Work Text:
Rain pours down in blinding sheets as Childe makes his way into Liyue Harbor. It is both a hindrance and a cloak, for pain buzzes up his skin and through his very teeth with every unsteady step he takes.
He can’t go back to Northland bank looking like this. Tattered, bloodstained. Weak. Every movement is a colossal fight, and he’s pretty sure he’s wrecked his body enough to need at least a full day’s worth of rest. Hell, he’s lucky it’s late enough in the evening that nobody is out, that this sudden storm provides a brief reprieve from the inquisitive eyes of those who wish him ill.
He can’t go to the bank. Can’t go to the pharmacy, where they’ll be sure to ask questions—if they’re even open at this hour. But there is one person who he knows has dealt with blood and gore before and who won’t speak a single word about it.
They’ve made up, mostly, and Childe’s injury-addled brain craves the soft touch of his hands. Awash with pain, he can’t really remember why they’d ever stopped their daily outings to Wanmin or their evening walks. He can only remember the soft timbre of Zhongli’s voice, the way those elegant fingers folded around his when Childe made yet another mistake with his chopsticks.
So he goes, slinking along the Liyue alleyways. If it weren’t for the rain, he’d be dripping blood everywhere. Instead, the chill sinks into his bones, bypassing his ragged clothes to settle in the deepest recesses of his body. He feels more like a fugitive now than he ever had during his Gnosis mission, and by the time he reaches the nondescript door that is Zhongli’s humble apartment, he is shaking like a leaf.
He stands in front of the door for just a heartbeat too long, wondering if this is a good idea. If he shouldn’t just head back to his own apartment to bleed out by himself like a good soldier would.
The door flies open. Zhongli stares at him, eyes a bit wild. He hasn’t changed out of his day clothes, and the golden thread on his robes shimmer and dance with every minute movement. For a moment, they both look at each other.
Then Childe blinks. “Can I come in?” he asks, a bit helplessly, lifting a bloodstained arm as if to show it off.
Zhongli does not say anything, but he opens the door wider and steps aside.
The apartment is much the same as it’s always been. Childe’s been here a few times, back when they were friends and almost more, back when it almost felt like they were courting. Before Osial. Sun-bleached wooden cabinets line the walls, filled to the brim with ancient artifacts. A long, narrow table dominates the mantel, blocking the fireplace. Various trinkets vie for space, almost spilling off the edges. Childe hovers in the foyer, unwilling to drip all over Zhongli’s expensive carpet, but Zhongli’s grip is firm yet gentle as he takes Childe’s wrist and leads him to the kitchen.
Here, there’s less for him to bleed on. He sinks to the tiled floor as Zhongli moves about, gathering a towel and a bowl of water. Although the damp coolness is shocking, he does not flinch when Zhongli presses that towel to his bare arm.
“What happened?” Zhongli murmurs.
A bitter laugh claws its way from Childe’s throat. “Debt collection gone wrong. A bunch of treasure hoarders tried to lure me into a nest of ruin guards. Idiots woke them up instead. They’re okay, by the way,” he adds. “Scared shitless, but uninjured.” He doesn’t mention that there were mitachurls, too, their crackling campfires somehow not enough to wake the sleeping field tillers.
Zhongli frowns. He is gentle as he shifts the towel to Childe’s other arm, the one that’s actually cut, and Childe hisses at the sting. By the time he’s done carefully wiping his arm down, the towel is ruined, and Childe grits his teeth. It looks bad, and he knows it’s not the only cut on his body. His Fatui regalia hides yet more cuts on his chest, his stomach, the fabric whole despite the ravaged flesh underneath. He’s pretty sure there’s something on his legs, too, because nothing burns like that if not for a cut that’s nearly bone deep.
It’s almost funny how Zhongli can infuse disapproval into every movement, even if he’s not speaking. His face is carefully neutral, and he doesn’t make Childe feel small, but his eyes are somber and his lips twitch like he wants to frown.
Fuck. When had he started looking at Zhongli’s lips?
“I had to use Foul Legacy,” he grits out as Zhongli rises for more towels. Fuck, he’s bleeding all over Zhongli’s floor, Zhongli’s towels, Zhongli’s home. “So there’s some stuff under my uniform, I think.”
This time, Zhongli doesn’t hide his frown. “I see,” he says. He settles behind Childe, holding him up as Childe sways. His fingers alight on the buttons of Childe’s coat, and Childe slumps against his firm chest. “Would you let me take care of you?” he asks.
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” What he intends to infuse with bravado comes off as something pathetic instead, cut short by a pained wince.
Zhongli’s frown grows. He is deft yet gentle as he separates Childe’s jacket from his body, then his harness. His shirt is beyond saving, stained and tattered, nothing more than a crumpled stain in the pile of used towels. With it gone, he’s bare-chested in an ex-Archon’s kitchen. A laugh bubbles its way out of Childe’s throat, but his breath catches, and the look Zhongli shoots him is nothing short of censorious.
New towel in hand, Zhongli wipes the blood and gore away from Childe’s chest. He is painfully gentle as he cleans the wounds on Childe’s chest and arms with stinging alcohol and gentler still as he wraps them in sterile gauze.
“Is there anything else?” Zhongli murmurs. He speaks as if Childe is an injured animal, ready to bolt, and Childe almost laughs at the thought. He’s not running anywhere. He can barely sit straight. Against him, Zhongli is so warm, so steady. Geo incarnate. How hadn’t he noticed, all those months ago?
