way, shape or form, but if someone else can take this to the extremes of writing a Shakespearean scene, why can I not analyse it as such? And where else to do so than Tumblr?
“Stick a mug on a stove” prompted some images and thoughts which I’ll keep to myself, because I Am Nice.
I’m also wondering what kind of mug could be put on a stove without cracking, because I Am Curious.
*****
For a very long time Americans in general didn’t know how to make a proper Cuppa (a term more specific than you might think) and in general didn’t care, regarding the water temperature of Boston harbour as more than adequate and anything hotter as effete European posturing, probably decadent, potentially sinful and possibly even unAmerican.
The US national hotwet is coffee, with quality that varies wildly from the pleasing products of a good barista or anyone else who Takes An Interest, to the stomach-souring bitterness of free refills from a drip-jug left stewing on its hotplate for far too long.
I’ve sampled the full range, and badly made American coffee is yuck while badly made American tea is just meh. Meh is better, but not by much.
*****
This may be because the US still has no clue about how much difference the difference between “hot water” and “boiling water” actually makes when making a Cuppa - as demonstrated by this review page about The Best (US) Electric Kettles of 2021.
The article goes on about…
“…digital temperature controls, automatic keep-warm functionality, and even water temperature recommendations based on the type of tea you’re drinking.”
…but seems not to get that the Primary Function of any electric kettle is to boil water faster than a kettle on the hob.
Yet for some weird reason the review doesn’t state how long their test water - 1 litre at 55°F - took to boil in a stovetop kettle. This is a serious oversight, since it has far more relevance to the main stovetop vs electric comparison than any amount of “special features”.
The review - I may be reading it wrong - seems to regard electric kettles as unusual, maybe even a bit eccentric. Over here they’re seen as essential to a hot drink as the mug it goes in, and a basic no-extras kettle…
…can cost as little as €7.99, about $9.44. By contrast, the cheapest on the review list is $23.60 (€19.97).
Okay, fair enough, US electric kettles running on 110-120v are at a disadvantage compared to EU and UK kettles running on 220-240v, but the review lists two US kettles with a difference in boiling time of of 3 minutes 30 seconds, and that’s just… Let’s say “ridiculous” and leave it there.
*****
Just for fun, I did a few tests.
The review’s fastest kettle brought their test water to a boil in 4 minutes 12 seconds, notably slower than what we’re used to here. The slowest was heading for double that, a glacial 7 minutes 42 seconds or nudging eight minutes in old money - yet it’s “still faster than it would take a kettle to boil on most stovetops”.
I’m betting an average stove-top kettle takes generous double figures, since - using saucepans that fitted almost exactly over the rings of our ceramic hob - that 1 litre of 55°F water boiled in 10 minutes 34 seconds (small pan / 1200w ring) and 7 minutes 21 seconds (large pan / 1700w ring).
This is evidently fast for a stove-top, remembering that almost eight minutes was “still faster … than most stovetops”. A gas burner is probably even faster (it heats the kettle directly, rather than by conduction like electric hobs) but I don’t have the facility to test that.
By contrast, our nothing-special no-extra-features (3000w, €38.43 / $45.40) kettle boils the same 1 litre from 55°F in 2 minutes 37 seconds.
(The ultra-basic one shown earlier - 2200w - would do it in about 3 minutes, making the ~5 minutes of far more expensive models in that review look a bit silly.)
The Cosori in the review is closest match to ours, but took ”about 5-and-a-half minutes to boil”. Not so hot. Well, all right, the same 100°C / 212°F hot, but in more than twice the time.
Our kettle’s full capacity is 1.7 litres, but it also has a Single-Mug fill line (either side of that green dot) which is 300ml.
This boiled from 55°F in 45 seconds. Impressive, and also useful if you need some boiling water in a hurry for any reason whatsoever.
The hob boiled 300ml in 3 minutes 53 seconds, our microwave at 800w full power did it in 4 minutes 23 seconds.
