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It's the only bright light in the dark, this house on the edge of a hill on the edge of town on the edge of everything Childe knows. The street lamps blink slowly, if they blink at all, and the surrounding houses are darkened, shaded, abandoned, even. This place is a secret, a shrine to the hidden side of campus, a beacon to those who cringe from the light.
Childe is not invited; no one is. You have to know someone who knows someone who read a comment made by a private account.
He steps inside.
There is a kid, blonde, young-looking, bored-looking. He asks for the cover charge. Childe gives it over. He asks if he wants a beer. Childe takes it.
It's awful.
The brand is cheap, unmemorable. It doesn't matter. He knocks it back easily.
The room is buzzing with nervous bodies. A makeshift stage is at the back, one woman tuning a flashy, red guitar. She has two tufts of black hair lined with red and yellow streaks.
She seems excited. Most of the crowd does. He's the odd one out.
He's used to it.
Childe sips his beer. It goes down fast and easy. Too fast and too easy. He looks around for something more.
There's a box on the dirty floor, tucked up against the washing machine. It's been picked through, but there's one or two cans still available. They're warm.
It's the same shitty brand. Not worth his time.
He takes a glance at the machine. Its door is covered with a cloth, covered in a spread of stickers and cassette tapes. Who even uses cassettes anymore? Xinyan, apparently. The one on the cassette, the one on the stage, the one everyone is here to see, apparently.
The beer hasn't set in yet. This is the cheap shit, and there's not nearly enough of it. He'd come here in the hopes of getting fucked up tonight, but the night is still young. This is the place for that sort of thing, he's heard.
The door opens and a gaggle of people come through. The show is beginning soon. A small crowd begins to form at the stage, and even the people lounging against the dingy wall or sitting on the decrepit couch turn to look as the woman with the guitar stands.
Through the open door Childe gets a whiff of smoke, of cheap cigarettes and marijuana.
He goes outside. Sure, the music might be good, but that's not why he's here.
The sky stretches out into the distance, deep and black and blinking with the lights of the city. All that seems so far away right now. There's soft light in the darkness around him, the faint glow of cigarettes and smoke.
Childe knocks back the rest of his beer.
A sound distracts him from the view of nothing ahead. Someone is asking him a question. White-haired, with a red streak. He's got a bong. He's gesturing at it.
Childe cracks a grin and agrees.
He's never been much of a fan of this sort of thing. It's much preferable to hold a joint, his fingers curled around it and the soft smoke escaping, the gentle glow of the light burning at his fingers and his throat.
But whatever.
He takes a hit. The smoke is pulled into his lungs, burning, searing.
He can't help but cough. It's been a while. The strain is a good one, though. He almost feels something.
The man laughs good-naturedly and hands him beer. It's cold. His own supply.
Childe snaps the beer open and gives the customary thanks. He stands to leave.
A woman stops him, briefly. Someone else in the rotation, someone Childe hasn't noticed. He's losing his touch. Whatever, though, because she's handing him a blunt. She tells him to hit it. She's wearing an eyepatch and a twisted, easy smile. He takes a hard drag and sighs. This, this is what he wants. He takes a swig of the beer. It doesn't taste like complete dogshit.
He hands the blunt back and it reenters the rotation.
The crowd around the bong go back to chatting. There's a few of them, but Childe doesn't care anymore. He has what he needs.
He drifts over to the edge of the porch. Nothing but a rickety old fence between him and the darkness ahead, below. He leans against the fence. It bends.
He laughs.
Whatever strain is in the blunt is the good stuff. He feels his thoughts slow, his mind grind to a halt. He hears disjointed conversation around him, behind him. At some point the music had begun. He's sure it sounds great, but it moves in one ear and out the other. He's losing his focus. He's losing track of his thoughts.
Good.
He remembers he has beer, too. He takes a swig. There's a fog building in his head. His head is swimming, slow and smooth and fast and gentle. He can't focus on any one thing. There's music coming from the house behind him. It's good, he thinks. Whoever is playing that guitar is really good.
