Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They lay on their backs underneath the deep winter that blankets the sky. Stars twinkle back, pinpricks of glitter dotting the night, mapping out patterns that Childe’s only read about in books. 

“I don’t know these constellations,” he says. “I mean, I know them, I guess, but this isn’t what the sky normally looks like.”

“I crafted this pot thousands of years ago,” says Zhongli from beside him. “The stars then were different from the stars now. With the years that pass, so do the stars. There are spots I see here that are no longer alive in the sky out there.”

“Does that bother you?” Their shoulders touch and warmth leeches through the soft fabric of Childe’s shirt before it’s lost in the biting cold. He leans closer until their sides are flush, legs tangled together.

Zhongli is quiet for a moment. “Not particularly. Everything erodes away, even celestial bodies. Even gods, such as I. So no, it doesn’t bother me. It is expected.”

Childe rolls over to look at him, tracing the curves of Zhongli’s face with his eyes. The blanket is scratchy under his cheek but it’s worth the minor annoyance if it means seeing Zhongli so relaxed. His face is slack and the soft wrinkles that pull at his mouth are eased for the moment. Childe can’t help but reach out and touch, the pads of his fingers ghosting down the ridge of Zhongli’s nose. 

Zhongli turns, tugging Childe’s hand up for a sweet kiss on the knuckles. “Are you worried?”

“A little.” No use in pretending. “But I know that you aren’t.”

Zhongli hums, smoothing his thumb across the back of Childe’s hand, a steady pressure that grounds them both. “This isn’t the moment for that. Aren’t we out here chasing some old myth about the midwinter?”

Childe grins. “That was just an excuse to get you out of the house.”

“Oh?” Zhongli raises an eyebrow. Amusement leaks from his pores as he leans over Childe, pressing him back into the blanket. The ground is cold and hard, but Zhongli is warm as he settles over him, brushing back Childe’s bangs. “Darling, you just had to ask.”

“It’s more fun to pretend to be you, spinning old stories and hoping others will listen.” 

Another moment as he just lingers there, Zhongli’s palm cradling Childe’s cheek. “You honor me, wanting to spend the holiday here instead of with your family.”

Childe had the opportunity to go back to Morepesok on vacation. He stayed here instead because he’s stupidly in love and drunk on it. “They aren’t going anywhere.”

“Neither am I.” Zhongli smiles, a subtle and soft thing. And then he dips low to kiss Childe underneath the starry sky. He smells like sage and sandalwood and the earth. Feels solid against him, like a stone, unwavering in the way that he holds himself up on steady arms. “You’re stuck with this old lizard,” teases Zhongli against his mouth, nipping at his lips. 

And all that Childe can think as he sinks into his embrace, kissing him back, teeth chattering in the cold, is that he can certainly do worse than a beleaguered old dragon with a penchant for tea.

Chapter Text

“Okay, so this is what you do—”

“The cake is going to break.”

“It won’t— it won’t! You’ve just gotta be a little careful. Get your fingers under here and gently roll it.”

“Are you sure that is enough frosting? The book—”

Oh, Zhongli won’t shut up about the book. Hasn’t since the moment Childe cracked it open, demanding that they make a Yule Log in light of the holiday. “The book is just a guideline.”

“It is a recipe. That implies—”

“We followed the recipe,” says Childe, rolling his eyes with extreme exaggeration. “Everything that comes after decorating? Up to interpretation.”

Zhongli raises an eyebrow from where he leans against the counter, chin in his hand. He looks a little ridiculous in the apron, but if Childe is going to wear one, Zhongli is too. And really, peppermint stripes suit him, though Zhongli begs to disagree. 

“Alright, stop.” Childe does, hands pressed flat against the underside of the rectangular cake. Zhongli circles the edge of the counter and leans around him, grabbing a spatula. “Up to interpretation, yes? I would like more frosting.”

Childe huffs, but nods for him to continue. Zhongli dips the utensil into the frosting, gathering a large wad before plopping it onto the cake. He spreads it around with clumsy strokes, layering it unevenly, thicker clumps in several spots.

“That’s—Zhongli, it’s a mess.”

“I never claimed to be good at this, unlike you.” He drops the spatula into the bowl and moves to press close to Childe instead, one hand settling against his waist in a gentle touch. “It’ll taste the same, though.”

Heat rolls through Childe, warming him from the chilly night. “We’re making this to share with others,” he says, ignoring how Zhongli nuzzles his neck, pressing a sweet kiss there. “Hey, stop that. Back to work.”

“This is work. I’m encouraging you.”

“You’re distracting me.”

Zhongli chuckles, his breath hot against his skin. “Work faster then. This old lizard is getting tired and it’s near his bedtime.”

“You don’t have a bedtime.” Childe snorts. “You barely sleep.” He dozes in bed, curled around Childe, purring and basking in the silk sheets.

Still, Zhongli is right—it is getting late. Even when the holiday is in full swing, their work doesn’t stop. The bank’s been busier than Childe’s ever seen before. And while people aren’t dropping dead in the streets, even Zhongli has been busy when it comes to preparing funeral rites. 

“Go on, back to work,” teases Zhongli, still plastered against his back, settled in. He won’t be moving. 

Childe gently rolls the cake up. Slow and steady, careful touches to make sure it doesn’t crack. He manages to get a decent log-shaped roll by the time he’s done. “There. Not too bad—”

“Do you need to frost the rest now?”

“It’d be better—”

“But it isn’t required.”

Childe’s gaze narrows. “I should make you wait.” 

And he does, pushing Zhongli away and grabbing the frosting knife. Zhongli falls back to an old wooden stool. He jitters, his toe tapping against the ground as he watches Childe take his time. 

It’s slow-going with intent. Childe drags the spatula across the Yule Log as if he’s spreading molasses, taking care to smooth everything out until it’s pristine and perfect. Even if it takes a second, or third go, the flat of the utensil flush with the cake. 

Zhongli watches him the entire time, eyes sharp like a hawk. Plotting. 

The moment Childe lays the spatula down, Zhongli is on him. He’s pressed back against the counter, Zhongli slotting himself between his legs. Zhongli dips closer until their mouths are hovering breaths away. 

“Oh?” Childe smirks, smoothing a hand down Zhongli’s front. “Is this why you were so impatient? Let me guess—it’s the apron. Does it do things to you?”

“You do things to me, but you already know that.” He’s about to kiss him when Childe moves, quick like lightning. He shoves a finger into the frosting bowl and smears it across Zhongli’s face. 

“That’s—”

“Want me to lick it off?”

Zhongli’s face shifts then, head tilted as Childe watches him back coyly. 

They’ve never fucked against the kitchen counter, but there’s a first time for everything. Childe laughs when Zhongli lifts him up to sit there, ass firmly planted in a fine dusting of flour. 

Chapter Text

“You know,” starts Zhongli when Childe hands him a steaming mug of hot cocoa, “when I was young—”

Oh, that’s never a good start. The thought of Zhongli as once young is a strange and silly thing. Childe snorts and Zhongli pauses, eyes narrowing as his mouth curls slightly. “No, no, go on. You have my attention.”

Zhongli huffs softly, curling his long, slender fingers around his cup. “As I said—” 

Well, he sounds a little testy. Childe hides a grin behind his mug as he sips, resisting the urge to laugh.

 “—When I was younger—” Minutely better but still hilarious to imagine. “—chocolate used to be gifted to me as a rare delicacy.”

“Oh?”

Zhongli nods. “It was considered somewhat sacred and befitting of a god. So naturally, as Rex Lapis—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. They bowed to you, blah blah.” Childe waves his hand. “Just drink the damn chocolate.”

Zhongli humors him, raising the cup to his mouth. Slowly. He savors it, like he does wine or tea, letting the boiling liquid wash over his tongue without a jerk. Rude. Childe’s tongue still stings from his last sip. 

“Tasty,” says Zhongli. “Sweet—but not too much so. The peppermint is a nice addition.” 

Childe basks in Zhongli’s praise, leg jittery as he bounces in his chair. He can’t help but feel warm at his words, smiling wide as they sit there in the kitchen, toasty in the teapot. 

“That being said—” Childe thought himself in the clear too soon. Zhongli laughs at his expression and leans forward. “A tease,” he says, kissing Childe’s temple. “But you should have seen your face. You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”

“Are you coming onto me?”

Zhongli chuckles again, catching Childe’s chin in his fingers. He dips close and says, “Always.”

It’s sweet, just like the kiss they share next. Zhongli tastes like chocolate and peppermint as they move against each other lazily, chasing saccharine pleasure. These are the moments he loves, the ones that linger, sinking into his gut. The soft teasing, the gentleness of Zhongli’s touch. 

Maybe the holiday season makes it headier, but it’s not as though Childe’s complaining.

“What are you thinking about?” Zhongli’s voice is quiet. 

Childe pulls back with a grin. “What do you say to lighting up the fireplace? We can go cuddle by it. I’ll even let you pick the book. Whatever you want.”

Zhongli perks at that, his back straightening. “Any book?” he asks, eyes wide. If he were in a different form, his tail would definitely be wagging. Cute. So, so cute.  

He looks both young and old—young in the smoothness of his face, but old in the way it’s weighed down by exhaustion. But at this moment, he’s full of life, already kicking back his stool and heading for the bookshelf. 

Childe shakes his head and follows suit. He strikes a match and lights the logs in the fireplace. He piles pillows and blankets onto the floor in a comfortable heap. He’s laying down, their mugs of hot chocolate refilled to the brim and steaming when Zhongli arrives, book in hand. 

“What— Zhongli, no.”

“You said whatever I want.”

“A real novel! Not an etiquette book—”

Zhongli clucks his tongue and settles in, his back against the settee as he leans against it. Of course, he’d pick something boring, despite owning eons’ worth of texts.

“Customs of Liyue,” Childe grumbles. But, he settles into Zhongli’s lap with little wasted time, laying on his back, head cradled by plush thighs. A sip of his chocolate, the sweetness burning his tongue. The sound of a book being cracked open, followed by Zhongli’s deep voice.

“‘In the earliest and humblest days of Liyue's history, Liyue's farmer-forebears would elect community representatives to greet the Geo Archon on arrival and give him an appropriate send-off on departure—’”

Childe snorts. How apt, considering their earlier conversation about chocolate. Zhongli pauses, a hand snaking down to pinch the meat of his bicep. “Ow! Okay, okay, I’m shutting up.”

“‘After making lavish offerings and reciting solemn blessings…’”

Zhongli’s hand moves to rest against Childe’s scalp, fingers digging into his unruly auburn hair. Childe melts as Zhongli pets it, lulled by the gentle scratching of his nails. The low timbre of his voice. The warmth of the fire on a chilly night, and the way that the hot chocolate just melts away the unease in his muscles. 

Like a hug from the inside. There’s nothing like holiday bliss.

Chapter Text

A strange cold front blows through Liyue, taking with it the temperate climate, blue skies, and warm sun. 

It’s a dreary, gray day. Frost nips at their noses, turning them pink like flower blossoms. The morning dew still clings to leaves, icy droplets caught in suspension like twinkling teardrops. Childe takes a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs in a way he thought he might’ve forgotten. 

Zhongli doesn’t mind the cold—or so he claims. He’s still bundled to the nines and lingering on the porch underneath the awning. 

Childe loves the biting cold. The crisp, clear air reminds him of the holiday. He can just imagine the forest filled with fir trees. The sharp smell of pine and how tree needles litter the ground. Holly branches, hot chocolate, and wrapping up presents by the fire.

It isn’t that it doesn’t feel like Yuletide in Liyue, but there are things that he misses about Snezhnaya that sing with the sound of the holiday. 

Zhongli knows, of course. He leans there against the open frame of their home, arms crossed and hands shoved into his jacket. He watches Childe with a soft, but calculating look, those age-old, golden eyes roaming his frame. 

Childe grins. “Are you going to stay inside?”

“I’m not inside.”

He’s straddling the edge of technicality. Childe’s grin melts into something smug. “You’re not outside, either. Is it too cold for you, old lizard?”

Zhongli huffs, offended. “I’m not too cold—but it certainly isn’t my favorite. I prefer the sunshine.”

“Because you like to bask in it.”

“Well, you did call me a lizard, which is not entirely incorrect. I’m also—”

“You’re a million things. You’re nothing at all. You’re just… you?”

Zhongli falls quiet as he considers this, his gaze thoughtful. “An oversimplification of eons of identity.”

“Does it matter?” asks Childe, the question genuine as it rolls off his tongue.

“No, I suppose not.”

Childe turns to tease him but then stops dead. His eyes widen, a grin easing across his face. “Hey! It’s—”

Snow. Pearly white fluff that drifts through the air. It won’t stick—isn’t cold enough for it to pile up—but it’s enough to twirl around and imagine that it’s the beginnings of a winter wonderland. Childe feels like a kid. Even this past year, he was too busy with work to properly enjoy something like this. 

“Ajax,” says Zhongli, finally having left the porch. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“I will not. I’ve been lost in snow drifts taller than you. This is nothing.”

“All the same.” Zhongli loops something warm and fuzzy around Childe’s neck, pulling it tight. Red wool, thick-ply, smelling of sage and earth. 

Childe blinks as he presses his nose into it, inhaling deeply. “Hey, this is mine.” Only it carries Zhongli’s scent now. “I left this…” Right before the revelation of who Zhongli was. In the midst of stinging betrayal, Childe forgot he’d left this at Zhongli’s home. 

“I kept it.” He tucks the edges in, ice-cold fingers biting into Childe’s neck. “I—well, it’s yours. At the time, it was all I had of you.”

Childe tugs the scarf from his neck, which makes Zhongli grunt, dissatisfied. But then he loops it around both their necks, loose and warm, tucking the ends back in, and Zhongli sighs softly, his gaze warming into something fond. 

Zhongli dips close and kisses him. It’s sweet, lingering, nothing particularly passionate but it feels like it is with the snow as their backdrop. Soft lips; warm breaths; foreheads pressed together as they spin around chasing snowflakes—

The warmer winter season is worth it if it means spending it with Zhongli. 

Chapter Text

Childe comes home from a long day of work to the smell of soup and the sound of Zhongli singing. 

It’s soft. A little out of tune, barely-there notes just this side of flat. Childe has never heard him indulge in such a thing, so he leans against the door frame, taking a moment to listen. 

An old language, lilting words that sound like Liyuen, but in a different sort of dialect. They lull Childe and he feels himself falling into step with the rise and fall of their syllables.  

Zhongli moves about the kitchen with fluid grace, using chopsticks to stir something with an expert touch. And that song—the hum of his deep baritone voice as notes just drip from his mouth. It’s wonderful in its imperfection. 

