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“You’re obscene.”
“What?” You ask, wiping a smear of peach juice from the corner of your mouth. “It’s just ripe.”
Verging on overripe truthfully, but you aren’t one to argue about semantics (not your darshan) or discard an almost-perfectly-fine fruit, just because it has a few squishy imperfections on its flesh.
Your traveling companion scowls, pulling back his lip to look a lot more like an offended housecat than the right-hand of the Dendro archon. You swallow down your mouthful and hold back a laugh. You’re sure he could be intimidating if he tried, but he reminds you more of a stray kitten than anything else.
The hill you perch on is grassy, dry from the midday sun but vibrant green with the rain that sprayed down that morning from Apam Woods. You’d avoided the worst of it, and you didn’t mind being a bit damp. Your companion hid under that comically large-brimmed hat of his, perfectly dry. Probably a good thing, given his feline-leanings. You don’t need to learn the sound of his hissing.
He regards you with an expected scrutiny and thinly-veiled suspicion that you’ve learned he picks everyone apart with. Not even you, his fellow traveler for weeks now, is sparred. It took you some time to not take it personally. Lord Kusanali had warned you of his eccentricities, but she’d had confidence that you would be ‘more than fine’ managing him.
If she had been anyone other than the Archon of Wisdom, you would’ve questioned her judgment.
Your companion gives you a tight tsk, “That doesn’t change that you eat like a shroomboar.”
You gasp, “Rude. It’s just juicy, I can’t help it.”
You really can’t. The zaytun peach you’ve been cradling in your palm for the better part of a half-hour has been dripping juice down your wrist. You’ve tried to juggle it to your other hand and lick up what you could, but the noise he made when you sucked on your index finger was far more obscene than the mere display of eating fruit.
Even now, Zerah’s face is blushed with a pretty pink, just like your peach. Affected, despite his particularities and general disposition. Perhaps you’d toy with him more if you weren’t trying to enjoy your breakfast and the view of the towering, thick straight-trunked trees of the wood. You settle for another bite of fruit that gushes pulp and juice that stickies the corner of your lips.
Zerah huffs, rolling his eyes before pointedly looking away from you. Generally, he’s not childish, but he has moments like this where he’s bashful like a young girl.
You hide a laugh behind the remnants of your peach, held to your lips.
...
When Lord Kusanali assigned you and ‘Hat Guy’ together, to complete some private research on her behalf, you were more than shocked. You’d only recently returned back to the Akademiya following Azar’s fall (personally invited back, by the Lord herself) when you received a summons and an assignment.
‘Hat Guy’ was introduced to you as Lord Kusanali’s ‘friend’, but you could tell from the way he bristled at the description that it wasn’t entirely accurate. The Lord was all too happy to hand you both stuffed envelopes with her requests. Open-ended things, really. Nothing specific, more of a call to explore with explicit instructions to note what you find interesting. You and your new companion were both from Vahumana, though Lord Kusanali noted that you were certain to have very different perspectives.
(She wasn’t kidding.)
Your companion was neutrally nihilistic, and believed in the worst of people in most cases. It was shocking he studied within Vahumana and spent his energy writing theses on human nature when his thoughts tended to be so… defeatist.
It didn’t take you long to put together that Lord Kusanali’s ward is not human.
It’s not just his specific brand of pessimism that gives him around. You brushed your hand against his while walking and it was cold. It should’ve been hot and sticky with the rainforest drizzle, but instead it was cold and wet, like a ceramic glass beading condensation.
(He scowls when you touch him. Tells you to watch yourself. You are starting to understand why.)
He looks too perfect, you note after a while. His skin is devoid of imperfections, too smooth. Like it was manufactured and not grown cell by cell. He doesn’t tire, and rarely eats or sleeps. Most unsettling is that he can remain motionless for hours. You’ve only witnessed it, on the few nights you couldn’t sleep, and kept yourself entertained by watching the lack of breath in his chest and his rigid, unchanging posture through the night and rain.
Your companion fascinates you.
