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It’s been a long time, too long, since Childe’s felt the relief of a blade on his flesh. Several weeks at least, each one more agonizing than the last. Enough for the raised bumps of his cuts to sink, to turn into thin scratches already fading into pale scars.
Zhongli, he knows, is not-so-subtly smug about it, no matter how he tries to hide it. Fine, whatever. Let the old dragon have his small victories.
He doesn’t tell Zhongli that he hasn’t gone to work since then. Zhongli goes, sure. He leaves Childe alone for the whole day now, confident that he isn’t about to hurt himself. Zhongli leaves with the expectation that Childe will trudge to the bank, that he’ll check in with Ekaterina. Zhongli probably expects Childe to do whatever work is required of him, terrorizing the local treasure hunter gangs and picking up small, meaningless commissions.
Zhongli doesn’t know that instead of that, Childe spends his days languishing beneath the soft sheets of Zhongli’s bed. Doesn’t know that exhaustion drags him down at every little movement, until it’s too much to even turn over, to roll to the other side of the bed unless Zhongli is home.
He rests, weary and cold, as the sun runs its cycles outside in pursuit of the ever-fleeing moon.
Those few hours between Zhongli’s work and sleep are the sparks that keep him afloat. Childe’s always returned first, his work ending whenever he wanted it to, and thus Zhongli doesn’t question it when he comes home to find Childe in bed, to find him napping or barely awake, clinging to one of the many books Zhongli keeps.
Today, Zhongli comes home with the dusk, shaking off his coat as he shakes off the day’s work. He brings with him food from Wanmin, and the smell entices Childe enough to where he drags himself out of bed, a mass of blankets and lethargy as he pads to the table.
His chopsticks are heavy in his hands as they eat. Zhongli allows for Childe to choke down some of his food—it tastes like ash, dusty as it sticks to his throat—before speaking.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be home even later,” Zhongli says slowly, haltingly, his lips curving down. “There is a funeral service in two days’ time for a high-ranking member of the Qixing, and preparations are already under way. You understand, I hope.”
Childe does understand. Zhongli is important. Zhongli is needed, and Childe’s own needs are insignificant in comparison. He’s been needing a bit too much lately, anyway.
Zhongli tilts his head, waiting for Childe’s answer.
“Yeah,” Childe says, and manages a slow blink as a dumpling tumbles from his chopsticks back onto his plate. “That’s fine.”
Before he can bring himself to try again, Zhongli’s picked up the dumpling in his own chopsticks, and he offers it to Childe with unbearable fondness. “You’ll be all right?”
Flavor bursts on his tongue, pork and cinders and dust. “Yeah.”
Zhongli’s frown deepens, but doesn’t press him. Perhaps he’s tired of Childe. Perhaps he’s willing to turn a blind eye to his weakness, his anguish. Perhaps he’s waiting, hoping for Childe to end his suffering so he can return home without worry. So that he can go back to…to whatever he did before. Live a normal life. Stay late at work without having to tend to the pathetic creature that crouches in his home.
There’s a very small part of Childe, the part with clear blue eyes and a round face, that whispers that Zhongli saved him that one day. That Zhongli pulled him away from the cliff, from sure death.
He pushes it away. People can change; he knows that firsthand. He knows, too, that he hasn’t been an easy person to live with. His temper is short, now, and there’s been too many times where he’s turned his frustration on Zhongli. They haven’t fought again, not with their weapons, but more than one ancient vase has lost its life standing up to Childe’s wrath.
“I wish I could stay home,” Zhongli murmurs, offering him another dumpling. “Even when I am at work, I miss you dearly.”
“I’ll be fine,” Childe says. He can’t even muster up a smile, but he rearranges his face into something he hopes is convincing enough. “Don’t worry about me.”
The rest of dinner passes in silence. Childe eats slowly, more out of obligation and habit than of any real desire, and when enough time has passed, he pushes his plate away.
“I’m tired,” he says, and even though he’s been in bed all day, it’s true. Exhaustion clings to him, hugs his weary bones.
The chair scrapes as Zhongli gets up. “Give me a moment, and then I’ll join you,” he says, and Childe, who is too drained to do nothing but stumble back to bed, nods.
The shadowy comfort of the bedroom tugs at him, ensnaring him in its embrace. In this shadowed domain, time stands still. And Childe is so very willing to sink into that in-between world once again, slipping into the drowsy space that is one step away from reality.
Zhongli is warm and solid as he climbs over Childe. With a small sigh, he tugs the blanket from Childe’s shoulder, settling in behind him. His hand presses into the bare skin of Childe’s stomach, rucked up from where the blanket has shifted, and for a moment, Childe feels delightfully content.
The feeling fades fast. Come morning, Zhongli will be gone, away for work, and Childe will, once again, be alone.
