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Childe has not received many hugs in his life. His immediate family, though loving and everything he could’ve asked for, refrained from hugs once he returned from the Abyss. Even before that, physical affection between them usually was scarce to find, especially in the form of a hug.
It’s never bothered him. Hugs were easy to let go of when his mother tucked him in during cold Snezhnayan nights with a kiss, hugs were easy to let go of when his father slapped him on the back after a particularly impressive catch from ice fishing. Hugs were easy to let go of when his older siblings would spoil him if his hands were cold from being out for too long, cupping them in their own warm ones until he squirmed away. Hugs were easy to forget about when his family constantly rejoiced in each other’s presence.
Hugs weren’t commonly distributed between his family, and he never needed them. Despite this, it was hard to forget about the warmth of a hug when he fell into the Abyss at 14. It was hard to forget about the warmth of a hug when everywhere around him was biting cold and hot and alive and everything was swarming and coddling him in a way his family did not.
It was hard to forget about the warmth of a hug when all the hugs he could get were from himself, when all he could replicate of his family’s gentle touch were his own battered arms wrapped in gauze curling around his frail body. Even when all he could see around him was violence, when Skirk polished him into a sharp blade, it was hard to let go of the fleeting memory of a touch that wasn’t meant to harm him.
When he reemerged from the Abyss with an aversion to the kisses and hugs and weeps of joy his parents and family wanted to offer him, comforting and intimate gestures were long since stored in the back of his head. Instead, all he could think about was how easy it would be to knock his family over by slashing their Achilles heel and slit their throats.
He almost entirely forgot about hugs when his Father sent him off to the Fatui ranks, when he was sent off to be muzzled by their Archon’s warforce. Surely this would stave off the scalding feeling beneath his skin begging to be bled out. Surely the demanding regiment of Fatui training would prepare him to return home crying as the 14 year old should.
Instead, it only receded his memories of such gestures more. In the place of his hands being cupped to warm them was the hands of a higher-up tying his wrists together to punish him with a whip, in the place of a pat on the back was a hit from a metal pipe. In the place of a hug was the chokehold of another soldier, colliding with his windpipe.
Childe only learned gestures of violence in his upbringing, and he liked to keep it that way. He offered physical touch to Teucer, of course- he was still so young, and his penchant of requiring attention and love kept bringing him back; like a fish being reeled from the icy water it resided in.
Childe, now in his 20’s, laughs at the physical intimacy of hugs and otherwise, and the sentimental importance of them that people hold dear. To him, it was just a facade of love - no matter how long a mother would hold her son, she would still stare at him in fear. No matter how many times a father would congratulate and pat his son on the back, he would still send him off away to be a danger to someone else.
But that was okay, to Childe; he’d rather keep it that way, anyways. With the warmth of adrenaline constantly pumping through his veins and keeping his blood boiling, he really couldn’t deal with the heat of another body draped around him. He’d much rather feel the life drip steadily out of his enemies.
~
The first time Childe meets Zhongli, he’s taken aback by the cool stoicism of his gaze. He’s taken aback by the grace he holds himself with, the respect he holds for Liyue and its traditions. He’s surprised by the wisdom in his posture, in the way he presents himself like a bachelor.
He’s most surprised, however, at how comforting he is merely to talk to. He doesn’t need to physically fight him or restrain him to keep him at his side, doesn’t need to gesture him over with a wave or flourish of his hand as you would beckon a dog for Childe to follow alongside him quickly. He doesn’t require the touch of a mother or the love from a father to make him feel like he’s loved, and that makes Childe happier than he has been.
With Zhongli, the quell and thirst for blood recedes like the tide, goes away to the back of his mind, as if the mere presence of him was enough to persuade its existence to falter. Zhongli is gentle, and so kind. Childe could weep thinking about him -- and the amount of mora Zhongli has spent. The amount of hurt Childe has gone through was enough to pay for the mere existence of such a god-sent man.
So Childe is not surprised when he eases himself around Zhongli’s constant lingering warmth near him, not surprised when Zhongli idly stands beside him closer than most others would dare to. Childe is not surprised by the physical guidance of Zhongli’s hand around his, trying to make his hands grasp at the chopsticks properly.
What Childe is surprised about, however, is the fact that he never recoiled. He never drew forth the calming power of his hydro vision as he would in any other case when someone not in his family touched him. He never jerked away or laughed it off, or went vacantly silent. Instead, he just let his hand relax around it, let him guide his hand how he pleased -- and if he almost reaches his hand out to grasp at Zhongli’s cool glove again, he pretends he doesn’t -- until he properly holds his chopsticks.
Zhongli seems to take this as confirmation of physical touch being welcomed with him, takes it as confirmation that he’s an exception to his aversion. Ever since the meeting at the restaurant Zhongli introduced to him, he’s eased Childe back into the thought of holding someone’s hand, the thought of draping himself over someone’s shoulder, eased him into being held by someone if he’s injured.
