Archive of Our Own

As Childe and Zhongli leave Liuli Pavillion, the final groups of evening goers and couples trickle homeward down Liyue’s streets. The taste of Jueyun Chili lingers on Childe’s tongue, his lips tingling in the aftermath, but he can’t care less as he listens enraptured to Zhongli tell him an ancient tale of Rex Lapis—a battle story, as he requested.

It’s a grand evening, and to think that after everything that happened, they can be here, spending time together just as they used to, is nothing short of a miracle.

People like him aren’t supposed to experience miracles.

When Childe, in the wake of his discovery that Zhongli was in fact the Archon he’d been seeking all along, had organised an intelligence review of all his interactions with Zhongli leading up to the Rite of Descension, the surprise of the era had landed on his desk. It came in the form of a single document with the photo of a familiar pair of dragon and phoenix chopsticks on the front, the text below detailing an alternative meaning to the gift he received all those months ago.

A gift between business partners was Childe’s assumption when he’d received them. They’d been on the ‘acceptable gifts in Liyue’ list he’d prepared before arriving in Liyue and had taken their meaning as such.

However, in light of that little discovery, along with the evenings they’d spent together, the lingering gazes, the conversations dragged just a little too long, all of which he threw away in a fit of anger and frustration, he felt something that the almighty Harbingers of Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa aren’t supposed to feel—regret. So he’d marched straight to Zhongli’s home, nearly knocking the door off the hinges with how hard he banged his fist against it.

‘Courtship,’ Zhongli had called it, when Childe confronted him.

‘A fool,’ Childe had called Zhongli, which is saying a lot, because Childe spends his quarterly work meetings around a near-dozen of them.

And now they’re here, heading back after another evening of opera and dinner, walking, walking, walking, yet neither of them make a move to return to their own homes.

‘Dating,’ Tonia had called it in her latest letter.

Childe didn’t date before Zhongli—there was no time for that nonsense-sounding sappy stuff when there was a weapon in his hand begging to be wielded. Truthfully he’s still not sure what a date is exactly. All he and Zhongli did tonight was spend time together the same as they’ve always done.

Is this ‘dating’? Have they always been ‘dating’?

If so, maybe dating isn’t so bad.

“And that is how the citizens of the fledgling Liyue were saved through Skybracer’s virtuous sacrifice,” concludes Zhongli, coming to the end of his tale.

“But what about the god who slashed the mountain? I bet they were powerful, right? How did you take down a god that can cut a mountain in half?”

Zhongli chuckles, and Childe finds himself wanting to say more things that will bring that smile to Zhongli’s face.

“Well,” says Zhongli, “that is a long tale, and perhaps more appropriate for the next time we meet.”

“And when can we do that? No, don’t answer that—I’ll pick you up first thing in the morning. We’ll do the whole day again, xiansheng, and you can tell me the rest of this tale!”

Zhongli laughs this time, although Childe isn’t sure why. But he is sure that he wants to reach out and touch that smile, to feel the creases beside Zhongli’s eyes, the stretched skin of Zhongli’s cheek under his fingers, to know that he was the one who put that happiness there.

What the heck is wrong with him?

“Unfortunately Director Hu requires my attention at the funeral parlour in the morning, so I shall be unavailable. However, I do happen to have an interesting artifact at home related to the tale we just spoke of that may be of interest to you. Should you wish to view it, you are welcome to return home with me to do so.”

“An artifact?” Childe replies, keeping his hands securely to himself and not on Zhongli’s face. “Now you’ve piqued my interest! What is it?”

“It is the hilt of a blade used within that fateful battle. While it has weathered with time, the ornamentation is still in good condition, and serves as a reminder to the sacrifices of those who have long parted us.”

A weapon? Now this is interesting. Were Liyue’s blades forged in the same manner as today? How might it compare to those forged in Snezhnaya, both past and present? Despite the late hour there’s no way he’s missing out on the chance to hold a weapon of such historical significance, and Childe nods eagerly.

“Sounds grand, I’d enjoy that, if it’s no trouble for you.”

“It is never any trouble.” Zhongli smiles and continues down the road, reaching toward Childe’s back, his hand dipping out of Childe’s field of vision. Childe steps to the side, bringing it back into view.

Zhongli frowns briefly, withdrawing his arm to his side.

That expression means something not good, but it’s difficult to read what Zhongli is thinking. Did he do something wrong, or break some Liyuen cultural norm he isn’t aware of?

Zhongli continues walking, so it couldn’t have been that offensive, and Childe walks along beside him, waiting for Zhongli to launch into another tale. But Zhongli walks silently with that same frowny face, tying strange knots in Childe’s stomach that he doesn’t know what to do with.

They walk through a part of Liyue Childe hasn’t been to before (officially, anyway—he might or might not have tracked Zhongli during his early weeks in Liyue, in an attempt to figure out the true identity of his mysterious new contact) and Zhongli comes to a stop in front of a perfectly ordinary front door, (quite unbefitting a man who was once the Lord of Geo) twisting his key in the lock and letting them in.

Childe pauses inside the doorway to slide his boots off, taking a moment to absorb the fact that this is his first time inside the place Zhongli considers home. Display cabinets line the hall, little knick-knacks arranged in an incomprehensible manner. A plate painted with floral patterns sits beside a jade dragon, and an armoured warrior wielding a spear points his weapon toward a horse that may or may not be his own. 

Hopefully it is the steed of his mortal enemy, for to point a weapon at one’s own mount would be quite foolish.