Childe crosses the space on quiet feet. Zhongli isn’t surprised. He probably smelled him the moment he stepped in the door. Geo and Hydro always clash, crystallizing the moment their energies come into contact. He and Zhongli are no different. 

What is different is that Zhongli doesn’t stop singing, his voice soft and free as he stirs whatever is in the wok. 

“What’s this?” asks Childe, resting his chin on Zhongli’s shoulder. 

“A stir-fry. Miss Xiangling was kind enough to write down the recipe for me.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Childe turns slightly, kissing the curve of Zhongli’s jaw. 

Zhongli smiles in response but falls quiet. Hesitant. Maybe even a little embarrassed. “It was nothing.”

“Mhm.” Another kiss, this one near Zhongli’s ear. “No, not nothing. Seriously, I’ve never heard you sing. What was it?”

“Terrible, is what it was,” says Zhongli, tone as dry as the Sumeru desert. Childe snorts into his neck but makes no claims otherwise. Zhongli stirs the food more before speaking again. “An old carol, one that modern ears have surely forgotten. This season… I do not typically celebrate it, but with you here—” Zhongli sighs. “There is much that I have forgotten. Faces, names, old traditions. I expect it. Even beings such as myself, even gods of old are not exempt from age. I was surprised, though, to remember this song.”

Childe curls around him, arms tightening around his waist. Zhongli leans back, savoring the touch long enough that the noodles start to burn. “Hey—”

“I see it.” His chopsticks are swift, stirring them back to a proper simmer. 

Childe wants to know what the song is, what the words mean, and the feelings it evokes in Zhongli’s chest. Zhongli is humming again, still slightly off-tune, but it’s beautiful to Childe because it’s a rare moment where he seems so utterly raw and himself. 

“I want to hear it again.”

“You do not.”

“No, I do.”

Zhongli snorts, taking the wok and sliding the noodles out onto two plates, perfectly portioned. “Will you sing for me in return? I’d love to hear an old Snezhnayan classic.”

“You know all the classics, but—” Childe clears his throat and bursts into a particularly terrible rendition of Deck the Halls.  

Later, that night, as they warm themselves by the fire, Zhongli starts to hum again. Childe’s cheek is pressed against his thigh as he rests. Zhongli pets his hair idly with one hand and holds a book in the other. 

“Sounds like a lullaby,” he murmurs.

Zhongli pauses, having not even realized he was humming. “It could be, I suppose.”

“Sing it to me again?”

This time, when Zhongli sighs, it’s with affection and contentment. “Of course,” he mutters, closing the book. 

It’s easy to fall asleep to those old and ancient words. Childe doesn’t need to know their meaning to feel the love that Zhongli weaves into them. 

Chapter Text

It rarely snows this far south in Liyue where the Harbor sits on the sea and the climate remains temperate, even when it’s chilly. 

The cold pulls at him, prickling his skin and raising gooseflesh on his arms. Zhongli isn’t lying when he tells Childe that the cold doesn’t bother him— it doesn’t. But he longs for sunlight to bask in with wild instincts, so these colder winter months slog by in a drag.

Childe thrives in weather like this, Zhongli has come to learn. The brisk air livens him. He dances around outside in too-short sleeves, insisting that he’s made of the snow himself. 

“I was born in the permafrost, remember?” he says. As if it makes any difference. “The ground in Morepesok doesn’t unfreeze, even in the spring.”

“It is the second snow this season.” Zhongli blinks as he looks at the sky. “Odd.”

“Maybe I brought the cold with me. Maybe it’s the wrath of the Tsaritsa—is she still annoyed that I’m here?” 

A little. It’s mostly blown over. Zhongli penned her a letter of intent, to which she replied, At least it’s you, you old stubborn fool. 

“She and I have come to an understanding.”

Childe pauses at that, his head tilted. “Oh?” 

Not good. Childe is always curious about the wrong sorts of things and Zhongli would rather not have to confess his recent possessive streak. Zhongli clears his throat and deflects with, “Did you know that every snowflake is different—”

“No, no, go back—what do you mean by an understanding?”

Zhongli sighs, hunching into his stolen scarf. He rubs his brows as though it might ease away the embarrassment. “I wrote to her. She wrote back. That is all there is to it.”

Childe smirks, a dangerous curve of his mouth that speaks volumes. He knows Zhongli. And he knows the Tsaritsa. For the most part. “Staked your claim, did you?”

“Nothing so uncouth.” Zhongli huffs, mildly offended. He has more decorum than that. “I merely said that you had no intention to return soon.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

Zhongli’s mouth tenses. These games are fun when it’s Childe on the other end, squirming about as Zhongli teases him. When it’s redirected, however, he finds them far less appealing. Zhongli has never been one for the spotlight. 

Childe takes pity on him, laughing as he crosses the distance between them. “Don’t make that face,” he says, voice soft, affection flooding through him. Zhongli’s chest loosens at the sound immediately. 

“Back to the snow.” Zhongli takes Childe’s hand and holds it palm up. A flurry drops into his hand, sticking to his cold leather glove. “As I was saying—every snowflake is different and unique. Not one is alike. And, once they melt away, there will never be another quite like it.”

Childe falls quiet then. Contemplative. Handsome in the way that his brow furrows gently, and how his lashes kiss his cheeks as he looks down at his hand, watching the flurry disappear. “Short-lived and fleeting, I suppose,” he murmurs. 

“Yes, but no less impactful. You’ll remember that one, even tomorrow, won’t you?”

Childe meets his face. “We aren’t talking about the snowflake anymore, are we?”

Zhongli nearly answers but stops himself, words teetering on the edge of his tongue. He swallows them down instead, tugging Childe’s hand to his face. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, turning to kiss his palm. The heady scent of leather assaults his nose as he nuzzles it, seeking out that hint of warmth. 

“I love you,” says Childe. “That’s what you told her. I didn’t want to go home because I love you.”

Zhongli told the Tsaritsa a great number of things, awkward, testing things, all of it true. He smiles, smirking back at Childe, watching him through a narrowly-slit gaze. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he then asks, taking a page from Childe’s own handbook, leaving him hanging on the edge and wondering for more. 

Childe looks insulted and impressed. He snorts, but dips forward and kisses him, tongue teasing the seam of Zhongli’s mouth, more passionate than the moment calls for. Zhongli gives in anyway, curling an arm around his neck and tugging Childe closer. 

Snowflakes are fleeting, short-lived things. The moment they touch skin they melt into the ether. But when Zhongli touches Childe, he doesn’t disappear. Indelicate. Firm. He kisses Zhongli with the sort of surety that breeds cockiness. 

It’s then that Zhongli knows they’ll be alright. 

Chapter Text

The hardest thing about retirement is that Zhongli is still learning exactly what it means to live a mortal life. 

He is not mortal—he never will be—but that isn’t and has never been the point. Zhongli has lived for so long that life began to feel empty and so he wished for more. 

Erosion, he thought. He isn’t immune, he’s already lost bits and pieces of himself, glittering parts that have gone dull. Those he cared for are mostly gone and while Zhongli maintains that he is okay with being alone, it wears down even a god. 

And so, retirement. A simple solution only in name. Zhongli was no fool, in the beginning, to think it would be easy but even now it still proves that he’s woefully out of his depth.

Childe changes everything. Zhongli has always been resolute in the way he holds himself, steady as the solid ground that he carved Liyue from. But Childe—one look at him and suddenly everything is lopsided. His heart yearns and even though he has him, it still isn’t enough. 

This isn’t erosion, this is love, and it’s a strange concept that Zhongli is still learning the ins and outs of. What he does know is that he looks at Childe and he doesn’t see just a man he loves, he sees his everything. Baobei, Laogong, Mate— all of these things are interchangeable. 

His chest heats at the mere sight of him. Zhongli’s heart beats faster, thudding steadily underneath that mess of scarring where his Gnosis used to sit. 

“Hey,” says Childe that night, reaching out with his hand. “Should I walk slower?”

“No,” says Zhongli, quickening his steps. “I was just thinking. Apologies.” He presses his palm against Childe’s and Childe squeezes back, fingers chilly in the cold air.

The market district in Liyue Harber is decorated for the winter solstice. Childe smiles wide, taking in the sights and smells. His face is lit by brightly colored lanterns and he laughs at the way that vendors try and hawk their wares. 

He’s so handsome and full of life. Zhongli feels drawn to him, chasing his footsteps, wanting nothing more than to bask in that warmth because he’s tired of the lonely cold. 

Childe stops in the middle of the street, tugging Zhongli close. One arm snakes around Zhongli’s waist. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong.”

Childe pokes at the furrowed spot between Zhongli’s brows. “I know that look,” he says with a laugh. “What’re you thinking?”

At that moment, Zhongli is thinking a lot of things. That Childe is his happiness with that crooked, rapscallion grin. That the red lantern light that bounces off his face isn’t flattering, but the smattering of freckles is. Childe’s gentle grip around his waist is like an anchor, holding him to the spot.

“Just you,” he says honestly. “The way that you take care of me. It is not easy for me to give in so fully, but with you it is natural. I want to. For a being like me, that…” Zhongli trails off, sighing softly. “I love you. That is all. That is what I’m thinking about, almost every waking moment of my days.”

“Zhongli—”

Zhongli laughs, leans forward, and presses their foreheads together. The rest of the Harbor melts away until it’s just the two of them in their own little world, sharing breaths as the cold puffs between their faces. 

“You bring me joy,” says Zhongli. “It has been a long time since I’ve felt that.”

“Fuck, that’s— unfair.” Childe’s voice cracks slightly. “How am I supposed to follow that up?”

“You don’t have to.”

Childe’s gaze softens, tiny wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “Kiss me? I mean—can I kiss you? Here? I know we’re in public, and you’re a little weird about—”

Zhongli grins before looping an arm around Childe’s neck. People stare when they kiss, watching as they stand there, lost in each other. Gossip is sure to fly—but Zhongli finds that he doesn’t really care. 

Chapter Text

Childe is not a baker. 

He warns Zhongli of this before he sets out to make a mess of the kitchen. “Look, it’s been a while,” he says, “but I remember how Mom makes them, so I’m pretty confident.”

“Are you?” Zhongli asks as a tease, which Childe does not appreciate, mouth tugged into a frown.

“I’ll show you.”

Zhongli raises an eyebrow as he leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest casually. “Wearing that?” Childe looks down to see the ruffled apron, bedecked in Yuletide patterns. Not particularly manly. Cute. Zhongli snorts softly as he tries to hide a grin.

“Oh, you—” Childe lifts his chin and tightens the apron tighter around his waist. “I’ll show you,” he finishes. 

Zhongli crosses the kitchen, leans close, and presses a kiss to the side of Childe’s head. “I have to work today, so—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Another kiss, this time on Childe’s cheek, the tip of Zhongli’s nose ticking the skin there. Childe bats him away. Zhongli laughs. “Don’t burn the apartment down.”

“I’ll call Xiangling if I need help.”

“She’ll make it worse.” The last thing Zhongli needs is Xiangling to bring something wild into his home under the guise of good eats. It wouldn’t be the first time. It’ll happen again. He just isn’t up for the headache. 

“Hey,” says Childe, reaching out to curl his fingers into the lapel of Zhongli’s coat. “Have a good day out there.”

It’s relative. Zhongli delights in his work but most would find it morose, particularly around the holiday season. Still. “I’ll see you later,” he says. 

They share a proper kiss before he leaves, one that involves lips and a little too much tongue. Childe hums into his mouth, melting against the counter, hands dragging down Zhongli’s sides.

When Zhongli arrives at the office, Hu Tao gives him a sly grin and eyebrow waggle. His brow wrinkles and he looks down—only to find his jacket covered in trails of flour, thanks entirely to Childe’s wandering hands. 

Their home smells like burnt cinnamon. Zhongli’s nose twitches as he steps past the threshold, kicking his shoes off and dropping his bag to the floor. 

The kitchen is a mess. Bowls are strewn about, dripping with liquid. Spatulas and spoons lay flat across the counter, tendrils of frosting trailing in about. Childe said that he was not a baker and it is evident. He grunts as he yanks open the door of the clay stove, coughing as he bats the smoke away. 

“Ajax—”

“Ah, shit, of course, you’d come home right now. Hang on— hngh.” He jerks, pulling out a long sheet and tossing it to the tiled counter. Childe heaves a sigh, wiping at his sweaty brow with the back of his arm. “Pryaniki! They definitely aren’t as good as Mom’s, but, I mean, I didn’t set them on fire.”

“You…didn’t?” Because they are darker than Zhongli thinks they should be, too crisp around the edges, and slightly burnt. 

Childe shrugs, going to the bowl of frosting that he set aside. “Maybe the stove. I might’ve added too much wood and then I went to doze on the couch. That book you’ve been reading put me right to sleep.”

“I distinctly remember telling you to not burn our home down.”

“And I didn’t.” Childe drizzles frosting over the too-hot cooking, which makes the sugar melt into a goopy mess. “Ah… I should’ve waited, I guess.” He sighs, shoulders dropping as disappointment etches into his face. “Gods, these turned out terrible. You don’t have to—”

Zhongli does. He plucks a pryanik from the sheet, the heat of it tingling the tips of his fingers. It takes effort to bite into it, the cookie crunching under his teeth—but it doesn’t actually taste bad. Just a little burn to the edges, but the inside is well-baked and soft.

He takes another bite which surprises Childe. 

“Er—” Childe snatches one from the table and tries it, nodding gently as it melts on his tongue. “Okay, so not terrible. Not great either.”

Zhongli eats the entire thing, going as far as licking his fingers which makes Childe laugh. Childe tugs him close with a soft greeting, uncaring that he’s dusted with flour and who else knows what. 

Eventually, they kiss and it tastes like Yuletide, cinnamon, and cardamom sinking deep into Zhongli’s tongue. Not the worst thing to come back to, burnt cookies notwithstanding.

Chapter Text

“You don’t like them?”

They are an abomination. Zhongli’s nostrils flare as his gaze dips low, lingering on Childe’s feet until he can’t bear the sight anymore. Socks are meant to be practical, not strangely patterned and fuzzy. It looks as though whoever knitted them picked cheap wool that pills at the slightest touch. 

Childe insists that they are luxury. “I ordered them from Fontaine,” he says, turning his ankle to and fro to show one offending article off. Red and white striped like Yuletide candy. Dotted with sprinkles of green. Holly leaves, said Childe with a smile firmly planted across his face.