The can in his hand is empty. It was the good shit, too. Time to hunt down his next prize.
He crumples up the empty can and throws it off the edge, down into the dark abyss in front of him.
He waits for the clink of it hitting the rocks below, but when it doesn't come he immediately forgets what it was he was waiting on.
"You should have recycled that," says a voice. It's smooth, deep, a balm to his ringing ears.
Childe turns.
There's a man next to him. He's not sure if he had been there before. He's tall, wearing a button up shirt and slacks. His hair is long and looks dark, but everything looks dark in this night.
He's smoking a cigarette. He takes a drag, and the brief flare of light illuminates his face.
His features are smooth, sharp. His eyes are golden, seem to glow in the embers.
Childe forces his scattered thoughts in order. "Can I have a hit?"
The man chuckles. His laugh is deep. Childe feels a stir in his gut.
He hands over the cigarette. Childe takes a deep drag, pulling the smoke into his lungs.
The man is watching him. His face is neutral. His eyes are calculating, searching Childe's face for something.
Childe exhales a plume of smoke at him.
The man blinks and looks disgruntled. He takes his cigarette back.
"Come here often?" Childe asks, leaning his back against the railing.
"Sometimes," the man replies. "I'm not particularly active in 'the scene', so time to time." He pauses. Takes a hit. "My name is Zhongli, by the way."
"Childe," says Childe.
Zhongli's eyes narrow slightly. He knows it's fake. Childe is immediately distracted by the flecks of red makeup sweeping underneath his lashes.
Zhongli doesn't press. He passes over the cigarette again.
Childe takes a deep drag.
It burns, it always burns so sweetly. His shoulders relax. He sighs, blowing his smoke out into the night this time.
He barely remembers to hand it back at the last second. It's dead, and Zhongli drops it to the ground, flattening it under his heel.
"If you liked it so much, here." Zhongli pulls out the pack. Childe doesn't even recognize the brand.
He reaches out to take the fresh cigarette, but Zhongli ignores his hands and reaches right up to his mouth, slipping the stick right through his pliant lips, which open without Childe even realizing. He leans in close and holds up a lighter, illuminating his entire face.
His eyes burn molten gold. From this angle, Childe can see his makeup is slightly smudged. His lashes are long, and his lips are oh, so tempting.
Zhongli makes to pull away, but Childe's hand is on his to stop him before he even realizes what he's doing.
With his free hand, Childe takes hold of the cigarette. He takes a drag. He pulls it out and leans forward. His eyes flutter closed.
Zhongli's lips meet his halfway. They're soft, just like they had looked. He hears a rustle of fabric and then Zhongli's hands are encircling his waist, pulling their bodies flush together.
Childe's lungs begin to burn. He opens his mouth, and Zhongli reciprocates, ready, waiting. He breathes out gently, feels Zhongli breathe in. The kiss continues, soft, languid.
Zhongli pulls away and exhales, the smoke filling the air between them. Childe's eyes sting so he blinks them closed again. Zhongli pulls him close, back into another kiss, a hand moving from his waist to cup the back of his head.
Childe is the one to pull away this time, gasping out a cough. It's been a while since he's smoked, and it's starting to affect him. Zhongli chuckles, warm and deep.
"Do you want to go inside?" Zhongli asks.
Childe doesn't, not really. He'd rather stay out here, lost in the dark and holding tight. He wants to lose himself in the drink and smoke and Zhongli's body.
But if Zhongli is moving, then he is too.
"Okay," he says, and hopes his reluctance doesn't come across.
Zhongli takes his hand and gently pulls him back toward the house. His palm is soft and his grip is loose. Childe could break free, return to his exodus by the railing.
He doesn't.
The inside is loud and packed, bodies moving and music blaring. Xinyan is bouncing around her stage, strumming wildly and screaming into her mic.
Zhongli glances back, tightens his hold, and pulls Childe into the fray.
The inside is loud and packed tightly, in sharp contrast to the relative privacy of the balcony. The bodies of strangers crush against him, and only the grip of Zhongli's hand keeps him from getting lost.