“Ah, you are admiring the soldier on the top right,” says Zhongli, not turning back to confirm. “His uniform is modelled after that which would have been worn by the Millelith during a time of intense Abyssal activity within the Chasm. He represents all those who fought and gave their lives during those dark days, and these models were created in limited numbers to honour their sacrifice.”

“Huh.”

“Now please, make yourself at home. The item we are here to see is through here.”

They continue down the hall and Childe can’t take his eyes off of the warrior as he passes, the beady, lifeless eyes staring back at him.

Would Her Majesty have a model made of him, should he fall in the line of duty? In five hundred years, will a model Tartaglia be standing in Zhongli’s cabinet, spending his days in endless battle alongside this nameless soldier? It seems like a grand way to spend eternity—maybe he should bring it up at their next meeting.

“Here we are.” Zhongli opens the door at the end of the hall, leading them into a fresh, airy room. The bed centreing it is piled high with plush pillows, and the sheets appear to be woven from silk flower.

Zhongli is one for the small luxuries, as ever.

They arrive at the bedside table and, sure as Zhongli said, there sits the sword hilt, carefully set on a stand. It’s more ordinary than Childe expected. For a sword used in such a prominent battle, the picture in his mind had been of shimmering gold, the head of a beast carved upon the pommel and intricate patterns forged into the grip, set with the kinds of glittering stones that Zhongli likes.

However, this hilt is forged of simple, dark iron, with a small trimming of gold at the pommel, where the geo symbol is carved into the metal. That figures—all the extra adornments would add far too much weight to be practical, but it ruins the image a bit.

“You may hold it, if you wish,” says Zhongli. “It is not an item I would advise be frequently handled, but on this occasion, an exception feels appropriate.”

“A chance to hold a weapon from a legendary battle? You should know me better than to have to ask!”

Zhongli gives another of those soft smiles of his and reaches forward to retrieve it, brushing the back of Childe’s arm with his shoulder. The contact sends a tight, prickling sensation through Childe and he takes a step back, relieving himself of the lingering itch.

Zhongli pauses, and Childe feels as though he’s a child again, being caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Uh, did I do something wrong?”

“You?” Zhongli turns back to Childe, his eyes widened. “Not at all. In fact, I was concerned that it was I who made the error.”

“You? Not at all! I thought we were looking at swords here, what problem would I have with that?”

Zhongli shakes his head. “Then you do not consider this activity as a part of our courtship… Then perhaps it was I who coerced you into this arrangement without considering whether you truly held reciprocation for my own feelings.”

What is the old man on about? They’re still on their date, aren’t they? A date looking at swords has to be one of the best date ideas ever.

“Huh? I’ve been having a great time today. I even asked you if you wanted to do the same tomorrow, didn’t I?”

“This is true, yet you appear rather repulsed by my physical presence. Please, there is no need to be polite for my sake, and I shall not be offended if you do not wish to continue.”

“Ah.”

Of course it would come to this. Relationships mean intimacy and intimacy means physical proximity, which means hands roaming places he can’t see, lingering long enough to entice him to let his guard down. He learned long ago to sidestep the hearty back slaps his comrades like to share, an instinct entrenched further by that incident in his recruit days where a fellow trainee, presumably jealous of Childe’s advanced prowess for his age, attempted the same manoeuvre, only to plunge his razor between Childe’s shoulder blades. Childe ended up with seven stitches for that error (and the other recruit had needed several more, after Childe was done with him, but that’s beside the point).

Not that Zhongli is going to stab him (probably), but the theoretical possibility of the matter sets Childe’s hairs on end and turns his skin itchy and hot.

“Then there is an issue?” Zhongli asks, probing but not demanding.

“It’s more just…” Childe runs his hand through his hair, searching for the most straightforward way to phrase his answer. “I’m not used to being that close to people outside my family, I guess. Hazards of the job and all.”

“I see. Then it is something you wish for and simply are not accustomed to, or are you opposed to the idea in its entirety?”

“I’m not sure, never really gave it much thought.” Childe shrugs, and wow, that sword hilt is suddenly far more interesting than he originally gave it credit for. “Hey, do you think when they forged that sword—”

Zhongli steps between him and the artifact. “Childe, I am asking you to consider it. This is an important aspect of our relationship going forward.”

Ugh, Zhongli and his questions. Does it really matter?

“I don’t know, Zhongli. If you want, then I can give it a go, how does that sound?”

“It sounds as though you are avoiding the question.”

Childe sighs. He’s not getting out of this.

Stubborn old dragon-qilin- thing.

Does he want to? He pictures Zhongli’s hand over his as they watch the opera together, he pictures the casual touches he’s seen come so easily to others, he pictures Zhongli tapping him on the shoulder to draw his attention to some fancy antique he’s spotted before giving Childe the eyes to tell him that he’s forgotten his mora again.

He wants those things. Or he thinks he does. It’s all too alien to know for sure.

Childe nods. “Yeah, I would. Or I think so, anyway. But there’s no harm in giving it a go, so here, try now. There’s no time like the present to get started.”

Zhongli’s shoulders soften and he smiles. “As you wish. Admittedly, it pleases me to hear you give that answer; to imagine a world in which I might never be permitted physical contact with the one so dear to me…ah, it matters not.” Zhongli removes his right glove, revealing a deep brown hand, lines of golden Geo tracing the lines where human veins would run. “May I?”

Childe takes a second to process the work of art that is Zhongli, and he swallows deeply before nodding.  “Sure, go ahead.”