A microwave is the last thing I’d use for heating a large amount of water, but for completeness I tried it with the usual 1 litre of 55°F water, where a boil took 15 minutes 32 seconds. Deeply unimpressive.
*****
Funny stuff, tea. For something that can be very bland, it prompts passion.
On the first night, the girl had brought him tea. Bond had looked at her severely.
“I don’t drink tea. I hate it. It’s mud. Moreover, it’s one of the main reasons for the downfall of the British Empire. Be a good girl and make me some coffee.”
From then on he had got his coffee.
(”Goldfinger” 1959)
That “downfall of the British Empire” crack suggests young Fleming was skiving off during both History and Geography lessons, since tea played a large role in British acquisition of India and interference in China.
Here’s a Buzzfeed article called “17 Ways You’re Drinking Your Tea Wrong” which is a farrago of snobbish, condescending mistakes from top to bottom, starting with the title. (It vexed me, can you tell?)
I may be drinking YOUR tea wrong, Kate dear, but I’m drinking MY tea just the way I like it. So put MY cup down and back off.
Personal preference is what counts with any food / drink variation. Whether it’s tea (black, milk, lemon, green, bubble), coffee (black, cream, sugar, drip, press), fries (ketchup, mayonnaise, vinegar, salt), whiskey (rocks, splash of water, neat), etc. etc., if the “proper” way is different to “my way” then give the proper way a chance to see why it’s proper.
But ultimately the food / drink is being eaten / drunk by you, not by the person holding forth. They can do it their own way, so be nice and don’t quibble with them about that, either. Though if they say, “Not that one, it’s got the arsenic in it,” you might want to pay attention…
Some Big-Name writers have weighed in on the topic of How To Make A Proper Cup Of Tea: George Orwell; Christopher Hitchens; Douglas Adams - eccentric to the last, Douglas uses Earl Grey for his example; I have Opinions about Earl Grey, one of which is that it’s not the tea most people would go to for their standard milk-and-two-sugars cuppa.
(Also, I don’t like it. Lapsang Souchong smokey tea is equally unusual, but I do like that. Blame a fondness for smoked stuff, including smoked beer…)
Still, after tea-drinkers in the US get accustomed to electric kettles, they can move on to more important problems, including The Great Question.
Milk in first or second? (Second, of course. Otherwise, how can you tell if you’re adding enough…?)
specifically, if anyone wants more info, there was a trend among the hip youths of Boston in the 1830s whereby they would intentionally misspell words and then make acronyms from the incorrect spellings. these included “K.Y.” for “Know Yuse” (no use), “O.W.” for “Orl Wright” (alright), etc.
but somehow, the one to make it to nationwide- and later worldwide -prominence was the humble “O.K.” for “Orl Korrekt.” the trend died and was eventually mostly forgotten, but it gave us one of the most frequently-used words in the English language
source
(note for writers: while O.K. technically existed as far back as the 1830s, it didn’t start appearing in serious conversations until around the mid-20th century. so no, Jo would not refuse Laurie’s proposal in Little Women with any statement involving the word “O.K.” unless she wanted her refusal to have the tone of...I don’t know, “lol, take the L, bestie.” it was slang, for casual or joking or sarcastic use only, until relatively recently)
hazel would like to share with you some – adulting tips!!! – (or those living on their own)
1. keep track of important documents - seriously. put them in a place digitally or paperly (i keep my tax documents in a folder inside of a bag in my closet - it’s tucked away and I always put it back in the same place every time I use it)
2. use lastpass.com (or something similar but is SUPER secure) for all your passwords – keep that organized and put in all the information you need in order to get into your stuff (the amount of things you need to log into … its too much to remember)
3. it’s okay to get stressed out over tax forms (USA peeps, i’m looking at you), legal documents, and other stressful applications - complete complicated forms in doses, and don’t give up!
4. keep your medical information handy (I made my own medical book. it tracks all my doctors, visits, appointments, and random things that happen throughout the year (even medical bills) – since I get sick a lot, it’s important to track that!)