He seems... indifferent about you. Such indifference has been tempered down from annoyance, you think. You don’t think Zerah liked you much at all during the first weeks of your research. Perhaps some of that is his demeanor, and perhaps some of it is your own unfamiliarity with his quirks. You two didn’t know how to walk in step, and in those early days of your travels, your companion didn’t seem interested in learning your rhythm. You stumbled and struggled to keep up with his.
It’s on a single night, you think, that Zerah began to become intrigued with you.
...
“Hey, Zerah? Can you throw another log onto the fire?” You ask, peeling a root vegetable with a paring knife.
Begrudgingly, he tosses a log into the fire and then frowns, “Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
“‘Zerah’.”
“Because Hat Guy certainly isn’t your real name, and it’s too goofy to fit you well,” You hum and toss the cubes into a simmering pot. “Figured you needed a name that suited you better.”
“And ‘Zerah’ does? That hardly sounds like a name.” He scowls at you as you stir.
“It is, promise.” You lick the spoon and grimace. Fishing into your bag, you pull forth a block of salt and a small grater on a keyring. “It’s a name from a storybook I used to read when I was little.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” You stir in a few more tablespoons of black pepper. “It was one of several in an anthology my father purchased in the desert. It was falling apart when he got it, and disintegrated by the time I was old enough to do any proper digger about it.”
“I know plenty of old stories.” Your companion huffs as you spoon your dinner into two bowls. “I don’t know any with that name.”
“Would you like me to enlighten you, then?” You hand him a bowl and collapsible spoon with a raised eyebrow.
He takes the bowl and glares. So, yes.
“It was this story about a little boy born into a dark world, full of sand and dunes.” You remember the illustrations vividly. Worn, illuminated pages fit with four-pointed stars on the corners. “He was nameless, and so he asked the earth what his name should be, and it said to go out and look for his name.”
“So the little boy traveled his whole world— dark and scary and lonely as it was. He met friends and creatures who he asked to name him, but they all told him to keep looking. Eventually, he came to an oasis with a Heron wading in its center. The boy asked the heron, ‘What am I to be? What will I be named?’ and the Heron said ‘You must ask the sun, it will know your name.’”
“But, there was no sun. So the little boy had to go even further, upwards, until the world turned upside down, and turned right-side up again. There, he found the sun, brighter and more luminous than anything he’d ever seen, and asked it what his name should be. And the sun said, ‘You have traveled the world over for a name, yet you are only beginning.’ The sun took letters the little boy taught him and gave him the name ‘Zerah’, which the sun said is the sound the world makes every morning with dawn.”
“... That’s abstract.” Zerah huffs, and ignores the very delicious bowl of curry in his hands. “And the name doesn’t sound like common. Or any other language I know of.”
“I’ve never been able to find anything on it.” You shrug. It’s not like you spent much time looking. “I figured it was some poor translation of an old Deshretini fable. Regardless, you’re Zerah.”
“... Like dawn.”
“Like dawn.” You nod. “Because you’re always staying up so late until the sun rises. Seriously, don’t you get tired? How does your skin stay so perfect, despite the lack of sleep?”
“You’re insufferable.” Zerah rolls his eyes with a growl. “Is that really your reasoning? How juvenile.”
“I think it’s perfectly acceptable.” You speak around a mouthful. “If it bothers you, I’ll call you Hat Guy, Hat Guy.”
Your companion stares at you, then laughs under his breath and a click of his tongue. “It’s fine.”
“So I can—”
“It’s fine— I’m going to find more firewood.” There’s still a stack next to your campground, but before you can grill him more, he’s gone, hovering up over a ridge and out of sight.
Zerah didn’t touch his dinner.
...
It’s another day, later. Sumeru doesn’t have much for seasons, especially as you near the Wall of Samiel and the desert’s sand and heat creep into Sumeru’s jungle. You and Zerah wander over a ridge while you munch on a dried slice of Harra fruit. It’s bitter, puckering your mouth and making you salivate. You wipe at the corner of your lip.
“You shouldn’t walk and eat.” Zerah says, pushing himself up and over a small ledge. He offers you his hand.
