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Despite the not-so secret identity Zhongli buries beneath his coat, he is a woefully predictable man. A creature of habit. He forgets his mora like leaving it at home is the first task on his daily schedule. Each morning starts with oolong and each night ends with chrysanthemum. His hair is bound with the same wrap every day and Childe has never seen him pin anything other than that one, golden gem to his silk necktie.
Zhongli is as steady as stone and as easy to read as a map. How he still manages to surprise Childe despite this fact is a mystery to them both.
“I believe I have fallen in love with you.” Zhongli states plainly. His eyes don’t even bother to lift from the aged book he reads, as though speaking his mind is the simplest thing in the world rather than an earthquake beneath Childe’s feet.
Honesty comes so easily to Zhongli. It’s not fair.
Childe’s breath hitches, but he manages to collect himself enough before the fine china cup in his hand is taken by gravity. Still, he knows shock must be written all over his face. The reflection that stares back at him from the golden depths of his tea is evidence enough. His mouth opens and closes like a fish pulled from a dark hole in the ice, cycling through a hundred different faces to decide which fits best.
They’re all falling short.
You don’t even know me.
“Childe?”
“Sorry.” He startles, pulling his blinking gaze away from his tea to smile tightly at the consultant. Childe knows that whatever expression he is trying to sculpt must look wrong on his face. It pulls too oddly at his muscles to look close to natural. Taken so off guard though, there’s only so much bravado he can stitch together.
If he were still a child playing a silly game in the compound, he is certain Signora would slap it from his skull in one fell swoop.
Not good enough. Who are you?
She isn’t here though. Maybe that’s half the problem.
Zhongli is patiently peering at him from over the yellowed pages of his book, golden eyes waiting like an owl in the night. Sitting behind his oak desk, his posture is as ramrod as ever, even though they are supposed to be relaxing today. This isn’t unusual per se. Zhongli is perpetually stiff in how he carries himself, however Childe can spot the miniscule differences.
The smallest hint of a crease between his brows.
How he shields half his face with his novel rather than holding it low by his chest in leisure.
The fact he hasn't blinked, as if scared Childe will bolt if he dares to.
Zhongli is nervous. Or simply concerned. It’s hard to tell.
Childe sighs quietly at the sight, but the soft smile he offers Zhongli is (worryingly) genuine. Gently placing his cup down with a quiet click, Childe accepts that it will be forgotten in favour of this admittedly belated conversation, “Is that so?” He questions, his voice a breath of resignation as he meanders across the room.
Zhongli nods slightly, eyes sliding back to his book. He looks the perfect image of unaffected, but Childe doesn’t miss the stillness of Zhongli, the way his eyes won’t actually rake across the text in front him, “After much reflection it appears to be the most sensible conclusion.”
Childe can’t help but snort. It’s probably the only real confession he’ll ever receive and it’s so laughably blasé. How fitting.
The harbinger casually leans his hip against desk now, his shadow casting a dark light over the pages before Zhongli, though that’s not important. It’s not like he was reading it anyway, “You say it so easily.” Childe points out from beside him.
With a small pout, Zhongli seems to consider for a moment. His eyes are distantly analytical, the copper gears of his mind replaying his own words before finally settling, “I suppose the situation would still be the same regardless of how I choose to deliver it, so I see little point in playing coy,” Zhongli explains, gingerly placing the book to a close, “Speaking one's mind is not what makes a matter true or not. Verbalisation does not shift the reality I have already grown content with. Its only job is to make it known.”
Make it impossible to ignore , Childe fills in, but that quick assumption doesn’t sit quite right amongst the puzzle pieces that make up Zhongli.
“Most people aren’t so casual in making their affections known.” Childe informs.
“I suppose I am not ‘most people.’” And isn’t that the damning truth of the matter.
For a man so hellbent on tradition, of ages with dowries and arranged marriages and the like, you would think he would understand why these conversations are not intended to be so blunt.
Childe does not know how to begin explaining the transactional nature of these rocky relationships, that confession is so rarely a selflessly given gift as it is a barter for one’s most guarded fortune. Humans spend their days peacocking and courting to increase their intrinsic value, polishing their edges for when the right buyer might come along. And when hearts are finally beared upon the auction floor, it is not of charity but of business. An offer is presented, negotiations follow.
