[It's been a long time since anyone pursued him like this, and it's been longer still since he allowed himself to reciprocate.
He’s been desired before, certainly. Admired, revered, respected—often with some distance, often with hesitation, often with reverence that placed him on a pedestal too high to be reached.
But Ajax does not approach him with careful steps or measured words. He does not hesitate, nor does he handle Zhongli like some untouchable relic of the past. He challenges him, dares him. And, perhaps the most dangerous thing of all, he wants him, unashamedly, and does not care to conceal it.
Zhongli swallows, his throat dry, suddenly wishing for tea to steady himself, to give him something to do with his hands, to keep him from revealing too much of the sudden heat creeping into his expression. But there is no such respite, only the heavy, heated weight of Ajax’s palm still holding firm against his ankle, fingers pressing just under the lip of his shoe with a gentleness that feels at odds with the boldness of his words.
Zhongli's golden eyes flick downward, catching the way Ajax’s fingers linger and how he does not let go. The realization sends a ripple of warmth through him—he enjoys being wanted and pursued this time. He cannot deny it, not when his own body betrays him. His breath is just the slightest bit uneven, and his lips part before he presses them together again in a vain attempt to compose himself.
Instead, his tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip as he exhales quietly, slowly. He could allow himself this, couldn't he? Just this once? To be courted, to be seduced, despite the world outside, despite the weight of his duty, despite the danger of his life. Here, now, within the sanctuary of this quiet museum, where the only battlefield that mattered was the one between them?
But what of once they left this sanctuary?
The bet curls, coils tight in the space between them like a breath waiting to be drawn. He does not know how Ajax will take it—if the other man, for all his daring, would be the type to pull Zhongli into a darkened corridor out of sight of CCTV and wandering eyes, pressing him against a quiet corner of the world with all the heat and fervor that burns beneath his skin. Or if, for all his boldness, Ajax will surprise him again—choosing instead something prim and deceptively polite, a gentleman, pressing a kiss to his lips with decorum, restrained and measured, as though the tension between them did not exist.
(Which did he prefer? Zhongli is at a loss.)
The thought makes his pulse quicken: would it be so terrible to indulge?]
Ah… [The sound escapes him, softer than he intended.] You speak as though I shouldn’t say such things. But I find it’s difficult not to when you keep earning them.
So. [His fingers move to the board again. A misdirection.
Ajax is so focused on the knight, on the queen, on the looming rook that he has already noticed. But there were always two.
The second rook—forgotten until now—moves at last. The twin to the first. The second half of a whole. Or perhaps the second face of the same entity.
This one does not linger behind, does not wait like its twin. This one strikes. It cuts through the space left open and slides into place in a way that could only be described as inevitable, taking Ajax's rook, nestled in their ranks. Perhaps, like himself, two identities reside within a single force. One to be seen. One to be wielded in secret.]
No hesitation. No half-measures. There is an appeal to such a conviction. But it is, also, utterly dangerous.
[When he lifts his eyes again, he lets his foot rise higher. The smooth drag of polished leather ascends, lifting the weight from the salesman's grasp for half a second, pressing with intent until the arch of his foot settles just beneath Ajax’s knee. He presses, firm enough to be felt, a silent provocation of his own. Happy to be there.] But there is a beauty to surrender, as well, Ajax.
[In war, surrender is a moment of sharp clarity, the instant one recognizes the inevitability of being overcome. It is the breaking of resistance, not in despair, but in recognition of something stronger, something greater. In some ways, it is the truest form of wisdom—to know when to hold the line and when to let it fall, to recognize when the act of giving in is itself an act of claiming something else. The act of allowing. It is the moment one lets go, not into nothingness, but into someone else. To feel their hands, their mouth, their voice guiding, teasing, commanding—and to choose to follow. It is the soft unravelling, the exquisite loss of tension, the offering of oneself into the hands of another with the trust that it will be returned.]
no subject
He’s been desired before, certainly. Admired, revered, respected—often with some distance, often with hesitation, often with reverence that placed him on a pedestal too high to be reached.
But Ajax does not approach him with careful steps or measured words. He does not hesitate, nor does he handle Zhongli like some untouchable relic of the past. He challenges him, dares him. And, perhaps the most dangerous thing of all, he wants him, unashamedly, and does not care to conceal it.
Zhongli swallows, his throat dry, suddenly wishing for tea to steady himself, to give him something to do with his hands, to keep him from revealing too much of the sudden heat creeping into his expression. But there is no such respite, only the heavy, heated weight of Ajax’s palm still holding firm against his ankle, fingers pressing just under the lip of his shoe with a gentleness that feels at odds with the boldness of his words.
Zhongli's golden eyes flick downward, catching the way Ajax’s fingers linger and how he does not let go. The realization sends a ripple of warmth through him—he enjoys being wanted and pursued this time. He cannot deny it, not when his own body betrays him. His breath is just the slightest bit uneven, and his lips part before he presses them together again in a vain attempt to compose himself.
Instead, his tongue flicks out, wetting his lower lip as he exhales quietly, slowly. He could allow himself this, couldn't he? Just this once? To be courted, to be seduced, despite the world outside, despite the weight of his duty, despite the danger of his life. Here, now, within the sanctuary of this quiet museum, where the only battlefield that mattered was the one between them?
But what of once they left this sanctuary?
The bet curls, coils tight in the space between them like a breath waiting to be drawn. He does not know how Ajax will take it—if the other man, for all his daring, would be the type to pull Zhongli into a darkened corridor out of sight of CCTV and wandering eyes, pressing him against a quiet corner of the world with all the heat and fervor that burns beneath his skin. Or if, for all his boldness, Ajax will surprise him again—choosing instead something prim and deceptively polite, a gentleman, pressing a kiss to his lips with decorum, restrained and measured, as though the tension between them did not exist.
(Which did he prefer? Zhongli is at a loss.)
The thought makes his pulse quicken: would it be so terrible to indulge?]
Ah… [The sound escapes him, softer than he intended.] You speak as though I shouldn’t say such things. But I find it’s difficult not to when you keep earning them.
So. [His fingers move to the board again. A misdirection.
Ajax is so focused on the knight, on the queen, on the looming rook that he has already noticed. But there were always two.
The second rook—forgotten until now—moves at last. The twin to the first. The second half of a whole. Or perhaps the second face of the same entity.
This one does not linger behind, does not wait like its twin. This one strikes. It cuts through the space left open and slides into place in a way that could only be described as inevitable, taking Ajax's rook, nestled in their ranks.
Perhaps, like himself, two identities reside within a single force. One to be seen. One to be wielded in secret.]
No hesitation. No half-measures. There is an appeal to such a conviction. But it is, also, utterly dangerous.
[When he lifts his eyes again, he lets his foot rise higher. The smooth drag of polished leather ascends, lifting the weight from the salesman's grasp for half a second, pressing with intent until the arch of his foot settles just beneath Ajax’s knee. He presses, firm enough to be felt, a silent provocation of his own. Happy to be there.] But there is a beauty to surrender, as well, Ajax.
[In war, surrender is a moment of sharp clarity, the instant one recognizes the inevitability of being overcome. It is the breaking of resistance, not in despair, but in recognition of something stronger, something greater. In some ways, it is the truest form of wisdom—to know when to hold the line and when to let it fall, to recognize when the act of giving in is itself an act of claiming something else. The act of allowing. It is the moment one lets go, not into nothingness, but into someone else. To feel their hands, their mouth, their voice guiding, teasing, commanding—and to choose to follow. It is the soft unravelling, the exquisite loss of tension, the offering of oneself into the hands of another with the trust that it will be returned.]
Would you ever let yourself yield?