5. going to advanced school/college - don’t take out all the loans people offer you! be thoughtful, do a little math/research, and consider your options first (in the USA it’s predatory, and you will overpay :Sob:)
6. drink water, take your medication, go on a walk, wash your face, take care of yourself – you are important and even though it’s hard, you got this!
summary: if there’s anything you can expect to be consistent in life, it’s that everything has an end. or — genshin men and how they are after you break up with them.
note: angsty in everyone’s part, but it got too lighthearted in childe’s bc i simply cannot take that ginger seriously (affectionate)
ALBEDO
There aren’t any notable changes to his routine. He’d still go about his day, working on his experiments and scribbling down notes, occasionally taking a break to sketch a pretty flower he saw or the wing pattern of a passing butterfly.
And then he finds himself drawing the outline of an eye, then a nose, then lips. Until he suddenly stops in the middle of drawing a strand of your hair blowing in the wind, your face frozen in a smile staring back at him through the canvas of his sketchbook.
It hits him then, the realization, the heart-wrenching clarity of what happened that leaves him sitting in his chair, staring at your face in paper and wondering where he went wrong.
He tries to distract himself by continuing his research, but his mind has a hard time focusing on what needs to be done. It’s agonizing, he doesn’t think he’s felt this way before, never even thought he’d ever feel such pain. In a way, he’s glad his master isn’t here to make a study of what emotional pain means to an artificial human like him.
He sees you two weeks after you broke up with him, laughing as you tried to haggle with a merchant for their wares, unaware of the charm you exude that draws people in like moths to a flame. But then your gaze moves, searching through the crowd—and Albedo should really leave now, avoid barging into your life because there simply isn’t a place for him there anymore—but he does none of that.
Your eyes meet. He doesn’t think he was imagining it when he saw yours dim for the briefest moment. (His heart hurts. Why are you looking at him like that?)
You make your way through the busy street to reach him. He tells himself he should leave, but for the first time in his life, he does what contradicts his logic and stays.
“You look good,” you tell him, something melancholic in the tone of your voice. Oh, if only you knew.
“You as well.” He wants to say more, wants to say how radiant you looked under the sun, the light hitting you in just the right way that has him itching to grab a pencil and immortalize the image in paper—but he holds his tongue. “I need to go.”
Your face falls. He wishes he wasn’t the cause of it. “Ah, right. You must be busy, as usual.” There isn’t a hint of bitterness to your voice, just resignation.
He leaves after bidding you goodbye, feeling the heat of your gaze at his back as he walked away.
CHILDE
He wants you and he will do everything in his power to have you back.
In the early days after you broke up, you won’t hear a word from him. Not a peep. You only hear passing news that dead monsters and hilichurl camps near the vicinity of your home have been utterly eradicated. Passing travelers claim how the areas were ‘strangely flooded’ even though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
Then come the gifts. From flowers to clothes to accessories to different delicacies that are all worth more than your entire life’s paycheck. And when that doesn’t work, Childe sets to work on his recruits.
You suddenly find yourself constantly being approached by a startling amount of Fatui recruits ranging from normal lackies to gunners to cicin mages, and even that one memorable time when a mirror maiden approached you in the middle of buying groceries and proceeded to buy everything in the store, saying all of it was for you.
The Fatui recruits had one thing in common: they all had nothing but praises to say for the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.
“Master Childe defeated all the recruits in under ten seconds!” “Have you heard how Lord Harbinger killed twenty geovishaps and came out without a single scratch?” “I saw him buying that exact same shirt yesterday, it cost one million mora! He’s so rich!” “Lord Tartaglia has been so down lately. He keeps saying how much he misses his beloved.”
“Did you know? Even Lady Signora wept after she heard that you and Master Childe broke up.” That one, you’re certain never actually happened, and you made sure to tell that with an unimpressed look to the pyro agent who told you. As if Signora would ever cry, she’d probably throw a party for you for finally leaving Childe.