“Why’s that?” You ask, holding the fruit in your mouth and reach for him.
Zerah pulls you up, steadying you and then frowns. A smear of spit from your hand shines on him now. He looks disgusted, wiping it away on his shorts with a grimace.
“Choking hazard.” Your companion grabs you by the wrist. “Wash your damn hands. You’re sticky.”
“A necessary evil.” You shrug as Zerah leads you to a pond nearby. He kneels with you at the water's edge and stares. “A good fruit is worth it.”
“Is it really?” Zerah deadpans as you relent and rinse your hands in the crystalline blue water. You scrub at them with a flat stone you find in the silt and sand.
“Absolutely.” You respond matter-of-factly. You can feel Zerah’s scrutinizing glare. It dawns on you that, perhaps, he truly doesn’t know of such things. “... Have you ever had a perfectly ripe peach?”
“No.” Zerah curls his knees to his chest at the water’s edge. His bottom lip juts out cutely— pouting, almost. As close to such a thing as he would allow himself. “I don’t need to eat.”
“Well do you like eating?” You ask, shaking off the water from your hands and drying the excess with a wipe to your shoulders. You pointedly ignore the expression of mild disgust Zerah wears. “Have you ever enjoyed eating?”
“... I don’t need to answer you.”
“No, you don’t.” You frown. “But, I’d like it if you did. Come on now, don’t be so shy.”
Zerah almost growls at you. It’s cute. He’s so prickly. “I don’t hate eating, but I don’t enjoy it either.”
“What have you enjoyed eating?” You ask, turning to him. “Do you have a favorite dish?”
That makes him pause. He opens his pretty, petal lips, then closes them with a shake of his head. There’s a wistful look in his eye that stops you from prying at such things. Teasing is far different from poking at a past that you know is, perhaps, sensitive.
You don’t think before you act; you reach out a hand to wrap around his and squeeze. Trace your thumb against the too-smooth plane of his palm.
“Tell you what,” You flash him a smile. “Next chance we get, I’ll find us a ripe zaytun peach and I’ll show you how tasty they can be, okay?”
Zerah looks at you. Really looks at you. With his too-perfect skin wrinkling around his gem-cut eyes. He doesn’t like promises— you’ve put this together. Assurance rarely does anything but make him avoidant and hissy. What you’re handing to him now is something— something more tender than what you, as research partners, were assigned to share.
Your companion flexes his fingers in your grip, “... Fine.”
Something feels sticky in your chest— like honey and bee’s wax dripping between your ribs. It makes a sweet smile stretch across your face, one that raises a soft blush on Zerah’s face. He ducks under his hat, and drops your hand, grumbling something about your next destination.
Perhaps, you’re a bit smitten with him as you dash after him, half-skipping.
...
Zerah begins to stick to your side more than he used to.
You’re not sure he knows he is— but, he is. He walks a few paces closer, and sits at your side around the campfire each night, rather than across from you. Rather than hovering outside of your tent and tarp each night, he sits just inside, near your feet.
(You swear, once or twice, that he lays a hand over your ankle. Touches you before drawing away after just a moment.)
One night, Zerah lays down next to you, when you’re half asleep. A drizzle patters against the fabric of the tent as he curls next to you, not touching, but undeniably close. It’s almost unnerving— his lack of heat in this instance. He doesn’t shiver, despite the chill and humidity.
He lays his head on top of his folded hands, nose just inches from yours. You watch him with him with half-lidded eyes, and sleepily debate on whether or not to comment on his... seeking. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A wanderer who isn’t quite human and doesn’t quite know himself, seeking something from you. Though he doesn’t know what.
You’re not sure either.
“‘Come here,” Your words slur and you lift up your blanket. It’s more than big enough for two. “It looks lonely out there.”
Zerah stiffens up, and scowls, but doesn’t move. “I don’t need a blanket.”
“Not relevant.” You answer, grip slipping. The rain and the darkness of the tent make you so, so sleepy. It doesn’t help that Zerah is so close, always smelling like damp earth and some perfume you can’t recognize.