The moments where he feels old in comparison are few and far between, but once in a while, it’s overly apparent. Childe laughs with oafish delight, reaching out to run his fingers over the soft material of his new purchase.

“Ajax—”

“Ugh, you’re no fun.”

Zhongli blinks. Looks at him cooly, eyebrows drawn nearly to his hairline. “I merely prefer my socks to be…practical.”

“Boring, you mean.” Childe shoves his foot closer and Zhongli recoils, pulling back. “Oh, come on. You give me foot rubs all the time!”

“It is not your feet, it’s—” Zhongli grunts, frustrated that his words seem so silly, so he just gestures wildly at Childe’s feet. 

Childe’s response is to wiggle his toes. “Go on, touch them.”

“I will not.”

“You’ll like it—”

“I highly doubt that.”

Childe does something he so rarely does, then—he frowns. Zhongli hates that look, the soft downturn of his lips, and the soft sigh that leaves them. He drops his foot but it isn’t without complaint. 

Zhongli rubs his face. And, perhaps, he is a little set in his ways, but there’s nothing better than a well-made, solid, dependable, utterly standard pair of woolen socks. “They look… cheap,” he finally admits. 

Childe shoots him a glance from the other side of the couch, where he’s pressed into the corner. “With what I paid for these? Absolutely not. Besides, what do you know about money? You’ve thrown Liyue into economic distress because you didn’t think about how making Mora was your job.”

It’s true. Zhongli winces, rubbing at his head awkwardly. “I—yes, I suppose that…there are things I don’t often think about.”

The silence stretches for an awkward moment before Childe is the one to extend an olive branch. “My feet are cold,” he says simply. “And I know that boring wool socks are the better choice but ‘tis the season. I just wanted something fun, and the samples I saw in the market caught my eye. Absolutely frivolous, but they’re so soft.”

He shoves his foot across the couch, poking Zhongli’s thigh with his toe. 

Zhongli’s gaze dips and he frowns. He sighs, dropping a hand to settle against the arch of Childe’s foot. And yes, they are soft. Disgustingly so. Zhongli’s fingers dig into the soft material, petting over it. And over and over it. 

And Childe watches with a knowing gaze, trying to hide a smirk behind his hand. 

“A foot massage,” says Zhongli, refusing to give in. Stubborn until the bitter end. 

“Keep telling yourself that, gramps— Ow.”

Zhongli doesn’t bother to hide his grin, or his claws as they sink into Childe’s foot for a well-deserved pinch.

Chapter Text

Childe spends two straight weekends talking to vendors about acquiring something special for the Yuletide season. 

Zhongli wonders if he should be worried. Childe isn’t the sort of man to do things subtly, he comes in hot, wearing his chaos on his sleeve, practically shoving it under the noses of those around him. He likes to show off and flaunt things; his wealth, his skill—even Zhongli. 

This, though, raises concern. Childe sneaks about. His trips to the market aren’t secret—no, he tells Zhongli he’s on a mission. But he won’t divulge what it is he orders, instead grinning mischievously every time Zhongli tries to pry it from his lips. 

You’ll just have to see, he taunts before heading out the door. 

Zhongli does not like surprises. He is a man who plans everything down to each neat, pristine detail. One part of him rues the day he realized he was in love because that was not part of the grand scheme. The other part of him relishes it, the newness, the unknown. 

Being with Childe is exhilarating in a way Zhongli once thought lost, but—

He sighs, rubbing his face. Zhongli does not do anticipation well, and when it concerns Childe, there is no knowing exactly what he has up his sleeve. 

#

Of all the things to come home to, a bundle of green leaves and red berries is not one of them. 

It hangs above the entrance to the kitchen, nestled right over the worn floorboards where Zhongli likes to pace when he’s deep in thought. The moment he crosses near, Childe’s hand curls around Zhongli’s bicep, tugging him underneath the arch.

“Gods, it took forever, but I finally found some.”

Zhongli’s head tips back and he looks up, expression crinkled. “Ajax—”

“Mistletoe!” 

Zhongli tilts his head to the side, thinking. “Mistletoe,” he repeats. He knows the plant, at least. “You’ve hung a poisonous plant up in our home? And for what?”

“It’s tradition,” says Childe. “Ah, at least, where I’m from.” He slips his arm around Zhongli’s waist and tugs him close until their chests touch. 

Zhongli falls into it easily, fingers resting on Childe’s hip automatically. “Explain.”

“Mistletoe can grow in the toughest of conditions, and not only does it survive through the winter, it blooms. The stories say it’s a sign of vitality, of good things to come.”

“And so you hang it above a hallway?”

Zhongli expects Childe to burst into laughter. He does not. Instead, his expression softens, turning affectionate. “No,” he says quietly, reaching out to cup Zhongli’s cheek. He just watches Zhongli for a moment, a crooked grin spread wide across his face. Then he dips close until their breaths mingle. 

“Ajax,” mutters Zhongli, blinking slowly. 

“You kiss under the mistletoe. That’s what you do, Zhongli, you kiss the person you love, and it’s supposed to be all gooey and warm, and bring you good luck.” 

Childe pulls him close, catching Zhongli off guard. Zhongli grunts but is quick to respond, curling his arm around Childe until his palm rests against the small of his back. Slow and languid. Searching. Childe laughs as he licks into Zhongli’s mouth, soft sounds that are eagerly swallowed down. 

It’s the lazy sort of kissing found in the morning while laying in the sheets. Or at night, by the fire as they read books to each other and bask in the warmth. 

Childe tethers Zhongli to the earth despite flowing like water. They move so easily, so practiced, anticipating each other’s touches as hands wander and teeth nip at soft lips. 

When they part, Zhongli presses their foreheads together. “Mistletoe isn’t required to kiss me.”

Childe knows that, of course, so he just laughs. Then they’re kissing again, this time harder, tongues tangling and teeth clacking as Childe presses Zhongli against the archway. And that’s what they do, losing track of time, drowning in their passion, remembering all those small little ways that they love each other. 

Chapter Text

“I read in a book somewhere that the stars are our ancestors watching down on us.” Childe snorts the moment the thought leaves his mouth. “Apologies to my family.”

Zhongli hides a laugh behind his palm. They sit on the porch in the teapot, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and he leans over to nudge him. “Wouldn’t they thank you for an entertaining show?”

“Boring as of late,” says Childe dryly. He nudges Zhongli back with an elbow. “Really, all they have me doing is running paperwork at the bank.”

“Titillating.”

“The worst.”

Zhongli looks at him, amused, feeling the lines around his face crease as he hides another laugh. 

Childe frowns. “It isn’t funny.”

“No, of course not.” Zhongli’s tone is serious even when he’s sarcastic, leaving Childe to roll his eyes and give him a mildly crude gesture. 

Zhongli’s hand darts out, fingers wrapping around Childe’s wrist. “Behave,” he says, clicking his tongue. A mild chastisement. Childe rolls his eyes again. Zhongli shifts his grip and rubs his thumb over Childe’s wrist bone. “Similar to what you’ve read, there is an old myth I’m familiar with. The stars are not our ancestors, but our loved ones who keep watch over us. Anyone who fits that bill, anyone who left an imprint of care upon our lives.”

Childe is quiet for a moment. His eyes dart across the courtyard, settling on the garden there, remnants of another who lived long before him. Then, his head tips back to look at the glitter that dots the dark sky. 

“Like Guizhong,” he murmurs. 

“Yes,” agrees Zhongli. “Like Guizhong. She loved this time of the year, thriving in the cold.”

Childe laughs at that. “Of course, she did.”

Zhongli knows it is weird for Childe. “Guizhong is no longer here,” he says. “And even if she were, she is not you. You are—” He pauses, picking his words carefully. “I do not think I have words to describe what you are to me, but you are not the same. You must know that.”

“I—I do. And it’s nothing like what you’re thinking. Sometimes, I just—” Childe sighs. “I want to know everything that you are, so I wish I could have known her.”

Guizhong would have loved him. They would have laughed together and cried together, and teased him together. She would’ve tucked Childe into the sheets and soothed his brow in the throw of nightmares because Guizhong was a being who cared above all. 

Zhongli tugs Childe’s hand to his mouth for a kiss. His lips linger, nose nuzzling the ridge of Childe’s knuckles. “I have never taken you to her grave. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Childe grins crookedly. “Can I bring a Yuletide gift?”

“I think that she would like that.”

Childe moves to slot their hands together correctly, his fingers slipping into the spaces between Zhongli’s. They sit there, for the rest of the night, despite the cold chill, despite the soft flurries that dance about in the air. 

They just sit there and watch the stars, Zhongli’s heart warm and full.

Chapter Text

“Mulled wine,” says Childe. “Rich, earthy, served warm—”

“Served what?”

Childe rolls his eyes. “I knew that’s where you’d draw the line. You take a nice red wine and you mull it with spices. Traditionally served warm to keep the cold away. There’s literally nothing better for the Yuletide, and yes, that’s including firewater.”

Zhongli’s nose crinkles at the thought. He doesn’t drink much alcohol, to begin with. All that comes to mind is a drunkard of a bard who delights in shirking his duties and spinning verse instead. But, he’s never given it a fair shake in this form beyond a drink or two with Childe. 

But—

“I don’t like red wine,” he finally says, cringing. It just isn’t his taste. He prefers other types with flavor profiles that transcend mortal tongues. 

Childe considers this, thumbing his cheek. Then, he grins, that terrible rapscallion smile that makes Zhongli’s heart skip a beat. 

And really, Zhongli should’ve known better. 

#

There is a compromise. 

Zhongli comes home from a particularly grueling day at the funeral parlor to the smell of osmanthus wine over the cookfire. Cinnamon fills the air. Nutmeg, cloves, orange peel—the sorts of flavors and spices that scream the Yuletide season, filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. 

“I figured I’d meet you in the middle, yeah? Combine traditions? Mulled wine for the Yuletide, but osmanthus because it brings luck.”

Zhongli happily takes a cup when Childe serves him one. It’s the least that he can do for all the work that’s been put into it. A quick sip. Flavor bursts on his tongue, the floral notes tinged spicy and sweet. It is not heavy in his mouth, surprisingly light as he swallows it down.

Childe is right. It warms him from the inside out, perfect for the chilly air. So he drinks another cup. And another. And then another.

And now, he has lost count of the cups but it doesn’t matter. Zhongli loves the way that his veins tingle with his tipsiness. How his tongue has loosened and his laughs come louder, more raucous. 

They sit on the open porch in the teapot. Childe laughs too, face flushed, skin pink down his neck before disappearing into his collar. It lays open, unbuttoned, and Zhongli can see the sharp line of his collarbone. 

Oh. His mouth is dry. He wants more wine—or, or—

Zhongli leans close, pressing his nose into Childe’s nape, inhaling deeply. Everything around him tips, sloshing around. He chuckles, his brain pleasantly fuzzed as he just drowns in Childe’s fresh, sharp scent. “Ajax,” he murmurs into his ear, lips ghosting the shell of it.

Childe falls to the ground, the floor hard against his back. But he only smiles up at him as Zhongli settles overtop.  Their cups of wine are forgotten to the side. Zhongli presses his hand to Childe’s sternum, fingers dipping into the open collar.

They do not often have moments like this. Plenty of times they lose themselves in each other, but it is never with tipsiness, their bones and joints slackened with liquid courage. Here, Zhongli feels unhindered by the weight of his age or the things he’s seen and experienced. The thought of erosion is far away, at the barest of edges of his mind.

Instead, he thinks of the warmth of Childe’s skin. The delightful way that he blushes, watching back with half-lidded eyes, and lashes that sweep across his high cheekbones. Everything is loose-limbed and easy. They slot together as if made for one another. 

Their kisses are sloppy. Unrefined. Nothing but teeth, tongues, and laughter as they try to ground themselves and find a good pace. Zhongli’s veins thrum. His brain is dulled but his pulse is alive, and he licks into Childe’s mouth with feverish intent. 

Too hot, too cold, just right. Any and everything, all at once, but also not enough. Everything turns lazy, lingering instead. Childe lays on the ground, an arm curled around Zhongli, and they just kiss in the brisk winter air, and the crackle of the fire just inside.

Childe tastes like wine, like spice, like Yuletide. He sighs into Zhongli’s mouth and chuckles. Amused. In love. So, so many things. It isn’t as though Zhongli never feels them but with the wine in his gut, it feels more clear. 

When they part, Childe looks curious. “What are you thinking of?” he asks, fingers tugging at the clasp that holds Zhongli’s hair together. 

“That I love you.”

“I mean, I know that.” 

Zhongli can feel the fond expression that pulls at his face. He aches, from the way his heart beats fast, to where his trousers are tented. He pets Childe’s hair and presses their foreheads together, savoring the moment. “Right now,” he says finally, “I don’t think it’s ever been more apparent. This is where I want to be.”

Zhongli learns that osmanthus wine doesn’t always taste the same, especially when carefully cultivated underneath Childe’s expert hands. The taste of it lingers in Childe’s mouth. And, perhaps, this is the point of Zhongli’s retirement, learning to see things through a new lens. 

“Ajax.” Zhongli dips and they kiss again, slow and passionate as they find their rhythm. Hands wander and heat builds. They are beautiful like this, drunk on each other, sloppy as they get frisky like teenagers lost in their lust. “Ajax,” he says once more, and then he’s gone, hips rolling against Childe as they cling to each other.

Even he’s mulled, heated and warmed, spiced with love on this blustery cold night. Childe gives and Zhongli takes, and that’s enough for the both of them.

Chapter Text

There is one lone candle that remains lit, casting the room in a dull, orange glow.

Childe lays on his side, fast asleep, lulled by the cold room, warm blankets, and heat of Zhongli’s skin. He breathes easily, relaxed, face pressed to Zhongli’s chest. No nightmares. Childe hasn’t had one in months and rarely does in their shared bed. 

“It’s only when I’m away from you,” he once said, clinging to Zhongli as if he were a lifeline.

Zhongli watches the candle on the bedside table flicker as he thinks. He pets Childe’s hair, fingers sliding through the thick, curling locks to scratch at his scalp. 

Unlike Childe, Zhongli does not need sleep. He indulges, yes. Enjoys dozing in the sheets, plastered against Childe’s back. Or, from the other end, spooned and tucked against him, Childe breathing softly into his neck. The only thing he requires is occasional rest and food. 

Zhongli falls into mortal habits that used to confound him. Sleeping. Lazing about in bed. Sharing baths and washing each other’s hair. Lingering touches and kisses and the want to be by Childe’s side. 