In the end, after cycling through so many recruits, he had no choice but to come to you directly.
…Which is how you woke up at six in the morning to the ground shaking and the sound of an eerily familiar laugh right outside your house.
You open your window to find Childe fighting a lawachurl right in front of your house, a ring of Fatuus surrounding and cheering him on. His smile brightens to an almost comical degree once he sees you and your bedhead squinting out from a window.
“You look so stunning today, beloved!” He steps back from an earth-shattering punch by the lawachurl. “I’ve brought you the biggest lawachurl I could find so I can show you how worthy I am of you!”
He then proceeds to—and you have to blink a few times to see if you’re not hallucinating—fist fight the lawachurl. And he’s actually winning. No vision, no weapon. Just his bare fists.
When the commotion wakes up your entire neighborhood, you have to go down there and yell at him to stop or take this fight somewhere that isn’t right in front of your house! He complies with a grin and a promise saying he’ll meet you later.
There’s something fond curling in your chest that you try and fail to smother. With an exasperated tone, you tell him that yes, you’ll find time in your busy schedule to meet him. He lights up like you just agreed to marry him and yells out rapid orders in Snezhnayan to his recruits.
“I’ll see you later!” He blows a kiss in your direction that you ignore. You turn away and walk back into your house, trying (and failing) to fight the growing smile on your face.
DILUC
It’s not evident to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but Diluc takes it close to heart and buries it among countless other regrets that have accumulated in his life. The turbulent feelings that threaten to overcome his mind at any hour of the day manifests itself in him becoming more withdrawn.
He’s gloomy, more brooding than usual, and the reason becomes apparent once the other patrons notice the lack of a certain person who usually sits by the bar during his shifts. Your usual laugh accompanied by teasing grins and playful swats at his long hair when you think no one is looking are nowhere to be seen.
One particularly drunk person had come up to him as he was wiping down the counters and asked why you weren’t there. Anyone who had been there to see the sight would tell you that he didn’t say anything, hadn’t been able to say anything. He just… stood there, hands frozen mid-motion and eyes drawn somewhere, lost in thought.
He slips up sometimes. Asks the maids to prepare a dinner for two only to stop in the middle of talking as he realizes what he just said. At breakfast, he pauses in the middle of reading his daily papers to turn his head to the right, a question on the tip of his tongue that dies when he sees the empty spot you usually occupied. It’s the pitying gazes that follow when he slips up that he hates the most.
He makes your favorite drink sometimes, on the days when he’s on shift and feeling particularly self-destructive. It stays hidden under the bar counter, hoping against hope that you’ll walk through the door and greet him with an upbeat ‘good evening!’ that makes his day all the more better. You never do.
It’s on a bright, sunny morning when he’s out overseeing the delivery of wine to the tavern that he sees you again. His heart soars for all but a second before it comes crashing down, because Diluc Ragnvindr does not deserve nice things.
You’re holding the hand of some nondescript man, grinning and laughing and emitting such a great sense of contentment that he can almost feel it from where he’s standing meters away from you.
You’re happy. It’s been months and he’s still wallowing in old hurts. You’re happy.
Did you ever smile like that when you were with him? He likes to think so, but the realistic, pessimistic thought is that you’re probably better off not being with him. You’re happy. Happier now than you were when you were with him.
Everything he’s ever loved has been hurt directly and indirectly by his hands. He turns away from the sight of you and pretends to be preoccupied with his task. Maybe it’s for the best that you left before it could happen.
KAZUHA
He tries not to take it to heart. He understands why you left, knows it before you even made the decision to leave. And in the aftermath, much like a leaf adrift in the wind, he roams about aimlessly, lost in thought.
Grief is not an emotion he’s unfamiliar with. As he sits by the cliffs overlooking the endless ocean, grief burrows its way to his chest like an old, unwelcome friend. He doesn’t fight it. He’s learned the hard way that fighting it is a losing battle, like picking at a scab, hoping that doing so will make it heal faster, yet only succeeding in worsening the wound.