Viciously, he pushes the thought away. “Leg,” he mutters. “Left one. I think.” The adrenaline is long gone, leaving nothing but an echoing, gnawing pain behind.
Zhongli’s elegant fingers brush against the waistband of Childe’s pants.
“I’ll be fine,” he manages, although now that he is safe and warm, he wants nothing more than to collapse into bed. But his own bed is far away, and he’s stuck in Zhongli’s apartment for the time being.
He barely has the strength to lift his hips as Zhongli slides his pants off. His touch is featherlight, and Childe feels almost delirious as he feels Zhongli’s fingers ghost down his leg. He tips his head back, sinking into Zhongli’s chest, and closes his eyes so he does not have to see his reaction.
He hears it, though. Zhongli cannot hide his sharp intake of breath, nor his soft exhale after. The next towel is wet, cold, and another wave of dizziness sweeps over him as Zhongli drags it down his leg.
“You’ll need stitches for this one,” Zhongli says softly. “Would you let me…?”
“Sure,” Childe mumbles. “Just—put me down on the floor. Or something.” If he lies fully horizontal, maybe he’ll fall asleep before Zhongli comes back.
Zhongli does no such thing. He arranges Childe upon a cradle of towels, leaving him propped up against a low cupboard. Touches his fingers to Childe’s cheek, so very gentle. Childe is alone for no more than a minute, and when Zhongli returns, he is nearly asleep, drowning in a strange mixture of pain and warmth. He jolts as Zhongli settles next to him, a small kit open by his knees.
His hand is soft on Childe’s shoulder. “Are you awake?”
“Am now,” Childe mutters.
“This will hurt,” Zhongli warns him, and Childe swallows an involuntary scream as the cleansing pain of alcohol sears his leg. He grits his teeth, weathering waves of agony as he fights to keep conscious. “Good,” Zhongli murmurs. “You’re doing good, Childe.”
Warmth suffuses him, a warmth he’s pretty sure has nothing to do with his mental state or the injuries he’s received. “Am I?” he drawls, sagging onto the floor.
Zhongli does not deign to reply. Instead, he works quickly, as if aware of Childe’s fading cognizance, the darkness sweeping over his vision. “You’ll keep these in for two weeks,” Zhongli tells him. “I can remove them for you once the time has passed, although I have no doubt you know how to do it yourself.”
Childe does. Technically, he knows how to sew himself back together, too, but he hadn’t even thought of that. He’d been too focused on—what, not bleeding out?—to remember. Not showing weakness. Not collapsing.
“Can I—” He’s slurring, but he can’t help it. “Can I sleep now?”
Zhongli’s smile is gentle. “Perhaps not right here,” he suggests. “May I interest you in the bed?”
Childe makes an undignified sort of sound; half strangled groan, half laugh. “Only if you’re there with me.”
Oh, he’s so fucked. It’s the pain—some part of him has always been in love with Zhongli, he thinks. Since that first dinner. Since the first walk at the harbor’s docks. Being in this state has made him all too willing to say it, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his words. Not when he means them with his whole heart.
And Zhongli’s expression makes it worth it. Gentle. So gentle, as if he actually cares. As if he’s not doing this because Childe gave him no choice, as if Childe didn’t show up at his doorstep, bleeding out, barely a scrap of a human being.
“Of course,” he says, like he means it, too. He picks Childe up like he weighs no more than a sack of potatoes, pressing him so close that Childe can hear the beat of his heart. His gait is smooth as they leave the kitchen and start down a hallway, as Zhongli nudges the bedroom door open and deposits Childe on his back into the nest of thick blankets.
Zhongli’s bedroom is the only room in this apartment he’s never been in before. Usually, Zhongli keeps the door closed, and Childe’s in no position to look around. He catches a glimpse of yet more trinkets and knickknacks. Soft, sand-colored walls support a pale ceiling, and his Vision clinks on the nightstand as Zhongli sets it down beside his mask.
Exhaustion sweeps in, thick and heavy. Childe can barely keep his eyes open enough to make sure Zhongli keeps his promise, but keep it he does. He removes his elegant robe, revealing an equally elaborate shirt, and only when that is removed and he is in nothing but a plain cream undershirt and loose trousers does he settle at the edge of the bed. He brushes Childe’s hair from his face, his own unspeakably fond. “Rest,” he says.
With the last scraps of his energy, Childe shakes his head. He aches, he burns with the last vestiges of agony. Pain is an old friend, yes, but this drowns him, and so he feels no shame in his next words. “Either kiss me or get into bed with me,” he says, his voice so ragged Zhongli has to lean in to hear him. “That’s what you promised.”
He promised nothing of the sort, but Childe is nothing more than his injuries and he’s not above… whatever this is. Wanting Zhongli, he supposes.
Zhongli’s smile is indulgent and everything Childe has ever wished for. “Indeed I did,” he murmurs, and Childe closes his eyes as he feels gentle lips brush against his forehead. His lips. Zhongli’s kiss is soft and sweet, and Childe sighs, melting into the pillows.
He keeps his eyes closed as Zhongli settles into bed beside him, the blankets soft and warm. As Zhongli shifts closer, the heat of his body warming Childe’s own. He falls asleep like that, wrapped in Zhongli’s blankets, by Zhongli’s side, his lips warm with the echo of his kiss.