Zhongli extends his hand toward Childe’s forearm and Childe watches every detail of the movement, the hairs on his arm rising even before Zhongli can make contact.

This is fine. It’s just Zhongli.

So why does he feel the need to draw his blade and raise it to Zhongli’s throat?

Zhongli brushes his fingertips against Childe’s skin and instinct takes over. He snatches his arm away, backing up a couple of paces and clenching his fists, attempting to dispel the hydro swelling in his palms.

Zhongli withdraws, watching Childe with pained eyes.

Damnit. Now he’s upset Zhongli.

“Sorry,” says Childe. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“No apology is needed; the fault is not your own.” Zhongli sighs, eyeing Childe up and down. “However, I do have a proposal—a progression of sorts—which might make the process easier.”

A progression? That’s something Childe can get on board with. Progressions were how Skirk took him from a scrawny countryside kid who could barely hold a sword to a competent warrior, able to slay dragons on behalf of Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa.

“Sure, what do you have in mind?”

Zhongli looks at him, eyes so gentle Childe could melt. “Do you trust me?” he asks, and Childe has to pause to process the answer to that question.

Does he trust Zhongli?

He’s not sure.

Should he trust Zhongli?

Probably not, after Zhongli has already demonstrated that he can play Childe like the strings of the guzheng he’s so fond of.

Does he want to trust Zhongli?

What is trust anyway?

There’s the kind of trust he shares with his comrades, the security in knowing that they’ll carry out the mission he assigns them and that he’s not going to be deceived or double crossed. His agents like him—he’s quite proud of the fact that he’s not quite as detestable as the likes of Signora—and he can count on that to serve his interests well. 

Then there’s the trust he holds for his family, for his treasured siblings who he allows to climb freely over him to their hearts’ desires. Children are innocent and beautiful, not yet tainted by the broken dreams that adulthood brings, and none of them would ever cause him harm. (That’s excluding that one time when Teucer, pretending to be a knight, smacked him with a toy sword in the one spot where Childe really, really wished he hadn’t. He’d spent a few miserable minutes curled in a ball on the floor as consequence for that lapse in judgement.)

And finally intimate trust, romantic trust…

After all that’s happened, he shouldn’t even be alone with Zhongli in this room.

But he is.

So maybe he does trust Zhongli.

Yeah, this must be trust.

“Yeah, I do.” Childe nods and takes a single step toward him. “What do you propose?”

“I propose taking things a little slower, and both of us finding a more comfortable position to continue this activity.” Zhongli gestures to the bed. “Unless you find this arrangement unfavourable…”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Childe flashes Zhongli a grin. “My my, Zhongli, I didn’t know you’d try propositioning me this early on. Should I be flattered?”

Zhongli’s cheeks pinken and he fumbles over his words. “No…no, that was not my intent. My apologies if you read it to imply—”

Spluttering out a laugh, Childe shakes his head. “Hey hey, I’m just joking. Your face was great, though. Ah, you’re funny, xiansheng. Alright, let’s try this your way.”

After taking off his jacket and draping it over the end of the bed, Childe sits, testing the mattress. It’s as soft as it looks and he lays back, sinking into pillows that attempt to absorb him into them. Zhongli joins him, keeping a cautious half-metre between them as they lie next to each other. With a long exhale, he rests his hands on his chest, and rolls his head to the side to face Childe, wearing a quiet, contented smile.

Smiling at Childe.

It’s a bit weird, lying in bed with Zhongli, and Zhongli looking so damn pleased about it. ‘There’s a Harbinger in your bed!’ Childe wants to tell him. ‘We aren’t good guys, you know!” But Zhongli already knows all that and still insists on looking at him in that way anyway. 

Weird.

“So, what now?” asks Childe, eager to move on before he has to think about it any more deeply.

“Nothing, unless you wish it to.” Zhongli removes his other glove and slides his left arm out so it sits equidistant between them. “We can converse, or not, however you prefer, and the next step shall be yours to make. If you desire physical contact between us, you can act upon such desire, and if not, I shall take no offence.”

Childe stares at the hand sitting innocently above the sheets.

His choice.

He looks to Zhongli, then back to his hand.

His choice.

Well, in that case, a little closer wouldn’t hurt.

Childe slips his gloves off and slides his hand next to Zhongli’s, leaving a few centimetres separating them.

“Say, Zhongli, how about you tell a story, or a bit of history you like, or anything, really.”

“Anything I would like?” Zhongli hums and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds before answering. “In that case, perhaps you would like to hear of the new teas Wanmin has brought in stock?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Zhongli glances down at their hands, then turns his attention back to Childe. “Excellent. In that case, this information should be prefaced by the fact that, for reasons of competition, what I am about to tell you should remain confidential between you and I.”

Childe nods absentmindedly, edging his hand a little closer. “Sure, I’m good at secrets. So, what’s the tea?” He chuckles, satisfied with his own joke.

Zhongli’s eyes crease and a subtle smile plays on his lips. “The tea is a Sumeran blend, and Xiangling is hoping that it will add some variety to their summer menu.”

“Oh really?” Childe pays only vague attention to the words, instead focusing on inching his hand closer bit by bit. Zhongli’s hand looks softer than the hand of a man of stone and earth should—would it feel that soft to touch?

“Yes. Her current concern is whether the shipment will arrive in time. There were some issues involving some rogue fungi on the trade route from Sumeru City, and there’s the possibility of the shipment not reaching the restaurant in time for the first week of the season.”

Making a grunt of acknowledgement, Childe continues to focus on their hands, now a centimetre apart.

His choice.