Love is so rarely unconditional. Reciprocity is the expectation and these confessions demand caution, a fear of theft. They are not ‘coy’ for the mere sake of theatrics.
Any mortal of Teyvat would have selfishly demanded a counteroffer by this stage, and yet Zhongli does not. He states his mind wholeheartedly for no other reason than to have it heard, and whatever Childe’s response may be will not change that. He is fearless in vulnerability because as far as he is aware, there is nothing he is exposing that has not already been given atop an open palm.
The God of commerce himself cannot understand the value in his own generosity. To him, in this moment, it is nothing more than a given.
It’s so unbelievably foreign to Childe. How wonderful.
“Will my affections prove to be a problem?” Zhongli asks, looking up at Childe with such pure sincerity that it’s hard to not simply embrace the consultant and assure him everything will be just fine. Nothing is going to change. Not now, not ever.
“No,” Childe whispers serenely, “Not at all.”
It’s the best lie he has told since he arrived in Liyue. He so dearly wants to believe it himself.
“Then I am glad.” Zhongli smiles privately, but his eyes shine with a dizzying amount of joy. Gently, he laces his fingers between Childe’s own, so sure in his consideration so as to not spook Childe any further.
So caring.
“What made you come to that realisation, anyway? Did all my gifts finally break you down?” Childe jokes, a half hearted attempt to switch to something lighter. Easier. Something that doesn’t make him feel like an exposed wire.
Zhongli shakes his head, “It is simply that you are very dear to me,” He replies earnestly. When Zhongli raises their entwined hands to his cool lips, it is with a tenderness that never fails to leave Childe stuttering. A reverent kiss is placed to one knuckle. Two knuckles. Three. As though scattered freckles alone could outshine any dazzling ring. He showers unconditional devotion across Childe’s hand and it leaves the harbinger positively floating, “All of you.”
And when Zhongli lifts his eyes once more, lips still pressed and long lashes fluttering, the sight Childe finds leaves him breathless.
It’s always been those damn eyes, after all.
There are a hundred faces that stare back at Childe, warped reflections bouncing from an endless maze of cor lapis fractals. It’s a kaleidoscope of gold and amber and each steady twist leaves another face tumbling. Another mask shattering until only one, stuttering boy remains in the centre of it all. He goes by a name Childe hasn't heard in years, and yet somehow in the silence, Zhongli spells it out so clearly.
Childe feels so small. So transparent. There is no way for Zhongli to know and yet Childe has never felt so seen in his life, but more importantly, so understood. As though Zhongli has been through every frigid step of his life himself. A mirror of amber with a millennia of preservations to pick from.
Zhongli sees it all, and yet he submits himself to a bloodied, mortal hand all the same. Willing. Loving.
It’s too much.
There is a heartbeat that rises from the cavernous pit of Childe’s stomach, a vulnerability that oozes from some forgotten corner of his chest and threatens to flood his very being. It is thick as honey as it seeps into every cold corner of Childe’s frail body. Up, up and up it rises, climbing his throat before reaching the bottleneck of that invisible, frozen collar he wears like a dog of the military.
She squeezes, impossible to ignore.
Don’t, She commands, but She’s not here. Not really.
It perseveres nonetheless, straining the padlock of Childe’s loyalty until he can hear it creak in the space between them.
(He doesn’t deserve this)
And when he receives that first, heavenly taste on his tongue, forming flowered words he never thought he could ever truly mean, he does the only sensible thing there is.
Childe swallows it back down to the void it belongs, but not before it can spread across his lips in the most sincere way allowed.
Diving in for a kiss, Childe tries his best to let Zhongli know all the same. It’s a clumsy thing made of lopsided edges and clashing teeth from smiles neither of them can seem to shake, laced with tender caresses from shaky thumbs and whispering sighs that blow as sweet as cherry blossoms. Childe cups Zhongli’s heavenly face like the grail itself and with a leap of faith, he allows himself to drink himself stupid. Just this once he will allow himself to be greedy.
And if Zhongli manages to pay attention between all of their quiet giggles and shared breaths, maybe he will find an aftertaste that lingers within Childe, a drop that refuses to budge before being heard.
At the core of it, behind polished masks and tailored uniforms, Childe is not an eloquent man. This is all he can manage for now, at least.
Childe only prays that Zhongli understands all the same.
(He does. Gods were made to recognise devotion after all).