“It is the small things,” Guizhong once told him. He was still Morax, young and impetuous, mildly annoyed by her gentle-hearted nature. He’d asked her what she liked about mortals and why she craved things as silly as friendship. “They don’t make sense and they never will, but you find comfort in them yet.”

“I will not,” he’d said, and Guizhong laughed, her face melting into a far too knowing smile. 

She was right, of course. It doesn’t make sense. Loving Childe is one of the strangest, oddest experiences he’s ever found himself fronting. His heart is full and empty. They both love and argue at any given time. 

But, Zhongli is warm. He is comforted. He wants to be nowhere else except there, fingers ghosting Childe’s bare skin as he slumbers so sweetly. 

It is the small things, the finer things, the sorts of moments that temper his heart. 

Zhongli watches the candle burn lower and lower. The moments are lost to that flickering orange flame and the sound of Childe’s soft breathing. 

The strangest thing to Zhongli is that this relationship isn’t easy. On the bad days, where Childe is irritated and Zhongli responds in kind, it is embittered, cold, and oily as it settles in his gut. 

But, the good days— Oh, the good days. Those are the days that make it worth living.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Zhongli!”

Zhongli turns just in time to be pelted in the face by a clump of wet snow. He hisses, rearing back, clawing at his face, knocking the slush away. “Childe.”

“Oh, you haven’t called me that in a long time—”

“Celestia, above,” murmurs Zhongli. Frost clings to his eyelashes. His nose tingles and twitches, and his cheeks are ruddy and cold. “Cease your incessant—”

“A snowball fight,” cuts in Childe. When Zhongli looks he’s already balling up another clump of snow in his hands. “‘Tis the season,” he yells before tossing it.

Zhongli dodges this time, ducking low. He can’t help the growl that escapes his throat. He might not mind the cold but he doesn’t want to be pelted with it. The snowball hits the ground in a moist plop. 

Childe says then, stretching out his arms, rotating them as if he’s winding himself up for more. “I’ll admit that this isn’t the best snow for it. Too wet and not powdery enough. It doesn’t pack well so you just get a sodden lump, not a nice, round shape. Not very aerodynamic.”

Zhongli shivers, shaking himself out. “Ajax—”

“Oh, so we’re back to my name? Come on, Zhongli. Let’s make it a game. Come at me.”

He will not. Zhongli stands there stubbornly, feet rooted to the earth. He tugs at his coat, straightening it. “I do believe that I requested a walk with you, not—”

Another snowball nails his cheek. An annoyed hisses. Boisterous laughter as Childe runs away, knowing full well that Zhongli won’t let him get away with it twice. He chases him following Childe’s scent into the trees, his nose assaulted by crisp evergreen pines and the salty spray of the ocean. 

“Ajax, you can’t hide.”

Childe doesn’t answer, as expected. Zhongli picks his way through the brush, following his nose and instincts. Zhongli feels the thrum of Geo in the earth, which reacts to Childe in a similar way that he does—seeking him out, reaching for him. 

A ripple of energy to the left. Zhongli darts, faster than any mortal feet, and Childe finds himself pinned to the frigid ground before either of them can think. 

Zhongli pants, looking down at him. Childe laughs again, his breath puffing between them, steaming the air. 

“You aren’t actually angry, are you?”

“Of course, not. I just prefer a warning before being watered down.” Zhongli shivers at the thought. “I’m sopping wet and cold.”

“You don’t get cold. Not like most people do, anyhow. This coat’s mostly for show.”

Zhongli huffs. He’s right but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. Zhongli still isn’t accustomed to this sort of weather. “I wonder if you brought the cold with you,” he teases. “Or, perhaps, you’ve angered the Tsaritsa—”

“Nah, she’d bring down a blizzard, not this. Or, maybe plunge Liyue into an ice age.” Childe’s fingers dig into the slush. “There’s barely an inch here and it won’t last. So, while it does—”

“Must you insist on such childish endeavors?”

“Yes,” says Childe with absolute sincerity. Then, he laughs, unable to contain himself. “Wait, wait, don’t get angry. Come here, you old lizard.”

Childe’s glove is damp and cold against his cheek, but Zhongli still leans into it. Then he dips low for a quick kiss. Too soon, they’ve righted themselves, back onto their feet and brushing sleet from their clothing. 

“I just wanted to have some fun. I know things like this aren’t your speed, but live a little— oh fuck, that’s—that’s cold. Zhongli!”

Zhongli pulls his hand from Childe’s shirt collar, having just dumped a handful of snow right down the back of his shirt. “For the record,” he says, shaking his hand, droplets slinging everywhere, “I’m more than capable of having fun. I just like to be equipped for it. I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

“For what?” Childe’s teeth chatter as he pulls his shirt from his trousers to shake the snow out. 

Zhongli scoops up more snow, mashing it into a misshapen ball. “To run, of course. Otherwise, you’re at a disadvantage.”

Childe pauses, his head tilted to the side. His mouth rounds into a little ‘o’ and then he smirks. “What do you think you’ve got on me? I was born in the snow.”

“Six thousand years,” says Zhongli dryly. And then: “You’ve already wasted—”

Childe turns and hightails it, ducking into the pine forest. Zhongli will win. They both know it. 

The fun part is seeing how long Childe will last.

Chapter Text

Zhongli sits before the fireplace with a book in his lap. 

This is expected. Childe leans against the doorframe, watching from behind. In his hands are two mugs of steaming tea, certainly brewed incorrectly. 

Zhongli will still drink it. He’ll smile as he takes the mug from Childe’s hand, a smile gracing his lips seconds before he takes a sip. His brow will furrow. His nostrils will flare slightly, but he’ll swallow the sip down, and then the rest of the cup. 

Tonight, though, is quiet. Childe isn’t sure if it’s the holiday season or the fact that they’ve been celebrating it together, but Zhongli as of late seems to be stuck in his own thoughts. His book tonight is old and weathered. There is no title and the words are handwritten. It seems as old as time with its yellowed parchment and the way that Zhongli turns the pages with the utmost care. Long, spindly fingers drag down the words gingerly as he mouths them softly.

Childe makes his move once he’s had his fill of watching. He skirts the couch and sits next to Zhongli. The fire blazes next to them, ridding the chill in the room from the winter night outside.

Zhongli holds out his hand without even looking. Expectant. His palm faces upward and Childe traces the lines of it with his eyes, thinking of the old games that he used to play with Tonia. He wonders what sort of fortunes can be read from the hands of an old god. 

Childe presses the mug into his hand and asks, “What’s the book tonight? I don’t recognize it.”

“Likely not. I’ve never shown it to you.”

That piques Childe’s interest. Zhongli looks tired. Not concerningly so, just… worn in. A little weary. His shoulders sag under the weight of his age, curled slightly. He wears Childe’s clothing which is loose on his thinner frame. His hair hangs limp around his face, duller than usual, but still silky smooth.

Childe leans over for a better look. “Can I touch?” he asks. 

Zhongli nods, making room for him to reach out. The parchment is stiff and flaky underneath his fingertips. Rough patches catch on his callouses as his fingers wander over carefully penned letters. 

“This… it’s similar to your handwriting.” His Liyuen isn’t great, but there are recognizable characters. A little different than the letters Zhongli wrote to him but there are curling motions that are familiar enough.

Zhongli laughs. “I would hope so. I wrote this.”

Childe starts at that, pulling back and turning to meet his face. Zhongli watches back with a soft, placid look stretched over his features. Lost in the past and his thoughts. 

“A journal,” he says. “I don’t often keep them, but there are several. This was shortly after the Guili Assembly was formed. I had never shared so much interaction with mortals. They… frustrated me, but also fascinated me. I wrote down my thoughts through these years as I learned.”

Childe can imagine it. Morax, his fingers stained with ink as he poured his thoughts out onto paper. He digs a nail into a character, scratching at it. “Frustrating, huh? Sorry.”

Zhongli shifts, curling an arm around Childe’s waist. He laughs, leaning close, kissing his cheek. “Nonsense. You are who you are.”

“That’s even worse.”

Zhongli hums and takes a sip of his tea. His brow crinkles. His nose twitches—but, just like Childe knows he will, swallows the tea with a soft sigh. 

“How bad is it?”

“Palatable.”

“There’s no reason to lie.”

Another soft chuckle. A kiss to Childe’s temple. The warmth of the fire. The mistletoe hangs in the doorframe. A pine tree, laden with little Pyro lights and ornaments, stands near the window. Childe forgot how comforting the holiday season can be without much effort. He sinks against Zhongli’s side, resting his head on Zhongli’s shoulder. 

“Read some to me?”

Zhongli actually hesitates. “Ah… well, perhaps that isn’t wise. My initial thoughts of mortals weren’t so… forgiving.”

“So it’s spicy? Juicy gossip? Come on, Zhongli, you never talk about this part of your life.”

Zhongli looks at him with a strangely guarded expression. “Ajax, I…” He’s usually far more eloquent with his words but here, he truly looks ancient. Worn around the edges, like an old stone. Childe supposes that he is.

“I love you,” says Childe. The room is quiet and the fire crackles. Zhongli sits there, staring at the journal as though it might burn him. “I want to get to know these bits of yourself too.”

The words work. Zhongli relaxes, sighing softly. He runs his fingers down the gutter of the book as a distraction.

“Well, I warned you.” Zhongli flips to another section of the book and presses the pages flat. “‘It is the middle of winter and Marchoisus has been tasked with keeping the stoves alight. I fail to see exactly what the issue is; mortals know how to light fires. They are dim but not without some sort of ingenuity. And yet, Marchosius toddles around in pieces, trying to keep them warm…’”

Zhongli’s tea sits on the table beside them. One hand is pressed to the book. The other is curled around Childe, Zhongli’s palm warm against the slip of skin that peeks out from underneath his shirt. 

Childe laughs, already endeared by Morax’s observations. He gets lost in his voice, sipping at his mug, lulled into a doze by that deep baritone, the roaring fire, and Zhongli’s words of the past.

Chapter Text

There is an empty spot on the Yuletide tree. 

At first, Zhongli thinks that it is accidental. Childe spends several hours planning the layout. Taps his chin as he plots what kinds of tinsel, what to string through the branches, and what to hang where for a proper, festive eyeful. But, blind spots are blind spots. 

The eye often misses what it isn’t looking for, and Zhongli assumes that the bald patch near the top will just be part of the tree’s charm.

It is several days later that he catches Childe staring. Elbow against the kitchen counter, chin resting in his hand. He stares with that far-off gaze that he often gets when he thinks that Zhongli isn’t looking. Sighs, his bangs puffing up with his exhale. 

For everything that Zhongli knows about Childe, there are many things he does not. Zhongli is not the type to pry. Childe doesn’t with him, expecting an old god to hide things near his chest. Together, they are birds of a feather, keeping their secrets not because there is a lack of trust, but because it is not necessary to share them. 

They live in the moment; that is where they find the important things, nestled in their hands curled which are constantly curled around each other.

But, in moments like this, Zhongli wonders. What exactly brought Childe here? What sort of toll does the title of Harbinger bring? Childe slaps on a smile and claims that he’s happy—which he is, Zhongli knows this—there’s always an undercurrent of something else that lingers.

Childe does not relax until he’s back home, his eyes caught by Zhongli. Unless he’s underneath those ancient hands that like to work out the knots in his shoulders. There, Childe will melt with a soft sigh, the tiredness that sags his bones easing.

Zhongli is honored that he gets to see him like this, worn down and stripped bare. But, with that, comes this— a lost look that makes him look far younger than he is. Contemplative. Wistful. Zhongli wonders what it is that Childe thinks.

Then, comes the ornament, mailed in a box and shipped all the way from Snezhnaya. Childe cradled the thing in his hands as though it would break. Watched it for far too long, as though worried it might disappear, winking into the ether like the Hydro Blades he hides.

He’d cried, wiping at his face as he told Zhongli that his family made it together. “We always put it at the top,” said Childe, red-faced, leaky-eyed, and sniffling. “That’s where—I mean, it’s just…” 

They hung it right at the top and Childe smiled, the fullest grin he’d seen since Zhongli first told him that he loved him.

The night is quiet and Childe is asleep, napping lazily on the couch. 

Zhongli goes to the tree and plucks Childe’s ornament from the branch. Smooths his fingers over the roughly cut wood, nails digging into the grooves. The grain catches on his skin. The paint flakes, crooked faces painted by a toddler’s hand wasting away. 

Childe talks about his siblings at length but Zhongli feels more love in this ornament than he’s ever heard in the strained laughter the bubbles from Childe’s throat when he recounts stories. 

Zhongli knows the pain of loss. It still cloaks him. Haunts those dreams he gets on the rare nights he chooses to sleep. There is so little he has left of those he’s lost. Zhongli wishes that he had small memories like this ornament to hold in his hand and cherish until he can’t anymore.

He glances at Childe. These thoughts are a never-ending cycle, felt stronger now than ever in the years past. 

Zhongli hangs the ornament back up reverently. He goes to the couch and gathers Childe effortlessly into his arms. He weighs nothing. It is no effort to tuck him into the bed and kiss his forehead. 

When he’s done, Zhongli goes back to the kitchen and lights the stove. He boils water and spoons his tea leaves into a cup for a midnight brew. 

“Something simple,” he murmurs as he settles in at the table. His hands glow golden at merely a thought.

#

Zhongli picks the longest night. 

“It isn’t so much a present,” he says as he makes Childe close his eyes and hold out a hand. “If anything, it’s a little selfish.”

“You didn’t even wrap it?” Childe’s mouth curls with the tease and affection swells in Zhongli’s chest.

It is a simple shape, square like the Memory of Dust, Guizhong’s remaining legacy that he’s never quite figured out. This, though, is made of Noctilous Jade, glittering in the low light of the fireplace as Childe turns it over in his hand. Lines of Cor Lapis slash across it, intertwined and fused together. 

“An ornament,” says Childe, slipping his fingers through the ribbon looped through it.

“You have one that is your family, and it serves as a memory of those that are not here. And so, I made this—”

“You made this?” Childe suddenly holds it more gently. 

“It has been a long time since I’ve worked stone in such a way. It took some effort. It is us , though. I wish to have something to—” He cuts himself off and sighs. “I love you and I do not want to forget how that feels.”

Childe kisses him. He leans over, all pretenses lost, all hesitation dissipating as he notches their mouths together. Passionate. Zhongli clings to Childe, pulling him close. His fingers drip golden as he cradles Childe’s face and pets through his hair. 

“You won’t forget,” says Childe against his mouth, still close enough that they share the same breath. “And I won’t be going anywhere. I’m going to become a god, remember? I won’t leave you alone. You will never be alone again.”