Because Zhongli, unlike everyone else, isn’t unbearably warm. He doesn’t combat the heat of his own body, doesn’t go against his own adrenaline constantly leaving him on high alert -- because unlike everyone else, Zhongli coexists with Childe’s own warmth perfectly. His grip is cold, no matter how long Childe holds onto his hand, or envelopes it in his warm grip as his siblings used to do.
Rather than a shocking notion, he finds it comforting. Exhilarating, maybe, the thought that someone could combat his bloodlust and physical ‘flaws’ through a mere brush of a hand tucking a piece of hair behind his ear.
So Childe smiles, even dares himself to grasp at Zhongli’s hand himself. He takes initiative, dragging Zhongli along physically, not entrancing him with the graceful and marvelous way of speech Zhongli did. Instead, he coerces him, goads him to follow him onwards with promises of dinner -- lest his eagerness shows more as an act of arrogance.
So when Zhongli’s hand holds the gnosis he was searching for, he doesn’t dare himself to grab at Zhongli’s wrist and slot his hand into his as easily as they used to. Zhongli takes initiative, placing the divine object into Signora’s callous hand, returning his arm to his side as tactfully as before. Besides him is the Traveler, gazing at both curiously before their expression takes one of shock.
Childe’s expression flickers through many emotions; grieving, confusion, rage, hurt, acceptance -- perhaps even amusement. For once, he feels the same need of violence being directed to Zhongli -- ever so gentle Zhongli, he wanted to see his intestines hanging. Finally, his face takes on an expression of bitter understanding, a gross look of envy painting his face as he leaves the room with fast strides.
This time, he doesn’t attempt to tease Zhongli to follow him. The comforting sounds of dress-shoe heels hitting the pavement no longer follows him, and Childe swallows a lump in his throat with a choked back, dry sob.
~
Zhongli finds him at the outer banks of Liyue Harbor’s beach. The sound of his footsteps alert him of his presence, and Childe makes no move to escape. Zhongli’s shoes stop right before him, not yet kneeling or sitting next to him.
Behind Childe are his discarded gloves, boots and scarf, pants rolled up to his knees. “Childe,” Zhongli starts gently. “I’m sorry. You did not deserve my deception. You played your role perfectly, and I applaud you -- it takes a commendable amount of strength and willpower to reawaken a sealed god,” Zhongli chuckles to himself, amused at the prospect. Childe grits his teeth at how easily Morax was able to dismiss his tribulations, but he supposed a deity who lived over 6,000 years was meant to be that ignorant.
“So that’s it?” Childe seethes, angry for -- for what? Why was he angry? “You’re giving me an apology, congratulating me on my strength, and laughing? Do you want me to give you money again, Morax? Do you know how much you mean- meant , to me?” Childe doesn’t risk looking up at all knowing amber eyes yet, listening to the hitched breath of the Geo Archon above him. He knows he shouldn’t goad Zhongli like this. He knows Zhongli could easily snuff out his life in the ways the Abyss couldn’t.
Instead, the Geo Archon kneels before him, hesitatingly carding through his hair to remove his bangs from his face. Childe looks back up, the moonlight illuminating the backside of Zhongli. There, that infuriating and handsome smile -- the signature of Zhongli -- rests on his expression. His eyes melt through him, understanding and confusion somehow intertwining -- understanding what? His turmoil? Confused on what? The emotions and fragility of humans? “There you are,” he says softly, words practically breathed out towards him. “So is this what Guizhong meant?” he chuckles again, removing his hands from Childe’s hair. Childe finds himself pathetically chasing his touch again.
Childe’s eyes find themselves darting over to Zhongli again, as if unintentionally, and he watches as Zhongli strips his hands of his gloves. Underneath is black asphalt covered in geo markings, pulsating in a golden hue cor lapis could barely replicate. He cups Childe’s face in them gently, the thrumming of his hands almost lulling him to sleep. “You are so peculiar,” Zhongli murmurs, thoroughly amused at the drooping of his eyes. “Childe, I apologize. Sincerely, I’m sorry. It seems I don’t understand mortals as intimately as I would like.”
Zhongli’s breath catches in his throat, faltering in a sentence for the first time Childe had heard him. “Would you let me understand intimacy with you?” he asks gently, lovingly -- the smooth thumb of Zhongli’s hand stroking the cheek of Childe. He gazes upwards again, and gold eyes greet him, upturned in a smile.
He smiles back. Childe, for the first time in a decade, envelopes Zhongli’s firm body in a hug he's rarely given. He clings onto Zhongli’s body, and Zhongli accepts him just as easily as his hand rests on the small of his back, scooping him over onto his lap.
Childe smiles gently, dried tear tracks on his cheeks disappearing in the forgiving air of the beach and the night, grasping onto the back of Zhongli’s suit. It would be hard to forget hugs again -- not when Zhongli was holding him so gently.
His bloodlust recedes as the ocean’s waves retreat from lapping at the sand.