“I’ll make you colder.” Zerah frowns. “I don’t produce heat under these circumstances.”
“... Not relevant.” You begin to doze off, clinging to wakefulness.
Zerah rolls his eyes, “Why would you want me that close anyways?”
That startles you. “... Because I like you? And I meant it, it looks lonesome without a blanket and a sleeping buddy.”
Zerah is looking at you. It’s piercing and almost violent. The aura of it wakes you up fully, along with the whirring of the air around his Vision. He looks angry, pushing himself up halfway in an instant, before caging you, arms on either side of you, bringing you both nose-to-nose.
Your heart hammers in your chest. You grab one of his wrists and your eyes go wide.
His breath is cold against your cheeks— lips.
“... Zerah?” You say, softly. His lip curls and his hand scrunches into a fist near your ear. The lines of his throat bob with a swallow, and you itch with the urge to bring him closer. Offer him something more than just a blanket and some body heat.
(But, you are dealing with a stray cat after all. It must come to you.)
“You’re... you’re something.” He says it like an accusation. It makes your head spin.
“Am I?” You huff, kicking him lightly. “I’m just trying to sleep and offer you a kindness.”
“Sure.” Zerah says, nearly good-natured and joking. He’s not naive, not at all— you sometimes forget this. Perhaps— perhaps he’s too knowing. The facade slips for a moment, and you see something flash in his eyes that you recognize—
Want.
It’s one you’ve never seen him wear. It makes something in your chest tighten and jolt like you’ve been struck by something electric and live.
You start to say his name, the name you gave him, but he’s already slipped lower. So quickly does he pull the blanket back to bully your legs open and lay between them. He tucks into you with his cheek over your collarbones, cold and smooth. He wraps his arms around your middle. Zerah feels lighter over your chest— or maybe just weighted wrong. Regardless, the move steals your breath, and you’re frozen as he settles on top of you.
He wraps the blanket over the two of you and tangles you together.
“Zerah—” You try to say something, anything.
“Your heart is pounding.” He says, crumbling the fabric of your nightshirt over your chest. “Calm down and go to sleep.”
“You really expect me to?” You laugh, cautiously brushing your hand over his shoulder blades. Zerah shudders.
“Yeah.” Zerah never lays down at night, never sleeps or rests like this. You feel too shocked to move, afraid that if you shift or stir too much, you’ll frighten him away.
Instead, you tentatively stroke a hand over his hair. It’s soft— perfectly silky and shiny. When you scratch behind his ear, his breath catches in the prettiest way. You savor the sound, thrumming on your insides. Zerah buries his nose in the hollow of your throat, the cold wash of his breath fanning over your skin.
“You’re silly.” You laugh, gasping when Zerah drags his nails down your sides. You jolt and squirm with it.
It’s a wonder how you ever fall asleep that night. It must be the motion of Zerah’s fingertips, rubbing over your ribs over your nightclothes. Maybe it’s the odd weight of him that presses over your chest. Perhaps it’s that you’ve become increasingly comfortable with your companion, and his recent proclivity for proximity is something you’ve come to welcome. Enjoy, even.
...
You find the perfect peach sometime later— in the lush valleys near Pardis Dhyai. Zerah is only a pace behind you, and you’ve taken his hand in your own during this part of the trek. His skin feels cool against your own, a blessing in Sumeru’s heat. You want more of him, but you’ll settle for his name, a promise, and the chill of his contact that he’s been giving you more frequently.
There’s a little market set up with wares from the villages of the jungle and the outposts of the desert, congregating by a stream. You both poke around at stalls for a while, side-by-side, never straying too far from one another.
When you do orbit beyond Zerah’s reach, he’s quick to snatch you back. He grumbles under his breath— “stay put” and pinches the skin of your wrist. When you yelp and bat at his shoulder, he only smiles— the smallest, tiniest thing that’s all for you. He pivots within the crowd, always keeping such a particular amount of distance between him and the next person. It’s intentional; when someone brushes to close, Zerah flinches like he’s been burned.