Zhongli doesn't stop on the dance floor, and suddenly the mass of humans disappear as Childe is pulled into a bathroom stall. It's shitty and smelly and the drywall that makes up three of the four walls is already coming apart but Childe doesn't notice any of it.
There's light here, and he can see Zhongli's features more clearly. He's handsome, all angles, older than he originally thought. He's wearing what seems to be a suit but Childe doesn't have time to consider the odd choice of clothing before he's being pushed into the concrete wall, the only solid one of the four. Zhongli's mouth is on him again, and this close to the music it's overwhelming. Taste, touch, sound, sight.
Childe tries to pull away to breathe, but Zhongli doesn't let him. He feels lightheaded.
Somehow he survives. The concoction of substances and sensations seem to wash over him then, and the next few minutes? hours? days? are a blur with brief snapshots of clarity.
He's back out on the dance floor, by the stage, flush against Zhongli's chest.
He's back outside on the shitty couch, watching Zhongli and the woman with the blunt exchange drags of a cigarette.
His head is on someone's lap, the strange itch of formal slacks beneath his cheek.
He's vomiting in a strange toilet, an unfamiliar rug scratching his knees.
He awakens in a bed not his own, his head a throbbing mess.
Childe pulls himself together, taking stock of his memories and situation. He's slept in his club clothes, which, while hardly comfortable, are not the worst things he's slept in. He doesn't remember where he is or how he got here, but there is a sense of familiarity, which is better than some other places he's woken up in.
The faint smell of cooking wafts in from the doorway. Childe pulls himself to his feet, taking a cursory glance around. The room is quaint, with little to express who its owner may be. There's a small chair in the corner, which holds Childe’s phone on a charger and his shoes at its feet.
Considerate. More considerate than most.
The battery is full so Childe grabs it in one hand and his shoes in the other and goes to face the music.
A man is standing in a tiny kitchen-living room setup, mixing a pot of some rice dish. A name and scattered memories float to the surface of Childe’s battered mind. Zhongli.
“Morning,” Zhongli says, sounding extremely put together for how long they'd been out last night.
“Morning,” Childe replies hesitantly. He remembers what they'd done together last night, but in the light of day he isn't sure how to approach the man. Are they strangers? Acquaintances? Fuck buddies? There hadn't even been any fucking. Not yet, at least.
Zhongli gestures at the tiny table, where he's put water along with a pair of ibuprofen and some liquid iv. There's a pot of tea and two cups gently steaming on an electric kettle.
“Thanks,” Childe rasps, throat dry from misuse.
He dutifully downs the drink and pills, and soon Zhongli finishes at the stove. The dish turns out to be congee, and it's alright, but it's clear that Zhongli is only a mediocre cook.
They avoid the elephant in the room as long as they can.
Finally Childe cracks. “Why'd you take me back to your place?”
“No one knew who you were, and by the end of the night you were too out of it to be of any help. I live close enough, and you needed a quieter and safer place to come down than that house.”
Childe hums. Sounds about right.
They sit in silence. Childe wonders if he could ask to see this man again. Last night had been good, really good, and he wouldn't mind if they took it further. Zhongli had been hot, in all the right ways, but also way more considerate than he'd expected. He could see this becoming a regular occurrence, see himself with this man in the light of day.
And that's the thought that stops him. It's been so, so long since he's been able to imagine something for himself beyond a twisted fumble in some basement. Since he's allowed to think about a relationship and not just a hookup.
He doesn't say anything.
Zhongli takes the dishes to the sink and checks to make sure Childe has everything he'd come with. He does.
Childe makes a feeble attempt to offer help washing up. Zhongli tells him if he makes a right and then another right he'd be back on the main drag and should be able to figure out how to get back to campus from there.
Childe leaves, feeling cold, though it's unusually warm for the fall. His mind stays in the apartment behind him, lost in the fantasies of a healthy, happy relationship.
But that's not for him, he knows that.
He can't help but return to the venue whenever he can, searching desperately, futilely, for golden eyes.