In one, small movement, he links his pinkie with Zhongli’s and squeezes.

Huh. It’s soft, kinda squishy between each joint, and warm.

Zhongli has stopped talking too and watches Childe’s movements, remaining completely still.

“You’re warm,” comments Childe, unlinking their pinkies to explore the back of Zhongli’s hand with his fingertips, circling the slightly rougher skin of his knuckles. He traces a line of geo, and the beat of the earth hums under his touch. This is the hand of a god, and he’s being permitted to touch, despite his own nature being of heresy and corruption.

Well, he hasn’t been smited yet. Maybe the line between human and god is smaller than he thought.

Retracting his hand and placing it back on the bed, Childe digs his fingers into the blankets, comparing the feel to Zhongli’s hand. It’s still soft, but cold, and he finds himself wanting to put his hand right back where it was.

But he is a warrior, a Harbinger, and he must always strive to push his limits.

“Hey, Zhongli?”

“Yes?”

“Can you do the same, like I just did to you? I think I’ll like that.”

“As you wish,” says Zhongli, eyes shimmering like crystals, sliding his hand across to cover Childe’s, creating a warm pocket of air between them, a steady pressure pressing Childe’s hand into the bed.

Pressing.

Pinning.

Trapping.

“You’re tense.” Zhongli watches him carefully. “I will not do any more than you ask.”

“I know. It’s just…I’m not used to this. Give me a moment.”

His heart pounds against his chest and Childe fights to keep his breathing level. How stupid. All this from not quite even holding hands with the guy he’s supposed to like!  Has he really become such a honed instrument of war that even the touch of another human is foreign to him now?

“Childe…” Zhongli murmurs, the low vibrations curling in Childe’s ear and tethering him to the present.

“I’m fine, just getting used to it,” Childe says, attempting to sound more certain of that statement than he feels.

“What does it feel like?”

“Huh?”

“This.” Zhongli dips his head toward their hands. “What does it feel like to you? Describe it to me.”

Childe licks his lips, realising how dry they’ve become. At least Zhongli isn’t asking him about the messy thoughts running through his head. He’s not sure he wants Zhongli to know all that anyway—Zhongli would probably look at him like a madman if he knew. But a physical description? He can do that.

“It’s…heavy. And it’s like there’s an insect—you know that feeling where you know there’s something there and you need to flick your hand to get it off? That’s how it feels, except the thing on me is bigger. Not that I’m calling you an insect, xiansheng!”

“I’m certain I have been called worse in my time. Insects are a beautiful part of our ecosystem, feeding the creatures of the sky and pollinating the flora for as long as Teyvat has existed. To be an insect might be considered an honour in this world of ours.”

The thick timbre of Zhongli’s voice rolls through Childe and without thinking about it, he finds himself spreading his fingers, slotting Zhongli’s between his own, and he squeezes their interlocked hands together.

Did he just do that?

Apparently he did.

It’s so clammy, and the pressure of Zhongli squeezing back isn’t too dissimilar to the weight of a blade in his hand. But this is no blade, this is a person, and people have minds of their own.

Not just any person. This is Zhongli. Zhongli isn’t dangerous. Well, perhaps in a fight, but the man has stubbornly refused all of Childe’s requests to spar, and it’s doubtful he’ll suddenly change his mind now.

It’s weird, but it’s not bad. Contrary to the back of his hand, Zhongli’s palm has a more leathery quality, a robustness built only from years upon years of wielding a weapon.

“Rough, but smooth,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“Your hands. You told me to describe them.”

“Ah, if the texture is displeasing, I can morph them into something more appropriate for—”

“No!” Childe props himself on his elbow without letting go of Zhongli. “I like them like this. They’re very…you!”

Zhongli laughs softly and looks at their linked hands. “Thank you. And it must be said—you have done well today. This is truly a precious gift.”

He’s done well. Childe’s heart beats a little faster, a tiny whirlpool forming in his midsection. He’s made Zhongli happy, made Zhongli pleased with him, and it’s the nudge he needs to take it a step further.

“We shouldn’t stop here—this is far from enough. We should be able to do more than this if we’re a couple, right? So it’s time to practise!”

Zhongli sobers, studying Childe’s face as though searching for the answer to an unspoken question.

“What?” says Childe. “I mean it! Practice makes perfect, xiansheng.”

“You are certain of this?”

“When am I not certain? Doubt is the enemy of progress, and I refuse to hesitate when the opportunity to surpass my limits is before me.”

“Then perhaps I should rephrase the question: do you wish to?”

Oh, he wants to. He wants to be able to sink into Zhongli and enjoy lingering touches and passionate kisses and, for one sweet moment, be free of the thought of a knife slipping between his shoulder blades. Zhongli doesn’t deserve a partner who can’t pay him the attention he deserves, and if there’s one thing Childe doesn’t do, it’s doing something poorly.

If he must temporarily set down his blade in order to be proficient in this, he will learn.

“Please, Zhongli. Just touch me.”

Zhongli’s expression is beautiful. His eyes widen just a little, his lips drawing tighter together, and he unlinks their hands, brushing his fingertips over the back of Childe’s hand and toward his wrist.

“It is said that physical contact has many benefits,” murmurs Zhongli, tracing the tender skin of Childe’s inner forearm, the touch of his fingers as light as feather, raising gooseflesh along their path.

“You should tell me about it.” Childe struggles to keep his voice steady, locked in a strange state between needing to bolt from the room and wanting to stay here forever, hypnotised by something so simple, but so addictive.