Not you, though. Never you anymore.
It makes you giddy.
There’s a fruit vendor on the outer edge of the market. The stall is overflowing with produce from across Teyvat— though the best of it is all Sumeru’s local specialties. There’s a box with beautifully stacked zaytun peaches, perfectly pink and swollen. Ripe with the heat, and still green and lively near where it once grew from its stem. You inspect them carefully, Zerah hovering near your back. The shade from his hat slants enough to keep you cool.
You pick out a handful of them, one by one. Four in total. Enough to snack on for the next few days. The merchant kindly bundles them for you in beeswax wrap and twine and hands them to you with a smile. Zerah bristles behind you and lays a hand on your lower back. If he really was a stray cat, he’d be hissing. Maybe scratching.
You cow him with a gentle smile before passing the merchant a few coins, throwing in a bouquet of beautiful Sumeru roses and cecilia, all the way from Mondstadt. How could you pass up such a beautiful arrangement? You hand the flowers to Zerah, who fumbles them for a moment before cradling them in the crook of his arm. There’s a flush on his cheek— rosy and pretty.
“We’ve found them.” You tell him as you practically drag him from the market into the meadows beyond, deeper into the jungle. “These are perfect.”
“... The peaches?”
“The peaches.” You blop down on a stump and begin to unfurl the wrapping. “Look how pretty they are— and just ripe enough.”
You poke around in your bag for a knife as Zerah settles next to you. He minces for a beat before you lean into his side.
He stills.
You unsheath your small paring knife, brushing it flat against the fabric of your trousers to clean it. Zerah watches you with rapt attention as you examine each peach until you find the most perfect of the bunch. Pink like an early sunset, with just a bit of give when you squeeze it. You gently pull off the leaves at the top and discard them.
“... You really got the peaches,” says Zerah with an exhale. His shoulders are drawn up.
“Of course I did.” You laugh and knock your head into his bicep. “I’ve been looking since I promised you. Just took a while to find the best ones.”
Zerah makes a noise, something between a grunt and a whine; it’s one you’ve never heard him make. (He’s— he’s been making more of these little noises lately. The other day he actually whimpered while you were detangling his hair with your fingers.) Half a growl even maybe— like a stray who doesn’t know whether to bite your hand or lick it clean.
You feel woozy with it.
Maybe your companion has been getting under your skin more. Vulnerability is a hell of a thing, and receiving any of it from someone as drawn up and closed off as Zerah is an intoxicant in and of itself. The little glimpses of him you’ve come to covet, revel in— catalog and keep. Your research for Lord Kusanali is paramount, yes, but you find it far easier these days to moon over your companion— regardless of whether or not he knows.
“You there?” Zerah asks, taking the paring knife from your hand, then the peach. He cradles it in his palm.
“Y-Yeah, I’m here,” You laugh, shaking your head. You’re lying.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Zerah says and it sounds like he’s pouting. “Tell me how to cut this.”
“Sure,” You respond; you feel like you’re dreaming. It must be the heat getting to you. “There’s a pit, you have to cut around it.”
Zerah digs the blade in. Juice squirts from the incision, stickying his fingers. He frowns, grimacing, “Like this?”
“Just like that.” You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you do anyway. You smoosh your cheek into his bicep.
“You’re being weird.” Zerah snaps, but the bite of his words doesn’t reach you.
You lean closer to him, a smile curling your lips. You feel mischievous, you want to get under his skin— he’s gotten better at holding his own against you, rather than running he tends to contend with you. You can’t ruffle him like you used to, which is truly tragic. Wretched, even.
“Am I?”
Zerah rolls his eyes, huffs, but he can’t hide the flush that’s traveling from his cheeks to his neck. He doesn’t push you away. If anything— he leers closer. He’s combative with you, he always has been, but this feels different. He’s not sparring with you, he’s not running off when you take a joke too far or rib him too close.
He’s retaining proximity, and handing you a slice of the peach.
“Is this right?” Zerah asks as he passes it to you. It’s— it’s juicy, and drips down in between your fingers.
