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Childe stands opposite him looking both a mess and a meal.
He hunkers low, bent at the knees, arms held out and ready to grapple, entirely unbothered by the rain that pelts them. Childe watches Zhongli with a sharp, calculated gaze, those dull blue eyes glinting in delight because indulging in something like this is a somewhat rare affair nowadays. And it isn’t that Zhongli doesn’t want to spar; no, no, he’s learned over the years that Childe is hardy enough to take a decent hit from him. The problem is—
Childe shifts again, tipping forward slightly. He wears one of Zhongli’s shirts, which is a little tight around the chest now that Childe is older, thicker. It’s half-tucked into his trousers, bringing in his waist, drawing Zhongli’s gaze to the jut of his hips. The collar hangs open, unbuttoned dangerously low, showing off the line of his collarbone and the dip between his pecs, easily seen with Zhongli’s serpentine eyes despite the weather.
Distracting. Entirely unfair. The problem with their spars is that because Childe knows he won’t win, he plays dirty. It doesn’t matter that he’s a little softer around the edges now, Zhongli is just as hungry for him now as he was a decade ago—and judging by the smirk that tilts his mouth, Childe knows that his tease has already struck like a dart hitting a bull's-eye.
Zhongli works his jaw, shifting his own stance to hide—
Well. His trousers are a little tight, which doesn’t lend itself to anything of an amorous sort. Truly, he’s no better than any other beast, heat coiling tight in Zhongli’s belly like a fist.
“What’s got you waiting, you old lizard?” calls Childe across the space, his hand cupped around his mouth. An old habit. A tease. Zhongli can hear him perfectly fine even when he’s ten paces away, but the movement draws attention to Childe’s hand and mouth. Those calloused fingers. Those plush, chapped lips.
The way that his clothing clings because Childe’s rain-drenched, making the borrowed shirt cling to him like a second skin.
Zhongli drags a hand down his face, momentarily regretting this.
But then he remembers that Childe doesn’t expect to win. If anything, he expects Zhongli to eventually tip the scales, and oh, there’s a delicious angle to that prospect. These spars aren’t about winning; they’re about heated, lingering touches, and callous fingers squeezing at supple flesh.
“You,” calls Zhongli, deciding to answer with a tease of his own. “I’m staring at you, darling, in all your glory. I’ve always loved seeing you in my clothing, but the rain certainly leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Childe’s face turns a brilliant shade of red, his gaze knocking elsewhere because he’s embarrassed. Zhongli isn’t a stranger to showering him with compliments, but it’s usually in private, holed away in their home, not out in the open at Jueyun Karst. Childe looks around like he might see Cloud Retainer give a disapproving click of her tongue—but really, it’d be Zhongli who’d bear the brunt of her disapproval. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s accused him of defiling a sacred space. This sacred space, even.
Even if said sacred space technically belongs to him.
“That’s—Zhongli.”
“Aren’t you the one that called for this spar? Ajax, you knew what the weather was like.”
“I mean—”
“Which I warned you about, I might add. Fighting in these conditions would make it a messy affair.”
Childe drags a hand against his cheek, smearing a line of mud across the arch of it. “Just make your move already!”
Zhongli does exactly that because there is little he would deny his mate. The muddy ground makes him a little sloppy, but Zhongli’s feet are as quick as always, and it takes nothing, nothing, for him to cross the space. A hand finds Childe’s side, thumb sliding across one of his ribs in a too-sweet touch that’s more play-fighting than an honest spar. Zhongli hooks a foot around Childe’s calf and presses close, leaning into his weight until Childe looses his balance.
They tumble to the ground, arms and legs akimbo as they roll around each other, trying to gain the upper hand. It’s all halfhearted though, all teasing, fleeting touches that are more tickles than intentional hits. Childe’s head hits the mud as Zhongli straddles his hips, a hand against his chest to keep him pinned there.
What a sopping mess. Mud clings to Childe’s hair in clumps. It stains Zhongli’s shirt and soils Childe’s trousers. Even Zhongli hasn’t escaped it; he hangs over Childe, braced on his hands, which sink into the soft, wet ground. His hair is dripping wet, bangs plastered against his forehead, and he knows it’ll take effort to wring himself dry.
“I yield,” says Childe, lifting his hands up in a placating gesture.
“So soon?” Zhongli’s lips curve into a wide smile, though, entirely unsurprised. Their spars have a routine—they dance around each other before ending with Zhongli on top. Still, it’s fun to poke and prod at him, so opportunity loosens his lips. “You’re always so eager to get your hands on me.”
“Oh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Fondness warms Zhongli’s chest. “Am I wrong? Did you not have your hands all over me not just a minute ago?”
“Zhongli—”
“So quick to give up.”
“It’s pouring rain—”
“You demanded a spar,” purrs Zhongli then, tilting close enough that their noses are nearly touching. It would take nothing to steal Childe’s words right from his lips. He pouts slightly, his bottom lip sticking out, and all Zhongli can think about is how much he wants to taste it. He closes the distance, their lips just barely brushing—
Then his ponytail ruins the moment by slipping from his shoulder and plopping against Childe’s face with a wet slap.