Zhongli nearly tells him to not make a promise he knows he can’t keep, but that would spoil the moment. Besides, it’s the here and now, not decades in the future. There is time to figure things out. Until then—

He falls against the couch and pulls Childe with him. Childe laughs, dragging a hand down his side before dipping forward to catch Zhongli’s lips again. In these moments, it’s easy for Zhongli to forget he’s almost everlasting. Here, in Childe’s embrace, is where he feels alive. 

Later, they hang the new ornament up. When Zhongli catches him staring at that spot, it’s with fondness instead.

Chapter Text

He is not cold

A stubborn thought to which he clings
Old, like the stained pages of his books
Craving the familiar for nothing else left is

Yet they meet in the middle
Sharing heat
Fingertips curled around sweaty palms
Soft skin against skin
And murmured sighs
Lips that sing praise and raise gooseflesh on limbs

He is not cold

Yet he leans towards him
Soaking up vermillion warmth
Sinking into the heat that blazes in his chest
Nerves on fire as fingers drag everywhere
Teasing every crease and scar and freckle
Until the same is done for him

He is not cold

Until he realizes that he’s forgotten
Old lizards like him always seek out the sun
And bathe on the rocks that sit underneath
Basking in the glow
Letting it sink deep until they are
One with what surrounds them

He is not cold

Which makes Childe laugh when he leans over
Face tucked into Zhongli’s nape
Nipping at the skin
Hands wandering
Testing all the ways he shivers under the touch
And how the silk of their bed seems to pile high around

He is warm

Not because it is sweltering
Sticky limbs against sticky limbs
Stuck together in the sheets, lazing
It is because he’s in love
Passion flaring the deeper he sinks
Into this all-consuming fire of need 

Chapter Text

“I’ll be honest—I never thought I’d get to celebrate another Yuletide. I guess miracles do come true.”

“Oh?” Zhongli’s gaze slides to the left where Childe sits on the porch. He’s pulled one knee to his chest and rests an arm on it. 

Childe’s mouth opens but says nothing immediately. A little crease forms between his eyes as he picks his next words carefully. “I… well, it’s not as if Harbinger’s have time for holidays. I can’t tell you the last time I saw my family, not that they’d want me there. Ma and Pa, they—” He sighs. “It isn’t bad but it isn’t great.”

In all the time they’ve been together, Childe has never spoken so candidly about his family until this season. From ornaments to family traditions, to poignant talks late into the night; Zhongli has learned more about Childe in these few weeks than the entire year prior.

The idea of family is a newer concept to Zhongli. As he learns, he realizes that he had one, untraditional as it was—but when he was younger and grayer in his being, he never quite realized it. The bond of blood is something that will forever escape him.

Childe’s face eases and turns wistful. “I mean… if I showed up, they wouldn’t kick me out. But my siblings are getting old enough to know that I don’t sell toys. My title only brings misfortune in its wake when it comes to loved ones.”

“There is nothing wrong with wanting to keep them safe,” says Zhongli. 

Childe’s lip wobbles then, the tiniest bit. “Yeah,” he agrees, but his tone is thinly veiled, and his throat bobs with discomfort. 

Zhongli will not coddle him. “Ajax,” he says, “there is something to be said about putting the needs of others before your own. But, it is not easy. You do not have to pretend that it is.”

“You did it for thousands of years,” scoffs Childe, suddenly embittered. When he looks at Zhongli, though, he isn’t angry. Testy and petulant like a youth, but not angry. Defeated. Zhongli knows.

“And then I gave into the weariness and retired. If there is a miracle to be had, Ajax, it is the fact that I’m sitting here beside you.”

“Retirement isn’t the end of everything. It’s just retirement.”

Oh, Childe is so sweet and young. Zhongli watches him fondly and feels the way that his eyes crinkle around the corners. He has spoken about Erosion but Childe can only understand so much. And, even if Zhongli has mentioned it, it isn’t with any sort of unbidden truth. There are things that he skirts around. 

“I do think that my idea of retirement is different from yours. We adepti, we gods do not die so easily. Either we succumb to time in violent, horrific ways, or we make the choice to depart before we lose ourselves entirely.” Zhongli watches as his words sink in. Childe’s mouth parts and then— oh, that look.

“Zhongli—”

“I was tired,” cuts in Zhongli. “The exhaustion of eons is something that you cannot comprehend. It is not just a tiredness of the bones, it is a tiredness of the entire being. I have watched friends come and go. I have seen and fought in many wars. I have cared for Liyue in every way that I can.

“But, even gods age, and there is a time that we become obsolete and lost to time.”

“You—”

“My plan was perfect. Neatly laid out with every character carefully penned. No loose ends, no straggling thoughts. And then I met you.”

Childe’s gaze is indecipherable, caught between something incredibly fond and frustrated. It is both a wonderful and terrible topic, but Zhongli thinks that Childe deserves the truth. 

“So you were…” He pauses and licks his lips. “But then we met, and you—You’re not going to… Zhongli, in the future, you aren’t going to—”

Zhongli reaches out and grabs Childe’s wrist. Pulls it to his mouth and presses a kiss against Childe’s fluttering pulse. “Of course, not. I love you. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you.”

“You’re infuriating. Like, shit, Zhongli.”

“Darling.” Another kiss to Childe’s wrist. Then another on his forearm as Zhongli tugs him closer. “Think of all the Yuletides we have yet to share, hm?”

Childe closes the distance without a thought. His kiss tastes like mulled wine and the bright cheer of the season.

Chapter Text

Childe knows that he steps onto the docks with a full wallet and he’ll leave them with it empty.

Zhongli isn’t inherently materialistic, he just values things that tell a story. It could be an old relic, gifted by a friend long gone; a flower pressed into his palm by a shy child; a song sung by an artist busking for spare Mora—these are all things that he finds merit in. 

But, therein also lies the issue: Zhongli finds value in everything . 

“Ajax.”

Childe turns to find Zhongli stock still before a stall, eyes combing over the shiny wares. Childe is never bothered by the amount he spends on Zhongli but maybe the Yuletide season is making him sentimental. He slides closer and rests his chin on Zhongli’s shoulder, looking over it. 

“Is there anything that you like?” asks Zhongli, beating him to the chase. 

Childe’s mouth falls open, surprised. “Uh—”

“No, actually…” Zhongli thumbs his chin as he thinks. “None of these are right. Come on, Ajax. Let’s keep going.”

“Zhongli?”

Childe is pulled along to the next stall, close on Zhongli’s heels. Jewelry lines the table, earrings, rings, and necklaces with stones and metals that sparkle in the lantern light. “What about here? This is…” Zhongli reaches out and plucks a ring from the display. Then, he frowns. “Fake, apparently.”

“Good sir, fake is such a terrible word,” says the shopkeep. “There is value in a less expensive, artificial stone and I never claim that they are anything but.”

Zhongli huffs at that but before he can retort, Childe manages to pull him away. In the middle of the path, he turns to him. “Zhongli, are you okay?”

“I assure you that I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but you’re like… okay, you’re always picky, but what’s with asking me if there’s something I like?”

Zhongli’s expression turns, then. His cheeks are pink, and he rubs at one. “Ah, you see—I mean to buy you a present? For the Yuletide, I mean.”

Childe blinks. “With my money?” He bursts into laughter, amused. 

Zhongli is not. He sniffs, offended. “No. With mine. I do get paid by the funeral parlor.” Occasionally. Sometimes his earnings cover the massive tab he charges to Hu Tao’s accounts. Zhongli sighs softly and takes Childe’s hand into his. “I have been saving for such a thing. Perhaps not necessarily related to the season, but Yuletide is a perfect excuse, no?”

“You don’t have to get me a gift.”

Zhongli smooths his thumb across Childe’s knuckles, the soft leather pulling at his skin. “I know that, but I wish to. You are always… Ajax, please let me take care of you.”

Oh, that does something to him, doesn’t it? Childe’s chest tightens at Zhongli’s earnest request. He gives him a lopsided grin and tugs Zhongli’s hand to his mouth to kiss the supple leather. “You already do, you know?”

Zhongli huffs. “Inappropriate,” he mutters under his breath, his gaze skirting around. 

“That isn’t what I meant,” laughs Childe. He nuzzles Zhongli’s knuckles with his cheek. “I don’t need a fancy gift.”

“It isn’t about a need. Let me buy you something for once.”

There’s a novelty to it, of course. Childe finds Zhongli’s desire to gift him something more than endearing. “Well, it’s not as though I can stop you. And walking through the market is nice.”

Zhongli looks around them again, hesitating. Then, he surges forward, hand cupping Childe’s cheek as he leans in for a kiss. This is unusual. Zhongli rarely indulges in such open displays of affection, even with his mildly possessive streak. 

It’s a chaste kiss, just the gentle press of his lips but it speaks with enough volume that when Zhongli pulls away, Childe’s face is red. “I’m— uh—”

“I love you,” murmurs Zhongli. Another peck against Childe’s lips, his mouth lingering as he chuckles softly. 

He keeps whispering it into Childe’s ear the entire night as they slip from stall to stall. Zhongli doesn’t find anything worthy of a gift but he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s already given Childe everything he’s ever wanted.

Chapter Text

Zhongli works a schedule that could be considered on-call.

During what Hu Tao likes to call the busy months (and really, that’s a grim sort of thing to consider even if Zhongli is pragmatic enough to know that death has a bit of a schedule) he pulls long hours on his feet from sun up until sundown. He dresses tiredly in the morning. He turns in at night with aching feet and sore bones. It’s always rinse and repeat, and all for a paycheck that he won’t see most of (superfluous habits will always get the best of him, it seems).

The winter is dead. Not in people but in business. While sickness is more common, the merriment of the seasons pulls people from those darker places. It’s a time full of gift-giving and adoration, something that used to tire Zhongli out.

He loves to see people happy, but happiness is hard to watch for weeks on end when it reminds him of the loneliness he dwells in.

Yuletide this year is different, of course. Zhongli spends his days in the care of strong, freckled arms. He presses his face into curling auburn hair and soaks up warmth cultivated by silk bed sheets. He sleeps in on cold mornings. He spends the bitter nights folded against Childe, melting into the warmth that he instinctively leans into. 

Childe hisses when Zhongli presses his cold feet into his calves. “Hey.”

“Oh, you’re awake.”

“You knew that.” Childe huffs. “Otherwise, you wouldn't have bothered.” He shifts, rolling over in the sheets. 

Zhongli can just barely see the outline of his face in the candlelight when he leans forward for a quick kiss. Childe huffs again, but kisses back, even as short and sweet as it is.

“You okay?”

“Hm? I’m fine.” Zhongli chuckles softly as he presses closer, resting his cheek on the edge of Childe’s pillow until they’re sharing it. “It’s the Winter Solstice, a night meant to be spent in the company of loved ones.”

Childe’s expression melts into something warm. “Should I beat the cold away?”

Zhongli doesn’t immediately answer. He lifts a hand and traces the arch of Childe’s cheek with his fingertips. “You know that I’ve been lonely until meeting you. This, though—I haven’t spent midwinter with another being in centuries, and when compared to then, this is different. You are that warm hearth, Ajax, the one that we sit by on these bitter nights. It’s like coming home.”

Childe’s lip wobbles just slightly at that. He’s another man displaced in a different sort of way, so he must know how Zhongli feels. 

This time, when Zhongli presses his frigid toes against Childe’s legs he doesn’t pull away. He just laughs and kisses him again.

Chapter Text

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Zhongli frowns, gaze tipping down as he regards the present he’s currently wrapping. “Ajax, I’m not—”

“I’ve wrapped, like, four presents and you’re still on your first.”

Zhongli huffs. It isn’t about perfection but there’s still a matter of pride to be had. Zhongli would rather his presents be neatly presented, crisp along the edges, perfect, sharpened little tips at the corners. Childe’s are—his gaze tips to the left and washes over the pile of Childe’s hard effort. 

Something to be desired. They’re wrapped at least. 

“It’s all in the details,” he finally says, running his thumb over the edge of the box that houses a sweater. “Don’t you think it would be nice for them to at least look pretty?”

“It’s all about the thought.” Childe shrugs then, pulling over a stuffed bear and unrolling a length of wrapping paper. “Like, who cares if it’s a little messy? My family will just be happy to have gifts sent to them. I don’t usually have the time.”

Zhongli hums. “At least it’s mostly red.”

“Eh? Red?” They meet gazes. Childe’s face is crinkled with curiosity. 

“For luck,” says Zhongli as if it should be obvious. Another huff. “Silver and gold are also acceptable. Never white—that is associated with death. As is writing names in red ink. Instead—”

“So many rules,” mutters Childe as he gauges an appropriate length to cover the toy. 

“They aren’t rules. Guidelines, perhaps.” Really, it’s almost an insult. Zhongli clicks his tongue softly, but it’s all in good humor. “It’s all in the details. You should at least put some effort into it.”

Childe falls quiet then, his face a little somber. “It’ll be the first Yuletide I’ve been able to send my family anything in years. Usually, I’m out on assignment and out of reach. Like, I can’t even send letters. This time I just…”

“Ajax, I’m only teasing.” Zhongli feels a smidge guilty, so he reaches out to squeeze Childe’s wrist. “Besides, if you sent them something properly wrapped, they might be wary—”

“So they are rules.”

“Guidelines.”

They keep up the banter as they continue on and presents begin to pile up. Zhongli might be slower, but his gifts are wrapped with careful attention to detail, crisp around the edges, and neat lines of glue to hold the ends shut.

Childe’s… well, they’re covered at least. Wrinkled and crinkled, but nothing peeks out, leaving the mystery of the gift intact. Childe rubs at his neck when Zhongli meets his gaze.

“Well,” says Zhongli, amused. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Chapter Text

Childe calls him into the middle of the forest one brisk afternoon with no explanation as to why.

Zhongli goes, of course, ever at the boy’s whims, desperate to spend as many waking moments in his aura. He is not lonely. Not anymore—but the moments apart from Childe drag on slowly. Zhongli itches to be in his presence, fingers worrying creases into his perfectly pressed trousers.

Hu Tao was easy enough to convince. “Childe said—” he’d started and the moment Hu Tao heard the boy’s name she waved the thought off.

“Say nothing more. I don’t want a Harbinger wringing my neck. Besides, you could use the time off.”

Zhongli does not, still insistent that he is not a workaholic but he goes, every step towards his love easing the unrest in his being. It’s strange, the calming nature Childe has on him. Most would liken him to a violent tempest and Zhongli only finds steady calm. 