You eat the piece whole and nod, turning away. Your stomach is in knots— it’s almost unpleasant.
“You don’t look like you enjoyed that.”
“I did—” You lie, then tell a truth. “I’ll be honest, it’s not really what I’m focused on. I want to know what you think about it.”
Zerah’s grip tightens around the peach, bruisingly. The flesh gives way around his hand, and you jolt to try and save it.
Zerah jerks it out of the way with a scowl, but keeps his face close to you. Nose-to-nose. Cold breath washing over your lips.
“... Why are you so invested in me eating a stupid peach?” He asks with a lilt in his voice you’ve never heard him use before.
“Because they’re tasty.” You lunge for the peach again, and Zerah pulls it out of the way. “You should enjoy something that tastes good and makes you feel that way.”
You hike yourself up on the stump, on one knee, and stretch to try and grab the fruit from him. The peach bursts with the pressure of his grip, pink flesh spilling from between his fingers. Liquid nectar slicking his palm, trailing down his wrist.
Zerah frowns down at you— you’re sprawled out across his lap— you— you must look obscene.
His cheeks are so red. There’s heat coming from his— chest. Lower abdomen, but only there. You can feel it against his side, feel the thump and whirring of parts that are surely not entirely human.
“Why do you care if I care, Zerah?” A grin curls across your face when you say it.
“Shut up.”
“But, Zerah—”
He’s shaking. Trembling. He tears a chunk of peach from the mess in his hand, intact enough to not fall apart when he shoves it against your lips. He presses, pushes— all you can smell is ripe, sweet fruit and that perfume he always carries with him. You almost kick your feet.
You open your lips, just barely— enough for Zerah to push the morsel inside, and for you to give the lightest suck to his fingers when they withdraw away.
If Zerah were human, he’d be panting. You are.
“Is this fun for you?” He asks, voice sharp. He rips another piece of fruit and repeats, not giving you the time or the space to get a word in.
You’re not sure what response you’d give him, if you could. Fun, isn’t quite the right word. It’s diminutive, perhaps derogatory to him in some way. You feel nothing less than adoring. You’re basking in the attention he gives you, in the quiet but entirely mutual aware of the feeling that’s metastasized from begrudging research partner to this.
Zerah feeds you like that for long enough for your limbs to grow heavy. The chunks he’s tearing out of the peach are getting smaller (like he’s savoring this too, lengthening whatever this exchange is by drawing out the length of time that he can feed you this single peach). They’re more messy.
Juice and pulp coat around your lips. You feel sticky— you’ll need a bath after this. Or at least to wash your face. Zerah’s armguards glisten with the sap they’ve soaked up. He’ll need washing up too.
“Wait—” You catch him by the wrist and force yourself. “You haven’t had any, have you?”
“No.” Zerah swipes over your lips with his thumb. “You’re filthy.”
“It’s your fault,” You lean closer, crawling into his lap.
He stiffens.
For a moment, you think you’ve gone too far. Perhaps the line for him is at ‘lap sitting’ and not at ‘hand-feeding fruit’, and you’ve misjudged the situation. Is this exploratory for him? You don’t know enough about him to make confident assessments of his experience, but perhaps... Perhaps this business with the peaches was innocent. Perhaps the proximity you now have, settled in his lap with your hands on his shoulders, is passing something you hadn’t anticipated.
You’d only been close to cuddle for warmth, right? He only touched you out of a kindness or ease— perhaps a favor to be repaid. Sitting in his lap, sticky and panting—
Before you can backpedal, recant, disengage, Zerah wraps his peach-soaked fingers around your jaw and drags you to kiss him.
It shocks you; a little gasp slips from your lips that Zerah swallows in kind. His hand that was holding the last remnants of the peach and its pit slides along your waist, around your waist to drag you closer. He licks into your mouth and it becomes abundantly clear you panicked assessments were horribly wrong.
He licks the inside of your teeth, sucks on your tongue— it’s obscene. It’s messy, in a way that makes you bury your hands in his hair to tilt his head at a better angle. Bring him closer— hands still frigid but the center of abdomen feels scorching against your own.
