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One late unremarkable afternoon, Childe sits balanced on the wooden railing of the balcony of the Northland Bank. From here, he can look into the funeral parlor, right across the bank. He whistles, a high shapeless tune, casual careless notes filtering into the wind as he whittles a block of wood down into a crude shape. The wind trembles like it is pleased, curling wisps of cool spring air gentle against his skin.
From the funeral parlor, the little miss director waves at him. She opens her mouth – to yell something sordid, presumably, but at the last moment she is yanked backwards. From here, he can see dark gloves; a disapproving frown. But then Zhongli looks up, and his severe expression softens into something tender.
Zhongli waves. Childe scores a thin line into his index finger with his knife, distracted. He licks it off quickly, rust in his mouth, the bustle of Liyue harbor sprawled beneath him, the warmth of Zhongli’s smile before him. He waves back.
Zhongli mouths, I’ll see you tonight.
It’s easy to return Zhongli’s smile. As easy as breathing. As easy as gutting a man. Childe blows him a kiss, teasing. Zhongli is a man who does not blush, does not fluster. His smile merely widens, as he touches his curled fingers to his lips: I got it, he says, without saying anything.
He looks happy. Zhongli looks mortal, and he looks content in his mortality, even as Hu Tao’s fists slam into him from where she’s been shoved carelessly behind him, as she drags him back into the depths of the room.
Childe continues with his carving. The quiet swell of birdsong, the business of the streets. Life is unremarkable. Life is simple. There is no longer anything he can do, here in the humid familiarity of Liyue.
He lays down his knife.
+
Later that night, he slips into Wanmin alone. Zhongli hasn’t arrived yet, but Xiangling greets him cheerily as she seats him and brings him a pot of tea.
“So,” she says, busying herself with setting the table, “how is everything going? Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I did, actually,” he tells her. He stops her from pouring the tea, smiles at the sly giggle she tries to hide behind her palm. “Thank you for advice, miss.”
“Nothing you didn’t already know!” her smile is comforting, familiar. A little solace in the hostility of Liyue-after-Osial. She is generous with her kindness, even to someone like him. To many, his politeness is pestilence. To her, his politeness is friendship. “I wish you the best of luck, Mister Childe! I’m sure everything will go well.”
“Yes,” Zhongli answers from behind him. If Childe were less familiar with Zhongli, less comfortable with the man’s unnervingly quiet footsteps – maybe there would be bloodshed. But Childe is used to Zhongli now, well-worn with familiarity. He merely turns his head towards Zhongli’s kiss on his cheek as Xiangling turns her enthusiastic greeting onto her new target. “I’m sure everything will go well. What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” Childe slaps Zhongli’s wandering hand away. “You’ll find out. You order food. I’ll pour your tea.”
Zhongli gentles at that. He turns to Xiangling, who is watching them with something like wistfulness. Maybe the little miss at the funeral parlor will hear something about this, about casual affection, open touches. Even Hu Tao softens in the face of love, with her jars of pickled plum blossoms and her shy grins.
Loving Zhongli is like taking a straight leap down the cragged cliffs of Jueyun Karst. The teapot is hot and heavy between Childe’s fingers. He’s long since mastered the art of pouring tea from Zhongli’s pickiness: first you gather the teacups, then you count the seconds while the tea steeps. Childe no longer spills over the sides of the cups, his hands steady, sure. He makes sure both cups are evenly filled. An act of equality; an act of love.
“Childe,” Zhongli says, his hand curling over Childe’s as soon as he sets the teapot down. “I ordered your favorite.”
“I don’t have favorites,” Childe says, nudging a cup of tea over to Zhongli. “For you.”
Zhongli accepts the cup gracefully. “I know,” he says, his fingers careful around the tiny cup, “that you aren’t picky. But you smile more when you taste this dish. I trust your smiles.”
“Zhongli,” Childe says. Zhongli sips his tea, steam wafting around his the cut of his cheekbones. It is not very traditional, but Zhongli’s mastered the art of drinking tea with one hand instead of the usual two. This is fine: Zhongli’s never been much of a tradition-keeper. “You are such a closet romantic.”