Kazuha isn’t a stranger to loneliness, of letting the wind kiss his tears away as they dried on his cheeks. He is, however, unfamiliar with this new kind of ache in his chest. And only after much rumination does he conclude what it might be.
The loss of his family, the loss of his heritage, the loss of his friend, and now, the loss of his lover. A master of loss, he could almost call himself. His old friend would certainly find such a title amusing.
He finds himself writing letters to you, even with the knowledge that he’ll never be able to send them to you. It’s the thought that comforts him, the pretense that he still has someone to tell of his travels, someone to simply come home to, even when he knows he isn’t welcome anymore.
In his weakest moment, when he had too much to drink and too little self-restraint, he sends one of the letters to you. He’s forgotten whether it’s the one where he laments the loss of your presence, the one where he begs you to have him back, or the one where only three words are written, a small blot in the ink where a stray tear had fallen.
He waits, and waits, and waits a little more, staying for a whole month in the small village he’d addressed the letter from for the small, improbable event that you may have written back. He learns later on that the letter never made it to your hands. The ship it had been on had lost all its cargo to the sea, including his letter. When he heard the news, he hadn’t known whether to be relieved or lament on what could have been.
It isn’t unpleasant to see you again. Kazuha has had time to let go of his hurt, but still, the image of your nostalgia-inducing eyes leave in him a sense of loss he thought he had already settled. Your mirage smiles, “Kazuha.” Had he been a weaker man, he would have folded and swept you up in his arms.
Nobody asks why his eyes have a slight sheen to it after he forces himself to walk away from you. He stands atop the beach and lets the waves wash over his bare feet, closing his eyes and imagining what could have been had he let himself succumb to the desire of holding you one last time, even if you were merely a mirage from the past.
Truly, the golden apple archipelago is a place where dreams are made into reality.
SCARAMOUCHE
He tries to act above it all, feigning indifference as if the entire thing is just a mild inconvenience to him.
Oh, you’re leaving him? That’s fine, he doesn’t care. Do you know how many people would kill to share his bed? You were tolerable, a way to pass time. Don’t think you were anything special. You, a normal person? Don’t make him laugh. You were nothing more than a pet he kept because you entertained him. It’s good that you’re leaving, actually. It saves him the trouble of having to get rid of you.
He’s… not very kind about it all. Defensive and on guard, hackles raising with every word that comes out of his mouth. He hates every second of it, but he can’t stop because stopping is to admit defeat, it means having to acknowledge that you meant something to him after hundreds of years of loneliness. He let you in his carefully guarded walls, and now—now you’re leaving him? Abandoning him after he bared himself open to you?
You are just like her.
Scaramouche stops before he can say those last words. The red that had been threatening to overcome his vision slowly recedes, leaving a numbing sort of clarity that washes over him like the rising tides of Inazuma’s beaches. His mouth feels dry, throat closing up.
There are tears streaming down your face.
He wishes you’d do something. Hit him, yell at him, curse his name. Anything. Just… anything but this silence that hangs heavy in the air, cloying in it’s thickness and threatening to drown him with words that can never be taken back.
He doesn’t apologize, won’t ever apologize. He is a god, and not even you would make him say those damnable words. He sees the way your eyes dim in understanding as you realize the same thing, and that, perhaps, is why you turn your back to him and walk away.
He wishes he could say that he called out for you, that he grabbed your arm and made you stay, that he just… held you. Instead, he watches you leave him, face blank and a phantom ache resonating in his hollow chest. The silence after you leave feels like the night before his creator abandoned him.
He tells himself it’s fine, that you’ll come back. You always do. This is just one of many arguments that always get resolved after a day or so—except. Except, he doesn’t let himself think of any other possibility. You’ll come back. (You have to.)
