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The moonlight comes in soft through the window, wavering as clouds waft by. The aroma of peach blossoms float in on the crisp air, threatening just a hint of chill - but Zhongli is safe beneath the covers. One of Childe's arms lays heavy across his waist; the other supports a hand, lazily going through his obsidian hair, still wet from their shower.
Zhongli thinks it's most likely an awful time to talk about anything, laying in bed together sated and slow. Two hearts beating. A terrible time to bring up what must be said at some point, Rex Lapis's gnosis pulsing, aching inside of him; situated right beside his heart, so torturously human despite the immortality of his weary body. Childe's hands had brushed atop it earlier when they were undressing, but he didn't stop, seeking something else for the moment, carefully showing nothing as he bypassed the treasure of Liyue to wind his arms around Zhongli and bring him in for a heartwrenching kiss. Those same arms encircle him now - it would be a bad time to say anything, to disturb the tranquility of this moment. A petal floats in through the window and past his face.
Zhongli opens his mouth and says,
"I know who you are. Why you're here."
He expects Childe to freeze, or maybe push him away - he had said it, what they were both avoiding. Here comes the sudden urge to shake rock and move mountain, anything to bridge the cavernous divide between their interests, anything to put to use this traitorous gnosis that brought them together and will tear them apart. His hands shake imperceptibly with the anticipation of movement.
But the Fatui always turn his expectations on their head, always defy his divine predictions. Of course this one, as un-Fatui as he is, would be no different. Childe continues stroking his hair - if anything, he pulls him even closer.
"You know if you asked, I would give it to you," Zhongli says, after a few heartbeats, when Childe doesn't make to reply.
This gets Childe to pause, breath hitching. But he carries on as normal a heartbeat later, so quickly Zhongli thinks he may have imagined the moment of hesitation. His fingers are soft as they resume their thoughtful meandering through Zhongli's hair.
"That's why I haven't," Childe says, mild and sweet as anything.
Zhongli can't find anything to respond to that with. He inhales the scent lingering in Childe's collarbone, says nothing; silence settles over the room like a warm blanket.
-
The next day, Zhongli wakes to find Childe already up, dressed in a simple robe and holding out a tray of breakfast with a fond smile. Over congee and red bean buns in bed, Childe reads him an excerpt from one of the many books in Zhongli's study, one he had only skimmed before. His lover's voice is gentle and resonant, lacking the false cheer of his usual glamor, replaced by something deeper, more genuine. It feels like falling into a pit of molasses - Zhongli lets it wash over him, drown him in its honeyed promise.
"The innamorati are lovers, in traditional commedia dell'arte," Childe says quietly, without preamble. One of his hands holds the book open - the other finds Zhongli's and traces over his knuckles. "Though the other actors may wear masks, the innamorati are maskless, their truths laid bare to each other. Despite facing many obstacles, the innamorati are always united in the end."
"Tartaglia," Zhongli says. "You-"
Childe smiles; kisses him, so sweetly. The words die in his throat. His eyes are as blue as crystal water.
"They serve no purpose but to love and be loved."