Zhongli smiles.
“Only for you,” he says.
+
They wave at Xiangling as they leave, who is wiping down the tables. She waves back at them, between her frantic back-and-forth scramble to get the last-call orders out and keeping the place clean.
Zhongli’s fingers slot into the spaces between Childe’s own fingers. He is warm, underneath his gloves.
“Childe,” he says, as they stroll leisurely down the streets, “come home with me?”
Childe knows this tone. Zhongli pleads quiet like this: when their bellies are full and they are content, lazy; when Zhongli knows Childe has nothing better to do. Childe knows Zhongli wants to put his hands on his skin – he goes in for a brief kiss against Zhongli’s waiting mouth and Zhongli’s slow smile blossoms.
Around them is the softening chill of spring. The weather warms slowly; children run laughing down the streets; vendors hawk their wares. Childe thinks he will miss the way Zhongli fits into this background when they eventually leave.
“So honest,” Childe says, “with what you want.”
Zhongli lifts their entwined hands up to his lips, a gentle brush of his mouth against the back of Childe’s hand. “I have learned,” he says, “that I should be honest with you.”
Childe laughs at that. “It took you a while,” he says, nudging Zhongli with his elbow. The man is solid and still as stone. Childe likes that about him. Childe likes a lot of things about him. He reaches up to tuck Zhongli’s hair behind his ear. Gold eyes, warm with emotion, watches him closely.
“I wish we could spend our every waking moment together,” says Zhongli.
“Don’t be a creep,” says Childe, and starts walking in the direction of Zhongli’s home.
+
Zhongli kisses like he is desperate. He kisses like he wants Childe to stay, forever. He kisses Childe’s jumping pulse, then up his throat. They are barely through the front door, and Zhongli’s already licking into Childe’s mouth.
“Wait,” Childe tries, “wait,” between kisses, between gasps of breath. Zhongli’s hand slides up the open gap of Childe’s shirt, stroking slowly from his belly to the dip of his hips. “Nnh – wait –“
“You’re so thin,” Zhongli says. His breath is hot against the side of Childe’s neck, right under his ear. His thumb digs into Childe’s hip, pressing hard against bone. “I can feel your hipbones so easily. Eat more. I want to take care of you. I want –“
“Oh Archons,” Childe says, his ears burning, burning, burning, “please shut up.”
“Which Archon?” Zhongli asks.
“Not Rex Lapis,” Childe grumbles. He tugs on Zhongli’s stupid ponytail, but the man just smiles back at him like he’s indulging in a favorite pastime. “I – look. Ugh. I have something for you.”
Zhongli’s stunned look would be funnier if he were less handsome. “Are you being shy?” he says, eyes wide and surprised.
“Shut up! Just – just take it!”
The box is simple uncarved wood, polished until it shines. Zhongli fumbles with it when Childe tosses it at him, uncharacteristically clumsy in his surprise. “Oh,” Zhongli says, then, after admiring the wood for a while, he opens it.
“Oh,” Zhongli says. “These are –“
“I’m just returning the favor,” Childe says. He crosses his arms, leaning against Zhongli’s door, feeling exceptionally small and stupid. “For the ones – you gave me. Before.”
“I –,” Zhongli says. Childe doesn’t look at his face, doesn’t dare to. Maybe it was a stupid idea, after all. “Childe. I – does this mean –“
“If the offer still stands,” Childe mumbles, feeling thoroughly humiliated. It is a familiar feeling, familiarly associated with Zhongli. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to keep them –“
“Silly boy,” Zhongli says. It sounds so fond that Childe blushes, probably. “My Childe. I also have something for you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” says Zhongli, solemn and solid. In his hands is a small box, square and velvet. Unusual taste for Zhongli, Childe thinks, before Zhongli opens it for him, quietly, in offering.
“Zhongli,” says Childe.
“Childe,” says Zhongli, and then they start laughing, a quiet chuckle, a tiny giggle, evolving into full-bellied laughter.