The air is crisp and fresh with winter. It is cold but Liyue lacks the permafrost that Childe is no doubt more accustomed to. He stands in a small clearing, hand on his chin as he observes the trees, still in nothing but short sleeves. Not even gooseflesh on his arms, utterly comfortable as he mutters to himself. 

Zhongli slides close from behind, pressing his face into Childe’s neck, inhaling deeply. Crisp ocean, clear blue skies, and other descriptions of scent that don’t quite make sense when spoken aloud. “Ajax,” he whispers for Childe’s ear alone.

Childe doesn’t flinch. He’d likely known Zhongli was there the moment he arrived, boots crunching softly against the cold ground. He turns to meet Zhongli’s face, face crinkled as he grins. “There you are you old lizard. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”

“Never.” A pause as Zhongli pulls away. “However—what are we doing here?”

“Yuletide!” says Childe as though it explains everything. It does not and Zhongli’s brow furrows in confusion. Childe chuckles, reaching up to smooth out the wrinkle with his thumbs, the pad calloused against Zhongli’s forehead. “We’re going to cut down a tree, haul it back to your place, and decorate it.”

“I—”

“Surely you know what Yuletide is.”

Zhongli grunts, offended. “A celebration of the winter solstice,” he says tartly, “culminating in a quiet night of observation on the shortest day of the year. I am old, not stupid.” He peels away from Childe, turning to the trees. “It has been many centuries since I last stepped foot into Snezhnaya but I was under the impression this isn’t a holiday much observed anymore.”

“In the city, yeah. I’m from Morepesok, though. Deep in the permafrost, we take the Yuletide seriously. Even if I’m not there, I still…” Childe waves vaguely.

“And so a tree.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a tree.” Childe’s voice is soft, hesitant. “I thought that the teapot could use a little festive cheer, I guess.” Oh. Zhongli’s mouth parts as he tries to find words, which prompts Childe to continue. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s also fine. I didn’t really ask and it’s your home—”

“Our home,” corrects Zhongli firmly. He tugs Childe’s hand up to nuzzle his knuckles, pressing a kiss to them. “And I’m happy to indulge in whatever traditions you so wish.”

Childe sighs softly, face warm as Zhongli holds his hand close. It’s easy between them. Zhongli is particular about his relationships but Childe is just so easy. It is novel and Zhongli clings to it, just like he clings to Childe’s cold and clammy fingers. 

“What makes for a good tree?” he asks.

“Anything, really. Dealer’s choice.”

“Teach me, then.”

And so Childe does, pulling him into the tree line. They pick their way over the ground, rocks skittering and branches snapping. Childe is animated, poking and prodding at branches as they walk by, assessing the needles. Some are too dense, some are too sparse, and some are too thick around the middle. 

The hours slip by as Childe turns down every option the look but it's with humor. They trip over the dirt, nudging at each other with elbows as they just enjoy each other’s presence. It’s as much about them as it is the tree, Zhongli realizes. He delights in watching Childe’s pinked cheeks and the way that his nose dribbles a little in the cold. 

These moments are fleeting things, meant to be indulgent. Cold-crusted noses and bitter-cold fingers that turn red in the brisk air. Childe’s hands are calloused, warm as his fingers tighten. Zhongli feels both grounded and tipsy, feet rooted to the spot but his heart flipping. 

“I— that one.” Childe rubs at his nose. 

It’s a wimpy thing, not too tall, a little thin in some spots and thick in others. He reaches out, petting the pine needles, tugging at them gently. They bend under his touch. 

“I always like the misshapen ones,” he says. “They kind of remind me of myself.”

“Ajax, you aren’t—”

“I wasn’t being mean.” Childe looks resolved, not unsure, mouth set into a firm line as he drops his pack to the ground. “I only meant that some of us aren’t so refined, you know? I’m a little rough around the edges despite my fresh face.”

“There’s more to you than just the way you look,” says Zhongli. He would know, wholly enamored by Childe’s fierce nature. 

Childe snorts. “Obviously. And that’s part of the point. Guys like me don’t always fit in. This tree here… deserves some love.”

“And so you’ll cut it down?” Zhongli quirks an eyebrow.

Childe drops to his knees and presses his fingers to the ground around the tree trunk. “There’s something that we do in Morepesok—a tradition if you will. If you dig the tree out with its roots, you can replant it. My family has used the same Yuletide tree for generations.”

He turns to Zhongli with a thoughtful look. “I thought you might like that. It’s kinda like a family member you spend the holiday with.”

“I’d rather spend the holiday with you.”

“Yes, well, beggars can’t be choosers.” Zhongli laughs as the joke delivers its punch. Childe then waves him over. “Come on, help me, will you? With you around, it’ll be easier to get this guy home. Usually, we’re stuck digging for half a day.”

They work together, knuckles brushing as they dig around the tree. Zhongli’s fingers sink deep into the soil, scooping the earth up as though it is water, dirt trickling through his fingers off to the side. It is quick. Efficient. Childe laughs as he directs Zhongli’s hands, showing him how to avoid the tender root ball of the pine tree. 

The tree falls against the hard-packed earth with a slam but is no worse for wear. 

“Right, then. Your strength will also come in handy seeing as I don’t have like five other guys to haul this thing home.”

“I should have known better to think you had no ulterior motive,” jests Zhongli, the quip rolling off his tongue naturally. 

Childe winces, mocking him back. “Ow. A shot to the heart. That stung.”

Zhongli waves his hand and an old teapot appears from the ether, winking into existence. It’s always been useful, the ability to hide things in between the folds of space. 

Childe’s face relaxes at the sight of the old, cracked pottery. He reaches out to smooth a finger over it. “Yeah, okay. Let’s get this thing home.”

Zhongli grabs his wrist, halting him. He smooths a thumb over the sharp curve of his wrist bone, a soothing touch. “Ajax, I meant it. This is our home. I want you to feel loved.”

Childe huffs, a soft breath rising from his chest. “The reason I haven't had a tree in years is that I don’t set roots down. But here—” He’s the one to tug Zhongli’s hand to his lips, this time, kissing each finger gently. “I do feel loved. I promise. That’s why I want to share this with you. These are the parts you’ve never seen, that you’re still getting to know.”

“That’s…” Zhongli chuckles, a fluttering sound. “You must forgive this old lizard.” He often loses himself in moments like this, strangely insecure. These sorts of affairs are mortal-like and they do not come naturally to him. 

Another kiss to his fingers, Childe pressing his cheek against cold knuckles. “Always,” he says. “No matter what, Zhongli, I’ll always forgive you.” He pulls away. “Unless you don’t get this tree back in one piece. Then we might have to share some heated words.”

Zhongli hums. “A battle of tongues? Ajax, you are the type to argue with your fists, I think.”

“Is that an offer?”

It’s not even a challenge but Zhongli laughs nonetheless.

Chapter Text

“It’s too cold,” says Childe as he leans over Zhongli, elbows sinking into the mattress as he tries to leech warmth. 

“This is a temperate climate compared to what you’re used to,” muses Zhongli, eyes half-lidded and voice raspy and sleep-addled. 

“I don’t want to get up,” he mutters.

“It’s the middle of the night. I don’t want to either.” A pause. “Was the nightmare that bad?”

Truthfully, no. Childe remembers flashes, darkness, and the sinking fear in his gut, but nothing beyond that. He’d awoken with a jolt, heart pounding, but that was the only remnant of whatever plagued his sleep. “‘M fine,” he sighs, pressing his forehead to the dip in Zhongli’s sternum.

Zhongli’s hand finds the back of his head, fingers curling into Childe’s hair to pet it. He hums softly, chest rumbling as the sound evens out into a purr. It’s lazy. Warm. Childe dozes with his face pressed into Zhongli’s skin, drowning in his scent. 

Even Zhongli is relaxed enough that his grip on himself loosens. Childe loves him like this, hanging between his mortal form and something more. The air is slightly charged as Geo swirls around them gently, smelling like sandstone and sage. The edges of his skin bleed into charcoal, scales glittering in the low lamplight of the room.

“You’re glowing,” mutters Childe sleepily.

“I’m not.”

“The air is.” Zhongli huffs, a soft chuckle escaping from his throat. “It’s just… you. ” Childe doesn’t like to say the real him; all parts of Zhongli are real from the well-tailored funeral consultant to the antlered god he’s tipping toward now.

“Apologies,” he says into Childe’s hair. “There are times where I’m just too enamored—”

“Listen to you, you sap.”

“Mhmn, you love that, though.” Zhongli shifts then, rolling over until Childe’s back is pressed into the silk sheets, and he’s leaning on an elbow over him. “You love me,” continues Zhongli, his lips just slightly upturned. 

He looks at him so fondly that Childe’s heart clenches. Childe curls a hand around Zhongli’s neck and tugs him closer. Zhongli laughs as he dips down, kissing his forehead, his cheek, the juncture of Childe’s neck, fangs dragging across the soft skin there, teasing. 

Zhongli pulls away, hanging there. The air glitters golden around behind him like fairy lights, crowning Zhongli’s head with an unearthly glow. Childe traces the edge of his shoulder where charcoal meets tanned skin. His fingers drag over Zhongli’s collarbone and over the rise of a pec before settling against the gnarled knot of skin there. From his gnosis. It’s strange, how it seems so long ago, especially as of late. They’ve been lounging about in the glow of the holiday.

“I love you,” says Childe.

“That’s what I said.” 

Zhongli kisses him. Childe can practically taste his power on his lips, that heady, earthen spiciness of Geo. And that’s all that Zhongli does, he just presses their mouths together and kisses him lazily. No wandering hands or heated touches, just his tongue sweeping through his mouth as he tattoos his love right against Childe’s lips.

The room glows and they drown in it, Childe chuckling as Zhongli tries to find a comfortable position over him. Childe loops his arms around his neck, refusing to let go. 

It’s no longer too cold. The heat is oppressive, almost, in the way that it chases away the bitter-cold midwinter night. 

Childe certainly isn’t complaining.

Chapter Text

The night is cold and the air feels wrong but strangely, familiar. Zhongli feels as though he’s standing in someone else’s skin.

“Listen to me, Morax,” says Guizhong from behind him, wrapped in a tight fur cloak that’s tied underneath her chin. “I know that you do not understand—”

“I grasp the idea of revelry,” he says without meaning to. Zhongli has no idea where these words are coming from but they spill from his mouth smooth, like water from a jar. His tone is dry. “What I don’t understand is why they are celebrating the midwinter.”

“Why not?” 

“It makes no sense,” is Zhongli’s curt reply. 

Guizhong shoots him a half-lidded glance. “Who says that it has to?”

Zhongli grunts, the sound rumbling through his chest. His arms are crossed over it obstinately, his mouth tugged into a frown. Inwardly, he feels out of his depth. Zhongli forgot how stubborn he could be. How impatient. In his youth, he had little time to observe others, something that he and Guizhong often bickered over.

“Mortals live such fleeting lives. I find it odd for them to waste their time so frivolously.”

Guizhong is quiet for a moment before she speaks again. “It isn’t about you, it’s about them.” She sighs, turning back to watch their people. It’s a quiet night, despite their holiday, the sort of revelry that’s found around fire pits and family, armed to the teeth with food and alcohol to heat their veins. 

“You cannot compare us to them, Morax. There is a beauty to their nature. The secret to true happiness cannot be found in the wisdom of our years, but rather in the full-hearted way that a mortal approaches their daily lives. They live so fully because they do not have time. Warmth and comfort are found in those that they love.”

Guizhong brushes a piece of her hair behind her ear and smiles. “I envy it, you know. I don’t think I will ever quite figure it out, even with as much as I observe mortals. This will remain life’s greatest mystery.”

Suddenly, this scene is familiar. Suddenly, Zhongli remembers this conversation and he knows exactly what’s coming next. 

“Are you unhappy?” he asks quietly. 

Guizhong doesn’t answer. She never answered this question, not even in the end, she just sat there on this porch, watching mortals with their families. And Zhongli sat there beside her, watching the way her face stretched through a thousand different thoughts. 

Eventually, she says something that causes a change in him. “I think,” she says, “that we prioritize our needs far differently. Mortals exist with purpose; for their friends, their family, and their loved ones. But we seek to find purpose because we do not have those things. Not in the same way.”

“Guizhong—”

“I wonder what my purpose is beyond blueprints, schematics, and caring for these mortals who’ve wormed their way into our care?” Guizhong sighs again, her gaze morphing into something rueful. “We’ve fought wars, we’ve saved lives, and we have never done these things for ourselves. We, as adepti, do not get that sort of choice because mortals are young and stupid. But, maybe one day we will.”

Zhongli snorts. “That’s wildly presumptuous.”

The scene changes, and everything around him blurs. Zhongli’s heart twists as he thinks about those words for many nights to come.

Maybe one day we will. Zhongli won a war and became an archon. He sealed evil beneath the ground and watched his friends waste away, one by one. He raised a village into a nation. 

And then it’s morning again, this time eons later. He sits in the Harbor and drinks a cup of tea. And then, Zhongli has a thought: Is my job here done?

Guizhong’s words start to haunt him around this time, a never-ending mantra that lurks in his skull: The secret to true happiness cannot be found in the wisdom of our years, but rather in the full-hearted way that a mortal approaches their daily lives.

This is the day he decides to retire, and for most, it would haunt them, a nightmare they can’t forget, but for Zhongli, it’s a dream that breeds calm and peace, and he often thinks of it fondly.

#

Zhongli awakens with a jolt, unusual considering he isn’t the type that sleeps heavily. 

Childe stirs slightly, squished against Zhongli’s chest, feeling the way that he shifts. “Are—” A yawn as he rubs his face, “—you okay?”

He’s figured it out, he realizes. That age-old question that used to plague him and Guizhong in their youth. What is the secret to happiness? A younger, wilder Morax would’ve said that it was power. For a time, his gnosis brought what he thought was happiness but as the ages slipped by, Zhongli realized that it was the need to be useful.

His purpose, then, was to protect.

But he is no longer Morax; he is merely Zhongli—a funeral consultant, a tea-lover, a man who enjoys lazing about in bed with the mortal that he loves. All that revelry found in celebrating the midwinter makes sense now, it’s clicked right into place, warming Zhongli’s chest.

He pets Childe’s hair, fingers sliding against his scalp. “I’m fine,” he mutters against the crown of his head before dropping a kiss on it. “I had a dream.”

Childe leans back. “A dream? You don’t have dreams.”

Not typically, no. “A memory, then. Perhaps the season has made me reminisce more than expected.” Childe watches him warily, looking for any sign of distress. Zhongli smooths a thumb across Childe’s cheek, cupping it with his palm. “It was a good dream. Of Guizhong.”