The months following your absence is a blur, spikes of irritation mixed with hateful words and barbed insults directed towards anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way. His subordinates are half-contemplating desertion just to escape his wrath. They all wonder where you’ve gone. You’re usually the one who soothes the Balladeer when he’s in one of his moods, like the godsend that you are. Though none of them are brave enough to mention your name after what he did to the foolish recruit who asked of your whereabouts.
Years pass. You never did come back.
He still gets the occasional reports about you and your general wellbeing, still sends out his best soldiers to clear out any monsters who’ve settled near your home. You never find anyone else after him. It brings a strange sense of relief in him when his monthly reports on you end up without a hint of a new lover.
He tries to forget you, but even with a new heart and the ascendance to godhood, there is still a lingering sense of loss and past regrets.
XIAO
He lets you go without argument. He’s used to people leaving him, but this is… different.
The thought of you there, physically within reach yet unable to to cross the distance that separates you from him. It’s a different kind of agony from the ones that have afflicted him for millennia.
He sometimes finds himself standing by the balcony of Wangshu Inn, eyes roaming over the vast landscape of Dihua Marsh, looking for the slightest hint of your silhouette. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs always attracts his attention, anticipating your signature greeting and the smell of whatever mortal sustenance you’ve deigned to make for him to, as you once put it, let him experience the delicacies that this world has to offer.
You can’t call yourself ‘having lived a long life’ if you haven’t tried all the tasty food, Xiao!
…He misses you, though he will never admit it, perhaps not even to Rex Lapis himself.
His time—which once consisted of you, killing monsters, you again, roaming the lands for the remains of old gods, tasting whatever you cooked for him, and accompanying you so you can get home safely—is now comprised of nothing but endless slaughter. He tells himself it’s not a distraction, but it’s a thinly veiled excuse, weak even to his own ears. How low he has fallen to create such feeble excuses to justify the hurt that spreads from his chest to the tips of his fingers.
He used to pick up small things and trinkets in his time scouring the land for evil. A shiny pebble that reminded him of your eyes, a particularly large sweetflower that you would gape comically at once he showed you, qingxin flowers he plucked from the highest mountains just so he can see the way your face lights up in a smile. He still does all these things, only now, the objects are stored in a realm made in the likeness of your home, placing each one in a shelf or table that he thinks you would have arranged them in.
One time, he panics when he sees the flowers start to wilt, and in the heat of the moment, he placed adeptal power in them to ensure they will never die. To this day, he isn’t sure why he did so, only that he imagined at the time how upset you would be that they died in his care, even though he knows how unlikely it is that you will ever discover his hobby of collecting flowers and storing them in his realm.
Perhaps he hopes you’ll come back to him, so that when you do, he can see the way your eyes brighten up once he shows you everything he got for you while you were away.
It’s unlikely, he knows, but it’s nice to dream of it. He thinks his siblings would be proud to see him finally have a little hope for something.
VENTI
He spends the rest of the week in the tavern drinking as much as he can. For once, Diluc doesn’t try to reproach him for drinking what he can’t pay for.
He doesn’t exactly get drunk—can’t get drunk, more like. To a god like him, drinking a hundred barrels of Mondstadt’s finest wines won’t even be enough to get him tipsy. He is the god of freedom (and wine, he’d like to add), he can outdrink every single one of the archons and still have enough semblance to go to war. And yet…
You appear on the seventh day like a salvation, face contorted in worry when you see him slumped on the counter and one inch away from falling off the stool. It isn’t difficult to act the part of a drunken bard, pretending to sway on his feet and donning a fake intoxicated grin as he asked Charles for another glass.
The wind tells him of your arrival, but he ignores it just as he ignores the way his heart soars when the wind brings him the barest hint of your scent. He wishes you didn’t come here. He wishes he didn’t act so drunkenly. He wishes you were more heartless and ignored whoever must have tattled on him drinking Angel’s Share into bankruptcy.
You call his name. He pretends he’s asleep just so he doesn’t have to face his problems. Ha. How ironic. Will he wake up to Mondstadt destroyed by the remains of Khaenri’ah this time? He nearly did once.