“Wow,” Childe says, “wow! I can’t believe we both –“
“I would say great minds think alike,” Zhongli says, his shoulders shaking from his laughter, “but I suspect we’ve been set up.”
“You old romantic,” Childe teases. He leans in for a kiss, gives in to the want curling up his spine. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“I am glad,” Zhongli says. He is hesitant now, even when he’s pressed against Childe, inch against inch. “Your gift – it is lovely as well.”
Childe cannot help his smile. “Help me put it on?”
Zhongli nods. He puts his gift on a side table, carefully, gently. Childe offers him his hand; Zhongli kisses his palm before sliding the ring onto his finger.
A simple metal band carved with simple symbols. A choice made out of love, glinting under the moonlight. Childe curls his hands behind Zhongli’s neck, pulls him in for another kiss. Their shadows shift as they move, stumbling towards the bedroom.
On the table sits an open box. Inside: a pair of chopsticks, intricately carved with a dragon and a phoenix. Entwined, in love.
+
“我的先生,” Childe says, from between Zhongli’s thighs. The Liyuen syllables are clunky in his mouth, but Zhongli sighs, loving, his hand gentle in Childe’s hair. “Nnh – Zhongli –“
“Quiet,” Zhongli says. “Concentrate, my love, come on now.”
Childe smiles up at him. His clean-boned, dapper face twists in pleasure, in love – if Childe was bold enough to call it that. Childe sucks Zhongli’s cock into his mouth, swallows it deep, pushing against his throat. He struggles against gagging, swallowing against the thickness stretching his mouth while he fingers himself open.
“Impatient,” Zhongli murmurs, “we have plenty of time. I can take you slow, first. Then when you get bored, I can bend your knees to your chest and fuck you deep.”
It sends a pleasurable sort of burn up Childe’s spine, those words. Zhongli is a man of composure, a man of grace. But when Childe spreads his thighs for him Zhongli’s composure wavers so laughably quick. Childe pulls himself off Zhongli’s cock to rasp, “You talk so much for someone who hasn’t even manhandled me once today,” and Zhongli’s gaze goes intense.
It’s sweet, the way Zhongli tries to hold himself back. It’s sweet and so damnedly annoying.
“I want to take it slow,” Zhongli says, the first time. He pulls them both up so easily, flips Childe onto his back like he weighs nothing. This is the shameless display of strength Childe wants to see, wants to feel. It makes his cock stiffen like nothing else. “For the first round, we’ll take it slow.”
Childe shudders. His thighs spread of their own volition, voluntary – he offers up all his vulnerabilities for Zhongli. Zhongli’s leans over him like he wants to devour, like he’s hungry. Childe likes that look in his eyes. Childe likes a lot of things.
“Sure,” Childe says, struggling to keep his voice even. “For the first round, I’ll lie on my back pretty for you. We can hold hands, and I’ll tell you I love you as many times as you want. But after that, I want you to wreck me.”
Zhongli’s smile is slow, curling up to show his teeth. It is the kind of smile Childe is familiar with on himself, when faced with a good fight. But a good fight and a good fuck is almost the same thing: the same sweaty adrenaline, the same pounding pulse, the same breathless pleasure.
Zhongli pins him down. Fingers, tongue, and finally, finally – Zhongli presses his cock in, pulls Childe’s hips towards him. Childe shudders, seizing up instinctively, moaning his pleasure into the moonlit chill of the night.
“Please,” Childe’s voice catches and breaks, shatters against the meat of Zhongli’s shoulder, “please please I want you, I want you – aahn –“
“You’re so loud,” Zhongli murmurs, his eyes golden and intense, his fingers tangled with Childe’s, pressing him down into the soft of the bed. “Your voice is so lovely. You’re lovely. You’re beautiful, so perfect.”
The praise burns. It burns like kindness, like the tender kisses Zhongli presses to his skin. It feels so good – the stretch of Zhongli’s cock, the weight of it in his belly. Every thrust of Zhongli’s hips punches out a new moan; every slow grind makes him throw his head back in veritable senseless pleasure – everything is so good.