“Oh?” Childe’s gaze melts into something cat-like and curious.

“Nothing like that, I assure you.” Zhongli pauses, wondering if he should broach the topic. “I… we would wonder…” He licks his lips. “We  would watch mortals and wonder what the secret to their happiness was.”

Childe’s expression is unreadable. “Strange thing to spend your time worried about.”

Zhongli laughs and brushes Childe’s bangs back. “It was curiosity. Isn’t it also mortal nature to be entranced by that which is different?”

“I guess.” Childe lays beside him and nuzzles Zhongli’s palm. “Did you ever figure the secret out?”

Yes.

“The secret,” whispers Zhongli, dipping close and pressing their foreheads together, “isn’t much of a secret of all, but rather, a purpose. Mortals are lovers, and that is where they find their joy.”

“Oh?” Childe grins, tips his head up and kisses Zhongli’s nose. “And what of old, decrepit lizards?”

“They can be taught new tricks, it seems.” Because Zhongli’s purpose now is to love this man, and Childe knows it. 

And really, the smile that Childe gives him, the complete relaxation of his bones and joints, and the way that his hand settles over Zhongli’s scar to feel his heartbeat, is worth every eon Zhongli spent searching for it.

Chapter Text

With Tonia’s letter comes a present that Childe isn’t expecting. 

He tears open the envelope, uncaring of ripped parchment, or the tearing sound as he hacks at it, too overzealous. Pages—too many pages because Tonia is wordy and will fill him in on too much— and something else that tumbles into his lap with a little heft. An old block of wood, roughly carved, a terrible doodle plastered over the front in worn, chipped paint. 

Childe ignores the letter. Tonia’s words can be read at any time, firmly penned into the paper but this gift—

He smooths a thumb around the corner of it, sighing softly. Part of him thinks it’s a dream, that it’ll disappear when he takes it into his hand. 

“Ajax?” Zhongli has both the best and worst timing. Best because while he’s never confirmed nor denied, Childe knows he can sense his distress. Zhongli will often leave him be but the moment unease settles over his form, Zhongli is at his side with that damnable voice and a gentle hand against the small of Childe’s back. 

“I—it’s nothing.” And really, it isn’t—not in the way that Zhongli thinks as he watches him, a slight furrow in his brow, eyes old and calculating. Childe nudges him with an elbow. “Honestly. I just wasn’t…”

He presents the old wood block, ill-sanded and rough with its grain. Childe digs a thumbnail into the flaky paint. “It’s a tree ornament. I told Tonia we cut one down the last time I wrote to her and she sent this back. I… we…” A pause as Childe’s thoughts whir. 

“If you don’t—”

“It’s the last thing we did together before I fell into the Abyss. We made ornaments. And Celestia knows I’m not an artist, so this thing looks terrible. It’s supposed to be the family but you can barely make out faces. Just blobs. Splotches of paint. It’s pretty ugly and I—”

It takes Zhongli pulling him close for Childe to realize that he’s begun to ramble. He tucks Childe’s face into his chest, pets his hair, and kisses his brow with a sweet touch. 

And Childe clings to him, fingers curling into the soft silk of his shirt. He’s dressed down, open, and bare, and Childe just melts into his comforting presence. “I didn’t realize they kept it,” he says. “I thought they’d… We aren’t bad off but we’re strained. I just assumed that they would’ve tossed this.”

Zhongli doesn’t question, he just anchors Childe instead, one arm curled around his waist as they just enjoy the close moment. Finally, he says, “The love of a parent isn’t something I’ve ever known but I would think that despite it all, there are memories they cling to, just as you do.” 

Another kiss. The brushing back of Childe’s bangs as Zhongli pulls away, smiling warmly. “Do you want to put it on the tree?”

Childe looks over at their Yuletide tree already bedecked in tinsel, garlands, and other strange knick-knacks of Zhongli nestled into its branches. 

“Yeah.”

The ornament finds its home right near the top.

Childe finds more comfort in it than he thought, those old days creeping back in. And when he tells Zhongli about them, he listens, committing every word into his keen memory.

Chapter Text

Childe is not much of a cook and yet he finds himself pouring over ingredients. The pork belly is easy to find—any butcher worth his price has a steady stock of it. Bamboo shoots and bean curd come next, though Childe finds himself haggling down the prices, surprised that such simple staples come so pricey.

“It’s ‘cause you’re Snezhnayan,” said Xiangling one day as they hunted boar together. “You know—the foreigner upsell.”

Childe did not know and wasn’t pleased to learn that he’d likely been paying twice for all his purchases since moving to Liyue. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s not like you can’t afford it. Let the locals swindle you a bit.”

“Have you raised your prices for me?” The only plans he had that day were stretching his legs, not reevaluating his friendship with the girl.

Xiangling gave him a sly grin. “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

“Which means yes.” But, of course, she said nothing else, just speared a boar through with impressive precision aim. 

A week later she brought him a cut of the hindquarters, carefully spiced and smoked. More than good enough for his plans. She charged him double—Childe knows this now because he’s done his research, but he paid her extra, even on top of that. 

Shallots are easy to find. Ginger, they already have—Zhongli keeps some stored away for tea, carefully wrapped up and hidden away in the dark. Childe picks a mid-tier wine because he knows not to waste the good stuff when cooking, and he hopes that the handful of berries he washes in a strainer aren’t too out of season.

The kitchen is oppressive. Childe stands before the counter, fingers sinking into the butcher wood as he thinks. It’s daunting. It shouldn’t be, the end result will be well-loved whether it’s good or not, but that isn’t the point. The point is—

Childe drags a hand through his hair. Then he hisses, annoyed, moving to go wash them again. “Idiot,” he murmurs, scrubbing underneath his nails for good measure. He’s distracted—too distracted. Always distracted by this warm home and the scent of Zhongli. Zhongli permeates the space, he can be found in every corner, on every surface, even in the soft candlelight glow that smells like sage and sandalwood. 

“Hopeless,” he says fondly. In love. What a novelty. “Right then. Back to work.”

He’s watched Zhongli make this a hundred times. 

“Wash the pork belly. You want a nice, even cut, like mahjong tiles. The Ham can be cubed—the evenness doesn’t matter so much as it’s already cured.”  

Those low, dulcet tones. Childe just sighs at the thought of his voice as he cuts the meat as he remembers before dumping it into a pot. 

“Start with cold water—that is a must. Bring to a boil, and watch it.”

Childe goes through the motions with care. It’ll be the perfect Yuletide meal, warm and made with love. Even if it tastes like shit, Zhongli will eat every bite with a smile on his face even if he can’t keep himself from politely criticizing. Childe snorts at the thought. He’s prepared for it, at least.

It’s a little complicated for a man who doesn’t cook much and is minutely familiar with the local cuisine. Like, yeah, he’s eaten it, but he hasn’t had millennia to practice. His cuts are sloppy. He wonders if he boils the meat for too long. 

The earthen dish he transfers the meat to seems as old as time itself. Childe treats it with care because it’s a rare personal possession of Zhongli’s that’s survived a bygone age. He almost thought not to use it, but—

“What’s mine is yours, Ajax,” said Zhongli once. “You never have to fear using something within this home.”

And so, the clay pottery is set over the fire to boil. By the time the lid is on and everything is stewing, Childe heaves a heavy sigh and wipes the sweat from his forehead. It is work well worth it, he tells himself, but now all he can do is wait. Which he does, falling asleep in Zhongli’s old armchair, melted into the soft leather. 

He wakes up to a kiss on his brow. “Mhmm?” is Childe’s half-asleep reply as he rouses. “I’m—”

“Are you cooking?” asks Zhongli, head tilted toward the kitchen. His nostrils flare as he catches a proper whiff, eyes dilating in recognition. “Oh, Ajax, that’s—”

“So it’s definitely not going to be as good as yours, or anything,” cuts in Childe. He sits up and rubs his face. “But I just thought… I mean, it’s cold out so I figured a nice, warm meal might be worth it. And you’re always cooking for us even though you’re tired—”

“You know that I don’t get tired.” Zhongli laughs. “But, how endearing,” he continues, dipping forward to kiss Childe’s temple. Zhongli nuzzles Childe’s neck. 

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” Childe leans back despite his question, sighing softly as Zhongli inhales his scent.

“Mhmn, my partner has cooked for me. That appeals to—”

“Oh, that old and decrepit part of you, eh?”

Zhongli pulls back with a frown. “I am not decrepit.” He pulls Childe to his feet and kisses his mouth. “I am hungry, however.”

“Right, right, I’ll go set the table. You go wash up.”

Childe serves it simply, picking the porcelain bowls, and scooping several ladles of the broth right in. Next, he arranges several pieces of pork belly and ham across the top, trying his best to make it presentable. 

Zhongli whirls into the room smelling like fresh soap. At the table, he observes the bowl, turning it around. Childe jitters nervously, his leg jerking below the table. But then Zhongli meets his face, his expression easy and placid, and it’s as if all of that anxiety just washes away. 

Until he takes a sip. He pauses. His mouth twitches just slightly. The tiniest of downturns to his lips. 

Childe snorts, hiding a grin behind his palm. “Come on, I know it’s terrible.”

“No, that isn’t—” Zhongli smiles then. “It is quite good, actually. I was just thinking of… This is a dish that often makes me reflect.”

“Of the past,” surmises Childe. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I think it is a good thing,” says Zhongli softly. Another sip of the soup, and he sighs, letting it wash over his tongue. “Most do not get the pleasure of their past and present being able to mingle so fully. For a man such as myself who has lived forever and an age… it warms me that you choose to honor those parts of myself. It makes me love you all the more.”

“I—” Childe’s mouth snaps shut. “I mean, it’s cold, and I thought a warm meal would be nice. It’s your favorite so it’s not like it’s a big deal, I just—” Zhongli reaches out to take his hand, rubbing his thumb across Childe’s wrist bone. “I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?”

“A little bit.” Zhongli tugs his hand to his mouth for a kiss. “I love that, though. And you. And this food, and the season—”

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” Childe nudges him. “Let’s just eat the rest before it gets cold, okay?”

Another kiss is pressed to his knuckles before Zhongli lets go. Childe’s heart warms as he watches him finish the entire bowl—and then ask for seconds.

Chapter Text

“Gods, they’re insufferable.”

Ekaterina’s gaze slides from Zhongli and Childe, to Xiao who sits beside her. His face is curled into a scowl. He cuts into his almond tofu aggressively enough that she wonders if the knife will go right through the porcelain. 

He is not entirely wrong. Zhongli and Childe have spent the entirety of the Wangshu Inn’s Yuletide party tucked into a dark corner and making out. It’s a little juvenile, but Ekaterina has the distinct feeling that neither of them has ever had an opportunity to just… enjoy youth. 

“Let them be idiots,” she says with a shrug.

“It’s embarrassing.”

Ekaterina’s gaze is sly when she looks back at him. “For you, or for them?”

Xiao’s scowl deepens with a soft growl. “That is irrelevant.”

She nurses a glass of wine, swirling it around. Ekaterina leans back in her chair and turns back to boss-watching. “Haven’t you ever just… been dumb and in love? So woefully down for a person that you can think of nothing else?”

At first, Xiao looks utterly disgusted at the thought. But then his expression melts into something quieter and contemplative. “No,” he says. “But I’ve never expected it.” Ekaterina’s surprise must show on her face because he schools his face into something hard. “What?” he snaps acerbically. “Not everyone has romance on their mind. Some of us spend our time working.”

“I’m not saying that you should pursue someone. But I am surprised that you never have.”

Xiao sighs uncharacteristically. “It isn’t as though I’m against the idea of it… it is just something that has never been presented.”

“So you’ve never…” Ekaterina waves vaguely at Zhongli. “No hot dreams of the boss?” She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Xiao’s face turn such a shade of red, which means yes. “Okay, okay, no more teasing.”

“What about you and—” He shoots an incredibly rude gesture toward Childe.

Ekaterina gags. “Oh gods, no. He’s—my job is to babysit him. That is the least sexy thing that I can think of.”

Xiao laughs at that, just a soft snort that she nearly misses. The moment eases. Ekaterina sips her wine and Xiao turns back to his food. The Inn is busy, full of laughter, gift-giving, too-tight hugs, and mistletoe hanging in the doorways. 

“I’m surprised that you’re here,” she eventually says. 

“I’m not entirely anti-social.”

Ekaterina levels him with a stare. “Who bribed you?” Because something had to have. She taps her chin and takes a shot in the dark. “The secretary? Miss Ganyu?”

“That’s—she—” Xiao’s nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “She thought that it might… I shouldn’t spend so much time alone,” he finally finishes. And then he adds, “Her words, not mine.”

Ekaterina hides a smirk behind her palm. “Is it truly so bad?”

“No. There aren’t… so many people here. And those that are could be considered friends.”

“Except for Yelan over there. She’s watching you like a hawk. I’d watch out. She might eat you alive.” 

Xiao sniffs, offended. “As if she could even get close to me.”

The silence between them stretches again, comfortable and lazy. Ekaterina finishes her glass of wine and pours another, deciding that she can’t keep watching her boss stick his tongue down Zhongli’s throat sober. “Fools,” she finally agrees. “I mean, fools in love, but fools.”

Xiao grunts in agreement, shoving one last bite of almond tofu into his mouth.

Ekaterina sighs, her chest warm. “Still,” she continues, “is it so bad? Master Childe… he does a lot. For us, I mean. His men. We’re loyal for a reason. Works himself to the bone and never takes care of himself. Really, it’s like working for a literal child. But Zhongli—”

“They balance each other out,” says Xiao unexpectedly. “Even I see it. Master—” He pauses, his mouth twisting. “Zhongli,” he amends awkwardly, “does not trust so easily. At first, I thought it ill-advised but…”

“They just work together, right? They shouldn’t. It makes no sense. They are so different—”

“Isn’t there some mortal phrase about that?” 

Ekaterina chuckles. ‘“Opposites attract,’” she recites. “I guess there is truth to it.”

“He’s happy,” mutters Xiao, resting his chin against his knuckles, elbow to the table. “After… We’ve been through a lot. War and heartache. Pain. Erosion. For all the talk of how he’s steady as stone, rock still weathers, and he’s been weathering away for years. And he knows it. Retirement for beings like us is the end of one’s life on our own terms.”

Ekaterina stills at that. Oh. She’s never realized. Zhongli’s carefully laid plans, his insistence on testing Liyue, bargaining away his Gnosis—it’s because he thought he would no longer be there. Suddenly, she finds herself swallowing around a lump in her throat.

“I… didn’t realize.”