He hears you sigh before he feels you bring his arm across your shoulders. You help him get off the stool, an arm around his waist to help keep him steady. The weight of Diluc’s disapproving gaze for deceiving you about his drunkenness is heavy, but he tells himself it’s alright. He just… wants to be selfish for once. If he has to act drunk to feel your arms around him again, he’ll suffer this humiliation as many times as he can.
“Venti,” you start as you walk him in the direction of your home. “I was worried, you know. Aether told me how much you’d been drinking since…” You trail off. He feels you shaking your head before continuing, “Just… don’t be so reckless with your health.” You laugh, mildly sardonic that’s directed more towards yourself than him. “Ah, what am I saying… you won’t even have any recollection of this tomorrow anyway.”
He wants to say something, but saying something means breaking this moment between you, it means revealing that he doesn’t actually need your help because once he starts speaking, the dam will break and everything will come spilling out. I’m sorry, I miss you, I love you.
The front door to your house opens. He’s gently placed down your couch, a blanket thrown over him as you thoughtfully take his shoes off for him. He feels you linger by his side, can practically hear the conflict in you.
He’s unprepared for the feeling of your warm breath on his skin, your lips hovering over his face before placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, Venti.”
He leaves before the sun rises.
ZHONGLI
He only smiles, small and understanding with a hint of sorrow at the corner of his eyes.
He tells you he’ll respect your decision, but should you change your mind, he will always be here. You say it’s doubtful, he would’ve probably found someone else by then. Zhongli doesn’t correct you, only leans in and places his lips on the top of your head, as gentle as he’s always been with you, somehow managing to convey with a single gesture how high he holds you in regard.
And for the barest, infinitesimal moment, you half-contemplate the idea of staying. It’s a wishful thought. You end up leaving before you can change your mind.
He’s still as grounded as ever, but there’s a fragility to it, a certain brittleness that threatens to crumble from within him. He is the Lord of Geo, and yet he is so easily undone by you. The pain is temporary, he knows from past losses, but it doesn’t lessen the ache that resonates in his chest.
For the first time in his long life, he curses his golden memory that makes him incapable of forgetting, though that which he curses is also something he is grateful for. He can’t bear having to suffer losing the memories of your time together.
Your relationship is amiable, like that of old, awkward friends you had fallen out of touch with rather than that of old lovers. It’s what you wanted after all, this sense of normalcy. He has become such a vital part of your daily life that you simply couldn’t cut him off of your life entirely.
He doesn’t know which is worse; having to act as a mere friend when he wants nothing more than to wrap you in his arms and never let go, or to have no contact with you at all.
Morax is not one to ask for things, not one to plead his case to anyone. He was a selfish and proud god, a necessity that was shaped from him by the war. To love a mortal enough to leave his throne and fake his death would have been unthinkable. But that is why he is no longer Morax. He is Zhongli.
And Zhongli? He wants you. Desperately. Enough that he is willing to beg should you ask it of him.
His deceased enemies would laugh in mockery at what has become of the fearsome Morax. How low he has fallen—but it is a burden he is willing to bear. He will suffer as many humiliations as it takes to have you back.
The only issue is that you don’t want him anymore. But he is a man who finds gold where others would see stone. If he has to build his way up from friendship all over again, then it is a task he will do so gladly. As many times as it takes for you to want him back.
Remember the Colorado grocery store shooting? Where you all thought the shooter was white and went on and on about how this was why white people cant be trusted and how because he was just shot in the leg, he must have been white? About white supremacy and racism and how white people need to be stopped?
Then it was revealed that the shooter was Syrian and suddenly the narrative was "this isnt the time to talk about race"?
You all project your racist assumptions when it's convenient. You are harsher and more critical on white criminals than those of other races, and act like youre opposing racism by doing this, even outright defending or ignoring killers when they arent white. And this jsnt even social media. Mainstream media like CNN does this too.
Once again, youre supporting discrimination and racism, but with a progressive hat on and pretending like youre making a positive difference.
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