Zhongli keeps his word, setting the pace slow and tender, his forehead pressed against Childe’s shoulder, his mouth soft and slow against Childe’s skin. They are so close, skin to skin: Childe licks his lips and tastes Zhongli’s sweat, dripping down. Childe can grind his cock against the planes of Zhongli’s abs, so he does. Zhongli’s deep chuckle next to his ear makes his ass tighten for no goddamn reason. Zhongli fucks in slowly, alternating between thrusting and grinding, and it is all so good that Childe can only drool all over himself, on the verge of tears.
It is humilating, but he comes first. Zhongli always makes sure he does, whispering praises and pressing his teeth into Childe’s skin. He whines, slack in Zhongli’s hold, numb from pleasure, trying to squeeze down on Zhongli so he’d come already – come inside, come inside, breed him –
“You,” Zhongli gasps, “are so beautiful,” and then he comes, finally, finally, finally! Childe doesn’t know if he’s laughing or crying, his nails digging into Zhongli’s back. Zhongli soothes him with kisses, licks into his mouth until he can hardly breathe, dizzy from everything.
“No,” Childe moans when Zhongli pulls out. “No, no, come back inside, don’t let it leak out –“
Zhongli’s breathing is a rasp. For a moment he is still, silent, kneeling between Childe’s slack trembling thighs – and then he moves, sharp and sudden, folding Childe’s knees up against his ribs, bending him so far he can’t even move. He’s growling, Childe realizes, finally, equating the low tremor he’s been feeling to the way Zhongli’s eyes are flared wide, pupils dilated.
The press of Zhongli’s cock to his rim makes him squirm. He can do nothing but squirm, can do nothing but take whatever Zhongli gives. He screams when Zhongli pushes in all the way with a single, brutal thrust. It’s too much, it’s not enough.
“Nnh – Zhongli, Zhongli,” Childe moans shamelessly, “You feel so good – harder, harder, please, I can’t get enough of your cock – aannh –“
Zhongli fucks into him with a ruthlessness that thrills Childe, held down and spread open, not even a fighting chance against his strength. The helplessness makes Childe tremble, makes him sob, struggling against Zhongli’s grip. If he looks down, he can see the bulge of his own belly. Zhongli’s cock – outlined in his own flesh. Zhongli fucks him with his full weight, bearing down on him so hard his shoulders start to numb. Unforgiving, ruthless: Zhongli fucks him through all of that, licks his tears from his face and grins at his unfocused expression.
What a bully. He’s always like this, when they have sex. A picture perfect gentleman out in the public, but here, now, he is ruined, he is all Childe’s.
Childe comes quick, this time. His cock drools pathetically against his stomach, and he doesn’t even need to be touched to reach the peaks of his pleasure. Damn Zhongli, damn him and his perfect cock and his perfect technique – how can Childe stand to be separated from him, after this?
Zhongli slams into him, picking up the pace, skin slapping against skin with such force Childe thinks he’ll bruise. He’s looking forward to seeing marks all over his body, afterwards, and he tells Zhongli that, coaxing him into another orgasm. When Zhongli comes it is with a whine and a deep bite on the side of Childe’s neck. Zhongli spills so deep in Childe he thinks he’ll never get it all out.
“Please –“ Childe tries, weak from pleasure, weak from Zhongli, but the man is too far gone now. He merely flips Childe onto his belly, and presses his cock in.
Childe screams into the pillow, shuddering, and comes just from that alone.
+
Afterwards, when Zhongli finishes his routine groveling, Childe tucks himself against Zhongli neatly. His head fits under Zhongli’s chin so nicely. It is comfortable, Zhongli’s solid chest under his cheek, their hands entwined on Zhongli’s belly.
“Zhongli,” Childe murmurs, too sleepy to keep his eyes open.
“Mmh,” Zhongli says. He presses a kiss to the ring on Childe’s finger.
“Love you the most.”
“I also love you the most,” comes Zhongli’s answer. Around them, the sky brightens into early morning.