“Most wouldn’t. He talks a lot but there’s only one person he bares everything to, and it’s that idiot over there who has his hand down the front of his trousers.”

“Wait—”

“Leave them. No one cares, or has noticed.” Xiao cringes, though, as if he’s appalled by his own words.

“That must’ve hurt,” teases Ekaterina. But he’s right—Childe has leaned closer and Zhongli has turned his back to the crowd. It isn’t so hard to see exactly what is happening. “Can Mr. Zhongli get drunk?” Because Childe must be.

“It would take a very specific sort of wine. Certainly not what’s in your hand.” 

Ekaterina glances at her glass. It’s the good stuff—Verr Goldet certainly didn’t shirk on quality. Her head is a little fuzzy after just a glass and a half. 

“They deserve it.” Ekaterina would live and die by that statement, actually. But maybe it’s the booze. She’s usually much more rational. 

“Yes.” Xiao says it so quietly it’s almost a whisper. Then, another scowl. “I can’t believe I just admitted that aloud. I’m not drunk enough for this. Pour me a glass.”

Ekaterina does and she lifts hers in a mock toast. “To our bosses. Yuletide blessings and a good midwinter to them. I hope to Celestia that they never fuck in Childe’s office.”

They have. She knows they have—there isn’t a way that Childe hasn’t talked Zhongli into it. And frankly, as long as she doesn’t walk in on it, Ekaterina couldn’t care less. Still, as the night crawls and they drink their wine, things between their bosses heat up. Zhongli presses Childe against the Inn wall and—

Ekaterina sighs. “Should we draw straws to see who goes over there to interrupt them before things get truly obscene?”

Xiao doesn’t respond. When Ekaterina looks and laughs when she sees that Xiao has already whisked himself away.

Chapter Text

Zhongli would not consider himself an artist by any stretch of the imagination which is why he thinks that he’s done well with his snow sculpture, all things considered.

Childe is a harsher critic. “Zhongli…” He trails off, unsure where to go from there, leveling the pile with a discerning gaze. “It’s certainly imaginative.”

Zhongli huffs, mildly annoyed. He didn’t spend several hours outside, his fingers wet with the cold, piling up the snow to be so insulted. And Childe thinks he’s being kind but Zhongli knows better. He gives him a cool gaze. “You know that I prefer honesty.”

“I am being honest! Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? Not that I’m a great snow sculptor or anything, but even I know that art is subjective.” Childe pauses, thumbing his chin. “There’s a place in the world for abstract art.”

Zhongli pauses. He holds a palmful of snow that he was about to pack against the side of his sculpture to pad out the wide hips of his muse. “Ajax, this is not an abstract sculpture.”

Childe’s mouth falls open at that. His head tilts slightly, eyes wide in surprise. He flails slightly to find an appropriate answer. “I— um— well I didn’t mean it—”

“You certainly did.” 

“Hey.” Childe tries to distract him by reaching out and taking his hand, pulling it to his mouth for a sweet kiss. It nearly works. Nearly. Zhongli is a complicated man that can be startlingly simple when it deals with his love. Childe nuzzles his knuckles, kissing each one which starts that easy spiral into bliss— and then he says, “It’s really cute for a snow dog.”

“Ajax, it is not a dog.”

“Snow… pet?”

“I do think that Guoba might be offended. To liken him to a pet—”

“Guoba?”

Zhongli stills. He tilts his head and rears back slightly, plucking his hand from where it rests near Childe’s face. “This happens to be my most stunning rendition of—”

Childe bursts into uncontrollable laughter. He seizes, doubling over until he can no longer breathe, wheezing. 

Zhongli watches, unimpressed. “Are you quite done?” he asks, tone dull and dry.

“No, no— Zhongli, I’ll never be done. Hang on, let me take a picture. I’ve got a Kamera—”

Zhongli’s arm moves in a flash, like lightning streaking across the sky. He tugs the Kamera from Childe’s hand, just barely out of his satchel. 

“Wait, Zhongli—”

“I will not be the butt of your joke. I’ve worked hard on this snow sculpture. And yes, perhaps I am not the artist I would like to be, but I am rather proud that it is at least vaguely Guoba-shaped.”

Childe sighs. “It’s silly, sure, but I don’t think it’s a joke. It’s cute and I want a picture of it. Preferably with you.” When he tugs at the Kamera, Zhongli lets it go, the tension easing. 

“You will tease me.”

“Of course,” is Childe’s quick reply. 

“You will never let go of this.”

“You know how you constantly remind me of that time I landed face-first in a Whopperflower and got stuck? This is like that, just with less pollen. Now go stand beside him.” Childe waves Zhongli towards the lopsided Guoba snow sculpture.

He knows it’s meant to be a silly sort of poking fun, and yes, Zhongli will eventually get over it. Already it’s bleeding away from him, replaced by the warmth of his affection. Childe looks at him with a smile like the sun, waiting patiently. 

Zhongli takes one last look at the snow Guoba. He reaches out and smooths out a lump on his head, rounding it. He has lived many years and remembers many things. Except for, perhaps, just how Guoba looks to him. And maybe it is because he looks at things differently now that he’s retired. The mortal lens is something he’s still figuring out, something that he’ll never quite have an answer for. 

One thing is for sure; Childe is a vision as he stands there smiling, waiting to take a picture and preserve this moment for time beyond their years. 

At first, Zhongli is stiff, stock-straight, hands laced behind his back. But then he hears the tinkling of Childe’s laughter from his mouth and his heart melts. Zhongli falls in love all over again—he’s always doing that, his heart in his throat, beating wildly.

He relaxes just as the shutter snaps shut and there’s the flash and click of the Kamera. 

Chapter Text

Mate.

It is a thought that has weighed heavily on Zhongli’s mind more often than not as of late. When he looks at Childe he doesn’t just see the man he loves, he sees his future. Retirement was a means to an end. Zhongli intended to settle down and live out a quiet existence until he saw no further need to— and then, came Childe. 

Yuletide has heightened these thoughts, whirling emotions of family and togetherness. It is easy to imagine little ones bearing Childe’s smile and unruly red hair. Old instincts fester in his chest. There is an urge to both claim and be claimed. 

“You’re distracted.”

“Mhm?” Zhongli is pulled back to his thoughts, turning to where Childe leans against the door frame of the porch. 

“It’s the middle of the night. Why are you out of bed? Are you okay?”

Oh, the concern. Zhongli didn’t mean to worry him. Childe’s brow is furrowed and his arms are crossed over his chest, instinctually wary. Zhongli clicks his tongue gently and holds out a hand. 

Wordlessly, Childe goes to him. His fingers are calloused against Zhongli’s palm. His knuckles are cold under his mouth as he kisses them. 

“You would tell me if something is wrong, right?”

A soft laugh against Childe’s hand. Another kiss, and then the circular motions of his thumbs as Zhongli massages warmth into his chilled skin. Liyue is littered with lingering snow. It’s too cold out for Childe to not be properly wrapped up.

“Nothing is wrong,” he finally says. “I am merely thinking.”

“Zhongli, it’s like…” Childe turns back to the bedroom to look at the wall clock. “Three in the morning. I know that you don’t need sleep, but I also know that you like it.”

Only because it means lazing about in the bed with Childe, plastered together, face pressed into sweat-slick skin, breathing in his scent. Those urges. Heat curls in his belly, spreading wide, and all that Zhongli can think of is how they so effortlessly belong to each other.

“This season,” he says then. “I find these quiet moments thinking of what I wish for. As an Archon, I was not allowed such selfishness, but now—” Zhongli sighs softly. “It is a strange thing. I have ignored these instincts for so long it is odd to even consider entertaining them.”

Childe’s face scrunches up. “Instincts?”

Zhongli pulls him close. Childe trips slightly, falling against his lap, hovering over his thighs as he rests against Zhongli’s shoulders. Zhongli’s face finds his neck. He nuzzles the skin there, moaning softly, inhaling that beloved ocean-salt tang, and something inherently Childe.

“Ajax,” he whispers, “I wonder if you realize that I cannot be without you.” He feels Childe swallow thickly, his throat bobbing. Zhongli kisses the skin there, teasing it with his fangs. Sink them in. Take him.  

Zhongli does not. He just suckles Childe’s neck sweetly. Childe wears one of his robes, hanging off his frame like watered silk. Zhongli slips a hand in to rest against his heated waist and pulls him close until their bodies are flush.

“Zhongli, I—”

“Listen to me, Ajax, for I am about to bare my soul to you. This old dragon wants to claim you in the most ancient of ways. You speak of things like marriage and that is not enough. I want you to wear my mark so everyone else may see that you belong to me.” 

Zhongli pulls away then. Childe’s face is pink. His mouth gapes, parted as he licks at chapped lips and tries to find words. “Even this is not enough,” says Zhongli then, quiet, even in this space where there are no other ears. “I find myself wanting the same from you; for you to sink your teeth into me, for you to give me children. Ajax, my retirement has only begun and this season has me thinking of you with every waking moment. 

“You are my mate, fated by the stars, or Celestia—frankly, I don’t care who, but you are mine and I am yours.”

Childe looks caught up in his words. He straddles Zhongli’s waist, arms slung around his neck. And Zhongli just purrs against his neck, drowning in his scent. 

“Anyhow, that is what I was thinking about.”

“That’s… Geeze, things are never half-measure with you, are they?”

Zhongli laughs, the sound muffled by Childe’s nape. “Forgive me.”

Childe leans back. He cups Zhongli’s face between his hands, cradling it like he’s precious. “Mates,” he says, testing the word. “That feels… permanent. And I’m—” 

Zhongli knows; the question of Childe’s imminent immortality hangs on the tip of his tongue, unwilling to be voiced. “Darling,” says Zhongli, covering Childe’s hands with his own. “Laogong, I know.”

“But—”

“My feelings for you are all-consuming. I could have eons with you and it still wouldn’t be enough.” Zhongli presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes to think. “I will take whatever time that I can.”

“What does it entail? You said something about wearing your mark, so…” Childe likely knows. Zhongli’s obsession with marking his skin is no secret, so the assumption should come second nature.

Zhongli’s fingers curl into the wispy baby hairs at the back of Childe’s neck. “Typically a bite here. I’d latch on while taking you. However—” He sweeps his hand across Childe’s throat, tracing the soft spot under his jaw with a thumb. “I’d rather lay underneath you and bite here as you claim me.”

They are unconventional, and so, Zhongli wishes for something different. 

“So lots of biting?” 

“Hmm, yes.”

Childe laughs, his breath welling warm between them. “Okay. Let’s—”

“Ajax.”

“Now.”

“Ajax.”

“Do you not want to?” His question comes soft and genuine. Childe pulls back and waits for Zhongli’s answer not with nervous hesitation, but with ageless comfort. 

Zhongli clears his throat. “I had considered there would be a little more ceremony to the entire thing—”

“And if I want you now? If the picture that you paint makes me greedy, if I don’t want to wait?” Childe’s grin is cocksure. He whispers these words into Zhongli’s ear as he drags a hand across the line of his shoulder before flicking at the skin there. 

Zhongli’s gaze turns. His skin is charcoal at the joint, lines of Geo bleeding across his arms. Childe laughs then and says, “You didn’t realize it, did you?” A kiss to Zhongli’s brow, his fluttering eyelids, the arch of each cheek. “You can’t propose like that and make me wait.”

The last time Zhongli’s heart lurched like this was in pain. Guizhong crumbled to dust in his hands and rage filled him in the aftermath. This time, though, his heart bursts, filling his throat. He kisses Childe, pressing a hand to his back to force him closer. It is a searing and passionate thing, full of teasing tongues, and wandering hands, and lofty moans into each others’ mouths. 

Childe laughs into his mouth and pulls him to his feet. They stumble into the bedroom, unable to pull away from each other. The bed is soft against his back. Childe hangs over him and sighs, dragging a hand down his chest, and then Zhongli is gone.

Chapter Text

It is a lesson in persistence
carved into the rock, into the ground
by golden hands tinged with black
ageless
quiet like the silent sky
the snow that blinds with moonlit glare
to drink it up like the sweet wine
that clings to old forgotten youth.

The turn of a page is loud
Parchment crinkling under his calloused fingers
That drag over its smoothness counting words
Lips that mouth alongside
As the story sinks in
Word after word sucked in deep
Enjoyed next to the roaring crackle of fire
That sets auburn hair alight with its glow.

Love used to ache
searing hot like a knife’s edge
the sort of pain that hurts until it is pleasure
hot in my belly
boiling in my veins
until my heart is well-done and wanton
and then that love turns soft
fleeting like the snow that drifts in
perfect snowflakes melting on my tongue like a kiss.

I would rather—

“What are you scribbling over there?”

Zhongli’s quill pauses, hovering over an old leather journal. Childe doesn’t look up from his book, flipping the page, eyes scanning the next. 

“Nothing,” says Zhongli, as if he isn’t pouring his heart onto the pages of an old journal of his from the ages of Morax.

Childe hums as he keeps reading. He doesn’t bother to follow up, lost in his book. The porch is open despite the winter chill. Flurries drift through the air, sticking to the wooden floor of the deck. The fire roars, casting a toasty glow across the room. 

Zhongli stares at him for too long; long enough for Childe to squirm and finally look up. And still, Childe says nothing, he just smiles, a crooked grin that catches Zhongli’s heart and yanks it to his throat. Childe is close enough to lean over and close the distance, hand against the couch, the cushion sinking under his weight.

The kiss is sweet and lingering, full of soft laughter and eyelashes that flutter against Zhongli’s cheeks. Zhongli leans into it, cupping Childe’s face, chasing the warmth of his mouth as if he’s half-frozen. 

They do not part easily. Zhongli holds his face a little too firmly, which only makes Childe huff softly. Childe boops Zhongli’s nose with a finger. Curls his palm around Zhongli’s hand to pull it away, kissing his wrist bone. 

Childe scoots close enough that there is still distance but he can keep hold of Zhongli, threading their fingers together against his thigh. And then it's back to his book as if he was never interrupted, turning the page for a fresh set of words.

It is not a loud night. Comfort settles over them like a wool blanket that keeps out the chill. Childe rubs across Zhongli’s knuckles with a thumb, and Zhongli could fall asleep counting each stroke. 

Another verse. His journal has often carried his thoughts and notations added through the years. 

I would rather have one moment like this
than a hundred thousand alone
quiet against the backdrop of snow
and the roaring of the fire
his hand warm against mine
as it rubs the worries away
love at its finest, subtlest, brightest
my mark on his neck
his mark on mine
threaded together in the ancient ways
until fate knocks at the open porch door
to which I will ask it to take us both.