“Certain studies from the Akademiya have noted that touch between partners facilitates the release of hormones associated with bonding and increased affection. How curious that, as we engage in this exercise, such effects become more apparent and efficacious than I could have predicted.” Zhongli stops as he reaches the spot where Childe’s shirt sleeve is rolled to and massages the skin there, pupils widening to an oval from their usual slits.

Childe swallows, attempting to quell the bubbling in his midsection. Sure, he’s well aware that dating implies some level of enjoyment for each other’s company, but the way Zhongli voices it so directly pieces through him, deep and dangerous, and he needs to fight, fight—

No.

“Tickles,” he says, focusing on the slow circling of Zhongli’s fingers, “but warm. Weird… but good.”

With a quiet hum, Zhongli shifts closer, the sweet scent of whatever he washes his hair with wafting into Childe’s space. His touch still gentle—too gentle for what Childe deserves—he respects the boundary the fabric sets between them, not dipping under the roll of Childe’s sleeve, but over it, running his hand across Childe’s upper arm, feeling along the tricep and slipping inward to place a light pressure on his bicep.

“Those receiving frequent touch from those close to them also report lower levels of stress, in addition to other effects such as a lower resting heartbeat and lowered anxiety,” continues Zhongli, teasing at the lower part of Childe’s shoulder. 

Childe’s heartbeat is far from lowered. It hammers in his chest and his palms sweat at each movement Zhongli makes, his breath catching in his throat. He’s not anxious—he doesn’t feel useless things like fear—but this is so out of his normal that he can’t put his finger on what he does feel.

Warm. Gentle. Soft. Focus on the physical.

Zhongli edges a little further up, making contact with the top of Childe’s shoulder and Childe suppresses a shudder. The vulnerable flesh of his neck is inches from  Zhongli’s fingers, fingers that were once the almighty claws of the exuvia, able to rip through him in one easy slash.

Itching, crawling, scratching.

He shifts away.

Zhongli’s face falls and he pulls his hand back to his chest.

“Sorry.” Childe inches back into position. “I didn’t mean to… I’m not sure why I did that.”

“There is no need to apologise; we are far further along than we were just a short time ago, so let us consider this a victory.”

Zhongli’s words are kind, reassuring, but his disappointment is clear in the way his gaze dips away and his shoulders fall, and Childe feels seeping shame twist in his gut. How ridiculous he struggles with a simple activity that comes so easily to every other human in Teyvat.

Perhaps they were right.

Perhaps he really did lose his humanity eight years ago.

But for Zhongli, perhaps he can grasp at those faint threads tying him to the guise of ‘human’, and put up a good show of it.

Childe shifts into a sitting position learning against the headboard and pats the spot beside him. “Come sit here, I have an idea.”

Zhongli hesitates, then nods. “Very well.” He moves into position, not touching, but close enough that his body heat radiates into Childe’s space. “What would you have me do?”

“I’ll show you. Just… go with this, alright?” 

Childe shifts closer and leg brushes against leg, hip against hip. A tingle runs under Childe’s skin as they make contact, but having another body pressed so closely to his brings with it a sense of rightness. He and Zhongli are supposed to be this close, and the small part of him holding the remainder of his humanity slowly wakes in the intimacy of the moment.

Taking Zhongli’s hand in his own (why does it feel so good to touch him again?), Childe guides it around his shoulders until Zhongli’s arm is draped around him with Childe holding him firmly in position. 

“How is it?” asks Zhongli.

“It’s fine.” The response is woefully inadequate, but how can he describe this? The pressure across his upper back, the warmth seeping into him, the scent of Zhongli growing ever stronger the longer they remain this close. Is it better than the arm touches? Maybe. This is more invasive, placing Zhongli in a space he would usually only allow a person to be after breathing their last breath or just before. 

But Zhongli is alive. A real, alive person sitting in the bed next to him with his arm around his shoulders.

Tilting his head to the side, Childe rubs his cheek against the fabric of Zhongli’s coat. Smooth, with a slight bumpy texture, Zhongli’s upper arm muscles firm below the surface. It turns him weak and he shuffles closer, resting his head on Zhongli’s shoulder.

Zhongli is so patient and so still, and his soft, measured breaths tickle Childe’s forehead and hairline.

“This is nice,” says Childe absentmindedly, stroking his thumb across the back of Zhongli’s hand.

“It is a moment that I shall treasure in my memories forever.” Zhongli sighs and rests his head on Childe’s, loose threads of hair playing against Childe’s cheek. “And in the future, no matter what you choose to offer, know I shall appreciate every gesture, no matter how great or small.”

Childe releases his grip on Zhongli’s wrist and rests his hand in his lap, and Zhongli rests his hand on Childe’s shoulder, moving his thumb in soothing circles that seem to connect directly to Childe’s brain, slowing his thoughts and turning his eyes heavy.

Cosy. Intimate. Snug.

This is okay.

This is good.

Zhongli is far too good, far too patient.

Childe is the weapon of a foreign Archon, his actions tied to however she deems to use him. If she commanded him to never speak to Zhongli again, he would comply, for a blade can only follow the path of the hand that wields it.

And knowing his predestined duty, Zhongli would let him go, no matter how it might shatter him to do so.

“Why?” he mutters half to himself, half to Zhongli.

“In regards to what matter are you asking such a thing?”

“Why…why us?” Childe runs his tongue around his mouth, forcing out his next words. “Why me?”

“Why not you, is the question that I would return to you.”

“Because I’m…you know what I am. I don’t need to explain the obvious.”