The moment is broken by Childe’s roaring laughter. Zhongli peels back with a frown on his face, slighted that he didn’t get the kiss that he wanted.
“Wait, no,” says Childe. He reaches up to take hold of Zhongli’s face, palms warm against the bone-deep chill from the rain. “Come back.”
“This is your doing,” murmurs Zhongli, who has stopped in place but makes no effort to lean over again. “We’re wet, sodden to the bone. Covered in mud. Cold—”
“You don’t get cold,” reminds Childe oh-so-unhelpfully.
“But you do,” replies Zhongli. “You’re shivering.”
Childe is, just a gentle shudder of his shoulders. His skin is a little pallid, save for the flush on his cheeks. “Then kiss it and make it better.”
“Ajax—”
Childe drops a hand, curling his fingers into Zhongli’s waterlogged shirt to give it a mighty tug. Zhongli falls forward, giving into his request, pressing their mouths together for a short and sweet kiss.
“Zero out of ten,” says Childe against his mouth. “No effort.”
“A zero? Ajax, please, I deserve at least a one.” Especially for putting up with this folly. Had Zhongli his choice, Childe would be on his chest, ass up—
Not the point.
Childe hums. “Do you? I was the one that yanked you down here. You were going to leave me high and dry—”
“I do think that’s impossible, given the weather conditions.” Zhongli laughs softly. “Can this old dragon request a reassessment?”
“I suppose there aren’t rules against that,” replies Childe, giving him a crooked smile. His fingers are still curled into Zhongli’s shirt, and he tugs again, this time gentler, already lifting his face to meet Zhongli in the middle.
The next kiss is deep, lingering. Zhongli laughs as he licks into Childe’s mouth, tasting him. Childe hums, shuddering against him, bone-cold and sopping wet. Zhongli shifts his weight onto one elbow. A palm connects with Childe’s arm to warm it. Then, there’s their kiss, hot and heated as their tongues clash and teeth chatter.
More laughter. More roaming hands. Kissing Childe now is just the same as when they first came together—searingly hot and utterly delightful. Zhongli doesn’t care about the pelting rain because his mate is below him, open and eager. Childe is perfect, so utterly perfect.
“You meant for this,” murmurs Zhongli, his breath teasing Childe’s lips as he pulls away. He tastes like that fresh rain, sharp and clean. “This entire spar was a ploy.”
“Always,” promises Childe, nipping at Zhongli’s mouth.
“Rascal,” Zhongli calls him. “Truly, what am I to do with you?”
It’s all a tease. These spars nowadays have little to do with sparring itself and everything to do with the resulting intimacy. So rarely do they get a chance to break away and indulge in each other. Both he and Childe came out here with the same expectations, and, well.
Now Zhongli’s hanging over him, hovering close, Childe’s breath warm as it puffs against his lips. “Numb?” asks Zhongli, the world curling with amusement.
“Of course, not,” replies Childe stubbornly. The rain still pelts them. Zhongli doesn’t chill like Childe does, who—for all his chatter about being born in a blizzard—shivers underneath him, bone-cold. “Okay, a little, maybe.”
“All the better to warm you up, I suppose.”
Childe’s expression turns half-lidded, sensual. “I’ll never turn down an excuse to get my hands on you,” he says, cheeky.
He smells of want, his scent spiced like warm cider. Zhongli could eat him up. He tips forward, tilting his face into the crook of Childe’s neck, inhaling deeply. “Incorrigible,” he calls him. His mate. Gods, Archons, he loves, loves his mate. “Again, all of this was a ploy.”
“Pot, meet kettle. You’re no better, you old lizard.”
Zhongli is not. Celestia above, Zhongli is no better than any other man, so he nips at Childe’s neck, the tips of his fangs dragging over sensitive flesh. Nothing so untoward, but the meaning is clear enough: he definitely wants more. Childe tilts his head back, baring his neck for better access. Zhongli presses a sweet, teasing kiss there and pulls back instead.
“No fair,” says Childe. “I’m not done with you yet.” Then he yanks at Zhongli’s shirt to demand more kisses.
The rain doesn’t matter. They're both mud-slick and soaked to the bone, the rain stinging pinpricks against their skin. But Childe is beneath him with pouted, full lips. He tugs again, giving a soft whine before saying, “No one’s out here. You know that.”
Zhongli is considerably reserved, so for him to be so open to touch like this proves they’re alone. He huffs, laughter tumbling from his mouth. “Laogong,” he says next, tucking close, “you are a tempest. You’ll be the death of me.”
“Haven’t killed you yet. Come on. Kiss me again.”
And who is Zhongli to deny his darling mate? They meet again, their mouths slotted together for a slow and sensual kiss, that bone-chilling rain fading away like the rest of the world.