You feel drunk when he pulls away, gasping and bracing yourself on his arms. Zerah’s exhales feel too-hot against the skin of your jaw as he drags his lips there, biting, as his nails rake down your sides.
“Is that really the most effective way to eat a peach?” You ask him.
Zerah pulls away, grabs your cheeks, and stares. When you try to speak, he tightens his grip so your lips squish together.
“Really?”
“It’s an honest question.” Your words are garbled.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but perhaps I make a fair point.” You fish to the side, within the discarded beeswax wrapping, and grab another peach. “I’m sure kissing me— pardon, ravishing me—”
“Shut up—” Zerah kisses you stupid and quiet again.
“You’re interrupting.” You speak through your headrush and hold a fresh, untouched peach in your palm. “As I was saying, I’m sure ravishing me as you have decided to isn’t the prime way to get a taste of this peach. Get it from the source.”
You hold the whole peach, squeeze it lightly, and take a chomp out of it. No knife required— not slicing, nothing pretty. Just flesh parting around teeth and the juice of it dripping down your chin and wetting your palm. You chew, swallow, and hold the untouched side to his lips. The fruit is sweet, so sweet— the flavor if it lingers on your tongue. You’re sure Zerah can smell. Even if he doesn’t need to breathe, you can feel his heavy inhales and exhales. Maybe his breath is where that smell of his comes from, like incense and crushed petals of a flower you can’t identify clearly.
His hand squeezes around your hip. Hard enough to bruise— harder, and it makes you remember your companion’s strength. He doesn’t have muscles that match with it quite right. It makes you forget.
You gasp when he tugs you closer and takes a bite from the peach, all the way down to the pit. His cheeks remain flushed, stained seemingly, as he chews, and swallows. You watch the bob of his throat as he does.
You’re entranced by him. It’s lovely to be so overt about it.
“... How did you like it?” Your voice sounds dreamy and half-there as his hands slide up and under your shirt.
He thinks for a moment— studying you. Palm skimming down your ribs, stopping to count them. You can feel him do so. The other presses fingertips over your lips, pushing inside your mouth to run over your teeth.
“It was good.” Zerah tugs the fruit from your hand and sets it aside. “I’ll have more of it later.”
“‘Weally?” You exclaim, around his fingers. He jabs the inside of your cheek and your squeal.
“Yes, really.” He sounds softer, for a moment. It makes something in your ache in the best way. “I understand why you wanted me to try it.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, then.” You goad him on. “Why?”
“You’re insatiable.” He groans, bouncing his leg and you subsequently. “Is this not enough?”
“It is ‘enough’,” You assure him (you want to eat him alive.) “Call me greedy, I suppose. I’ll take whatever you give me, Zerah.”
“Are you a glutton, then?”
“Only a scholar. Perhaps a foolish, lovesick one, but nonetheless.”
“... Lovesick?” Zerah’s voice trails, awed. His eyes shine as he grips a hand over his chest. He looks like he might throw up if he’s even capable of such a thing.
“Of course.” And sweetly, you press your sticky lips to his cheek. “I thought that much was obvious, I apologize.”
“Lovesick?” He repeats, this time more incredulous. “Don’t toy with me.”
“I promise, I’m not.” You want to reassure him. “Do you think I’m this shameless with everyone I meet?”
Zerah deadpans. You bat at his chest with a smile on your face that hurts, it’s so wide and full and carefree.
“I can’t be sure.” He huffs.
“Zerah—”
You gave him that name. He lets you use it. That should speak volumes, but perhaps you’ve been negligent to what that means, how he thinks of you. Perhaps you should’ve realized, earlier, what his increased proximity has been communicating to you now.
Fools, both you. Both learning the steps, the lay of the land, just as the Lord of Dendro requested of you. Perhaps not for Sumeru’s changing, cleansed, landscapes, but for each other. An outcast and an inhuman stray.
You kiss him again, just as he leans closer to give you the same, grasping at the cloth over your heart.