“Childe.” 

Zhongli sounds gravely serious and Childe looks up at him, hoping he hasn’t committed some grand social faux pas of Liyuen conversation. But Zhongli doesn’t look angry, or offended. He’s frowning, but his brows tilt upward, and he looks at Childe with such tenderness that Childe could melt under that gaze forever.

“That’s my name.” Childe attempts a cheeky grin, attempting to hide how his heart simultaneously shrivels and shudders at the expression aimed directly at him.

“Have you considered that I may not care for what you are, but who you are?”

Childe’s heart snaps in two and crumples inward under the weight of those stupidly simple words. His jaw is tight but his throat is trembling and Zhongli keeps on looking at him like that.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. What the heck is this?

Zhongli is leaning toward him, gaze lingering on Childe’s lips, and Childe feels his own lips part in response. He could lean forward too, close that gap and press his lips to Zhongli’s and…

Shoot, is this what it’s like to want to kiss someone? It always sounded like a messy and fruitless affair, but with Zhongli…oh, Tsaritsa forgive him, he wants to.

So he does.

Their lips meet tenderly, almost hesitant, and Childe sinks forward, balancing himself against Zhongli’s chest. Beneath his palm, Zhongli’s heart beats in time with his own, an unwavering beacon of life in a world so full of death and sin, where the strong will trample the weak and dominate those lacking the strength to dominate in turn.

As much as it pains Childe to admit his own weakness, if he wanted Zhongli could pin him to the ground under a geo seal, or crush him under a meteor, or use any of the numerous martial arts he’s mastered over the years to pummel Childe into the ground.

But here, everything is different. 

Zhongli is strong, but his touch is kind, nurturing. Zhongli could pin him down and do whatever he wanted with him, but he waits for Childe to deepen their kiss, only moving his lips when Childe does the same, following every movement Childe leads.

Maybe this is Zhongli’s strength, knowing that he could seize control of the situation at any moment, but chooses not to.

Gripping Zhongli’s shirt in his fist, Childe tries dipping his tongue forward to tease between Zhongli’s lips. Fontainian kissing, he’s heard it called, but he’s not going that far today, just enough to feel the dampness of Zhongli’s lips, explore this strange, wonderful man who is a pillar of strength yet a handhold of security.

If Zhongli is all of this at once, then he is stronger than Childe could have ever imagined.

Childe pulls back, drunk off the strange fuzzy high running through his entire body, and Zhongli looks the same as how he feels—wet lipped, wide eyes, nostrils flared with elevated breathing. Throughout the kiss, Zhongli continued to hold him close, and now they are done Childe doesn’t want him to stop.

“That was quite good.” Childe grins. “We should do that again sometime.”

“‘Quite’ is insufficient to summarise the degree of pleasure your proximity brought me, but yes, with the sentiment I would agree.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Is it truly dramaticism to accurately define the—'' Zhongli makes a surprised muffled sound as Childe clamps his hand over Zhongli’s mouth.

“Cut it out!” Childe laughs, removing his hand to rest it against Zhongli’s cheek. “You say such silly things, xiansheng.”

Zhongli laughs, leaning into Childe’s palm. “Very well, I shall hold my peace for now. But if you ever wish to hear all that I intended to express, there is plenty to be said, and I would be eager to share it.”

If Zhongli were to say those things, Childe would surely explode. Or implode. Or something equally violent. It’s too much, and he’s a parched man being dunked head first into a lake, drowning in the affection Zhongli pours over him.

But with time, as he reforms himself to overcome any obstacle, he will adapt to this too, and someday Zhongli will be able to speak his mind. He’ll make sure of it.

“Then I’ll ask you, one day, that’s a promise,” says Childe, lifting his pinky to tap it against Zhongli’s cheek.

“Then I shall look forward to that day.” Zhongli lifts his hand, reaching toward Childe’s face, but he retracts it before making contact, his smile fading slightly.

The joy fades, replaced with a nauseating ball of guilt in the back of Childe’s throat. Zhongli deserves a normal relationship with a normal person, not a weapon ready to strike him down at one wrong move. He deserves more, better.

“Zhongli?”

“Yes, Childe?”

“Can I trust you?”

He’s not sure why he asked it. The answer itself holds no merit—any logical person would answer yes, regardless of their intent—but somehow the whole world hinges on that single response, permission for himself to…he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know any of this.

But he wants to.

Zhongli sighs, squeezing his arm around Childe’s shoulders. “My dearest Childe, if I were to construct a road of Geo and set its path to Celestia itself, if you were upon it, I would bow not even to the Heavenly Principles themselves. Let there be no more half-truths, no more deception, and no more schemes between us. If you can trust my word, then I shall uphold that trust until the earth retakes me.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“It is.”

Trust. He can trust Zhongli. In this, anyway.

Zhongli isn’t going to stab him in the back, or slice a blade across his throat. Zhongli wants him. Zhongli likes him, and Zhongli wants to show him that. It would be so easy to let go, to accept all these strange and unfamiliar and wonderful things, but when he imagines Zhongli’s gentle touch roaming across scar lines and tissue taut from repeated electro burns, his heartbeat accelerates and his palms flash cold.

If only he could persuade his body of this, stow away those instincts that have kept him alive for nearly a decade, yet now hold him back from truly living.

“Then I’m going to try something. Don’t move.” Childe folds his hand over the back of Zhongli’s, intertwining their fingers as he lifts it toward his face. “You can’t hide what you want from me, so it’s up to me to give it to you.”

Zhongli frowns. “I would not wish to force myself upon you; I desire only that which you do also.”

“I want this. I want you, Zhongli, it’s just…complicated.”

“And that is perfectly acceptable—we have many days ahead of us yet; there is no need to rush yourself.”

Patient. Kind. Gentle.

Zhongli is safe, right?

What is he thinking? Doubt is unbefitting of a warrior such as Tartaglia. If he’s choosing a path, he must march upon it with full conviction, and embrace the consequence of that decision.

Zhongli is safe.

He pushes Zhongli’s palm against his cheek, his face burning and his pulse pounding in his ears.

Safe. This is safe. There is no danger here.

Warm. It’s warm, and geo energy pulses softly through the lines running through Zhongli’s skin, mildly tingly but not unpleasant.

Childe slides Zhongli’s hand down, brushing his lower cheek and jawbone, holding it against his neck.

A blade to his throat, the flick of a wrist. Red, red, red gushing over silken bedsheets. Limbs heavy, refusing all commands to move, to run. His body flung to the floor, a puddle of iron scented liquid pooling around his head.

Get up. Fight. Fight. Fight.

“Childe, I am here.” Zhongli’s voice drags him back to reality.

Childe swallows, trying to focus on Zhongli’s face. He’s too light, floating above the bed (which is thankfully not covered in his blood), but Zhongli’s hand is still on his neck, floating with him, steady and unwavering.

It’s just Zhongli, and just Childe. No blades or claws or teeth baying for his blood.

Fight.

No, not today.

Childe tethers himself to Zhongli, locking onto those kind eyes of his, shimmering like fine cut gemstone but soft like honey, and slowly he descends back to where he lies, bedsheets solid beneath his body and Zhongli’s arm still holding onto him by the shoulders. He swallows, taking stock of the pressure against his neck, of the faint hum of geo vibrating with the rhythm of his own pulse. 

“So am I,” he says, giving Zhongli the kind of smile he likes to see. “I’m here, Zhongli.”

“That you are. And while you instructed me to remain still, I would like to ask your forgiveness in advance for my next actions.” Zhongli shifts forward and before Childe has a chance to register what’s happening, Zhongli presses his lips to Childe’s forehead, lingering there a moment before drawing back, leaving a moist patch in his wake. “You have much to be proud of today.”

Proud? Of being a normal human being doing normal human things? If anything, the fact that today proved such a struggle is further evidence of how much better suited he is to being a weapon than a human.

Zhongli talks such nonsense.

Childe averts his eyes. “I don’t think so. This is what I should be able to offer you; I’m not taking pride in something so ordinary. A warrior must seek his pride in pushing the horizons of possibility, not walking the path others have already forged.”

There’s a pause, then Zhongli sighs. “Childe, will you look at me?”

He can’t. If he looks at Zhongli, those damn eyes of his will bore straight through him, opening up parts of him he swore he’d locked up for good, never to be released again to a world that would dig its claws into any vulnerability he dare show.

But letting a simple pair of eyes break him would be weak, and Tartaglia is not weak.

Slowly he looks back to Zhongli and nearly melts. Despite all the trouble Childe’s put him through, Zhongli smiles at him, subtle and tender and all too kind, only for him.

“If you refuse to be proud of your own achievements, then I am left obligated take that mantle in your stead.” Sliding his hand up to cup Childe’s cheek, Zhongli strokes his thumb against the corner of Childe’s lip. “For how far you have pushed through your limits today, I am proud of you.”

Cheeks hot. Palms too cold. Mind racing. 

Pride? What pride is there to be had in this?

Heartbeat in his throat. Skin tingling. Stomach churning. Oh, Archons, he’s going to be sick.

What foul magic is in these words to make him feel this way? He likes compliments as much as any man, but he never felt this way upon receiving the medals of service pinned in his quarters of Zapolyarny Palace.

No, it is these devious words Zhongli utters, turning him weak and cold and too hot all at once.

“Childe, did you hear? I wished to tell you that I am proud of you.”

“Cut it out!” A surge of adrenaline flashes through him and Childe flips out of Zhongli’s hold and shoves him flat to the bed, pinning him by his wrists. “Cut it out,” he growls, tightening his grip.

“Cut it out? I’m afraid I do not follow.” Zhongli doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight back, he just lies there, watching Childe’s face with quiet concern.

Childe wishes he would fight. He could raise a blade to a blade, but there is nothing he can do to defend himself against Zhongli’s treacherous mouth.

“Stop saying… that.”

“Ah, that I am—”

“Yes, that.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“For what reason should I cease telling my beloved how I feel about him?”

“Because you…” Childe trails off, steadying his breath and taking in the situation—Zhongli pinned underneath him, his own mouth twisted in a snarl.  Archons, he truly is the weapon he seeks to become, a blade unable to comprehend anything other than how to strike out at friend and foe alike. He releases Zhongli’s wrists and braces himself on his hands above Zhongli, knees tucked at each side of Zhongli’s waist. “I don’t know. Sorry, I shouldn’t have… are you hurt?”

“It’s alright; given the circumstances, it is not unexpected for you to be on edge. But there is no need to be concerned, for I am unharmed—fortunately, pillows are not a terribly solid surface to land on.” Zhongli chuckles and turns his head to place a kiss at the base of Childe’s wrist. “And if my words were too much for you to bear in your current state of mind, I would also like to extend my apologies.”

No, he doesn’t deserve this. He was the bad guy here. He pinned Zhongli, and now Zhongli is apologising to him?

Zhongli didn’t even say anything wrong. He was being nice. He told Childe that he was proud of him. Proud. For something he did that didn’t involve sticking a blade through a creature’s skull. When was the last time anyone told him that?

And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to hear it again.

“No, it’s not you, you didn’t do anything wrong, you just caught me off guard and I… Anyway, it’s my fault, and if you want to say it again, I won’t stop you this time.”

Zhongli pauses, then a beautiful smile draws across his face. “Childe,” he says, reaching up to brush the back of his hand against Childe’s cheek, “I am proud of you, and may you ever hold those words close in your memories, lest you be at risk of forgetting them.”

Childe’s throat is tight, and his chest compresses in on itself, squeezing the air from his lungs. His eyes sting and he clamps his teeth on the inside of his cheek, sucking until his mouth is dry and barren.

What the fuck is wrong with him? All because of some stupid, sappy words.

Pathetic.

And Zhongli keeps looking up at him, keeps smiling, keeps stroking his cheek. Zhongli, who lies all the way down there on the bed, so far away.

Too far.

Before he can change his mind, Childe slumps onto Zhongli, wrapping his arms around him and burying his head in Zhongli’s neck. They’re pressed chest to chest and he holds tighter, tighter, tighter. He’s drowning, drowning, drowning in Zhongli, but surfacing for air would be far worse.

He needs this. 

He needs this so much and he can’t let go.

Zhongli slips his arms around him, pulling them closer, and Childe does not flinch.

For a few minutes, the blade is sheathed, and the human who he’d thought lost a decade ago is allowed to rise, to feast on this banquet of affection and care Zhongli lays before him.

Zhongli slides a hand up Childe’s back, pausing with his palm pressed between his shoulder blades. “May I?”

“Please,” Childe sighs into Zhongli’s ear, “please, Zhongli.”

“You are remarkable,” murmurs Zhongli, his hand coming to rest on the back of Childe’s head, teasing his fingers through Childe’s hair to massage his scalp. “Adaptable, brave, tenacious… it would be a tragedy indeed if the poets do not one day set their pen to recording your deeds.”

“I think there’s already a song someone wrote back in Snezhnaya, but that was after the winter feast and might have had something to do with fire water.” Childe chuckles. “I’ll have to get you to try some one day.”

“Then I shall look forward to it.”

They lie quiet for a few minutes, Zhongli working a kind of magic through Childe’s hair, and Childe relaxes with each stroke, a dead weight atop Zhongli as he allows his eyes to close. Such things are not meant for Tartaglia, but here he is, an arm around his waist and the breaths of his lover curling in his ear. Body against body, embrace met with embrace, a leg slipping between Zhongli’s, limbs entangled, chests rising and falling in synchronisation.

While he’s not ready for other things couples like to do—the thought of wandering hands, grabbing and pulling and tugging sending a cold sweat to his palms—this is a start, and if this pleases Zhongli enough that he wishes to stay with him for now, the rest can be worked upon in time.

In time… he and Zhongli really are in this for the long haul, aren’t they?

“Hey, Zhongli?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this good for you?”

“This is perfect.”

“Even if we can’t… you know? Not yet, anyway.”

“As I said before, I shall treasure any action we can share together. I do not require that to be satisfied with your presence, nor is it a condition for my continued affection.”

“I’ll make it worth you waiting, mark my words. I’ll be the best you ever had.”

“Childe, hush.”

There’s a gentle pressure running from the top of Childe’s head to the base of his neck, and it takes Childe a moment to realise it’s Zhongli. He should feel insulted, a Harbinger of the Fatui having his head stroked like he’s some common dog, but the rhythmic movements sap his ability to give a single care.

Zhongli presses his mouth to Childe’s ear. “No matter what nature of activities you may choose to engage in come the future, there is no need to push yourself for my sake. For me, you are more than enough as you already are.”

Enough.

It’s a strange word, one Childe often likes to scoff at. Enough suggests complacency, a willingness to settle, a dead end to progress and improvement. Nothing is ever ‘enough’—his skills, his rank, his mastery of electro, hydro, the heretical powers of the deep. His life is a push toward more, more, more, for those who fail to improve are inevitably left behind, crushed in the dirt to rot with the remains of the sinners below.

But for Zhongli, he is apparently ‘enough’ and it sits differently, a little egg of contentment incubating behind his heart. He is enough, not too weak and naive, as Skirk had told him he was before striking his sword from his hands with a flick of her wrist, nor too wild, as his parents said before asking—no, begging—him to go along with the ‘generous’ Fatui recruiter.

He is Childe, Tartaglia, (maybe Ajax), and he can be here with Zhongli, and anything he gives is enough, and Zhongli will never expect more.

Zhongli tightens their embrace and Childe returns it, nuzzling into the warm corner between Zhongli’s neck and shoulder.

“Is this enough for you?” asks Zhongli.

Childe pushes himself up onto his forearms, looking down at the adoration written across Zhongli’s face, taking in the warmth of having another body slot so tightly against him, and smiles.

“Oh it’s more than enough for me. But there is one thing that I’ve not quite had enough of today.”

“Ah. And what might that be?”

Childe pecks a kiss to Zhongli’s forehead, then flops onto his chest, tugging Zhongli closer to him. “I’d like it if you touched me more. So please, can you do that?”

With a chuckle, Zhongli noses into Childe’s hair, and he starts working his fingers in circles over a tension point in Childe’s back, sending the long neglected muscles into ecstasy under the sudden attention and care. “My dearest Childe, there is nothing I would rather do more right now.”