He’d been afraid of living a half-life before, of an attempt foiled by his own cowardice or one of the adepti, but isn’t this just as bad? The fear of being unable to serve his country isn’t so nauseating when the sickening realization that he’s already living it settles in his mind like silt in a river, grating and murky.
Behind him, Zhongli breathes evenly, but he is awake; he presses soft kisses to the back of Childe’s neck.
“I’m scared of it hurting,” Childe admits to the darkness.
The blankets rustle as Zhongli shifts closer to him, and a warm body presses against Childe’s back. “Of what hurting?” His hands curve around Childe’s hips, dangerously close to his thighs.
He huffs out a laugh. “Not those. Those are…a good hurt. But dying is hard. I’ve seen it. You’ve seen it. It’s painful and slow and—” his breath hitches. “I don’t want to fail at it.”
“What about the things you care about?” Zhongli asks. “Your siblings, your family?”
Agony tears its way through his body, gnawing at his bones. “Better off without me,” he rasps.
Zhongli’s fingers start a slow revolution over his hipbone as he thinks.
“Stop trying to come up with reasons for me to live,” Childe whispers.
The way Zhongli’s body stiffens and his hands slow tells Childe enough. “What about me?” he asks. “What will I do if you leave?”
Childe shrugs, and the movement causes the blankets to slip even farther from his shoulders. “Dunno. Do what you did for a thousand years before me. Live. Scheme. Deceive. Run your city. You can pretend I’m just in Snezhnaya.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.” Zhongli’s voice is soft and wounded.
“Well, it wouldn’t be my problem then, would it?” The words are biting, and Childe half wonders if he should apologize before realizing he doesn’t care.
Zhongli sighs, his hand curving lower, until it brushes against Childe’s cock, half-hard. “Childe—”
“Don’t,” he pleads, rocking into Zhongli’s hand. “Please don’t.”
He just—talking about the repercussions of it is too much. Talking about it makes it real, makes him crave in a way that’s more visceral than before. He was so, so close. Even now, so many weeks later, he dreams of it, dreams of a different outcome. An outcome where he’s tumbling through the air, where there’s nobody to stop him, and when he wakes from those dreams, he is covered in sweat, out of breath from adrenaline and yearning.
Zhongli makes a soft, hungry noise in his throat, and his hand tightens. He presses his thumb into the head of Childe’s cock, collecting a bead of precum and smearing it down the length of him. “Would you rather I distract you?” he asks, his breath hot against Childe’s ear. “Would you rather I take you apart tonight, until you cannot think at all?”
He twists his wrist, and Childe groans, arching against that sinful touch. His hand is warm, his hold confident, as if he really could take Childe apart, could fix him up and put him back together.
“Please,” he breathes, the plea crumbling to ash on his tongue.
He needs this—needs the distraction. Needs Zhongli’s body pressed against his own, until all he can think about is more and not the seductive allure of oblivion.
Zhongli pushes his hips into Childe’s ass, grinding into his body. He presses open-mouthed kisses to Childe’s back, his shoulder blades. His pointed teeth graze against the sensitive flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and Childe moans. “I’ll unmake you,” Zhongli promises, his voice resonant with the weight of his words, the certainty of its truth.
In answer, Childe tugs his shirt off, sending it fluttering it to the floor. He arches his back, rocking into Zhongli’s body, feeling the aching warmth of him wet against his taint. When Zhongli releases Childe’s cock and his hands drift lower, Childe whines, forlorn.
“Do not fret,” Zhongli says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m yours.”
And fuck, he is. They’ve come together countless times since that dark day up on the cliffs, and plenty more before that. Childe craves that touch, that comfort, and Zhongli—well. He doesn’t quite know what Zhongli gets from this besides a body to fuck, but by now, Zhongli knows Childe’s body better than Childe knows himself.
His hands are gentle, are calloused and warm as he cups Childe’s balls, tracing the seam with one featherlight finger. With frightening ease, Zhongli pulls moans from Childe’s mouth. He strokes over sensitive skin until Childe’s writhing, his cock hard and untouched, the head of it dampening the blanket with his need.
“Please,” Childe breathes. “Zhongli, please.”
“No,” Zhongli says, and Childe can feel the smile he wears in the cadence of his voice, the way his mouth turns from chaste, soft caresses against his neck to hungry, open-mouthed kisses. Can feel Zhongli’s smug satisfaction in the way his tongue flicks over his skin, soothing the scrape of fangs on flesh.
Childe shudders. In Zhongli’s hands, he’s so fragile, so easily lost to his whims and wishes. When Zhongli tugs at him, urging him onto his belly, he goes willingly, curving around the pillow that Zhongli slides under him. His cock sits, hard and leaking, pressed not to his stomach and the flat of the pillow below but instead hangs against the curve of it, bared to Zhongli for his pleasure, and Childe shudders.
Vulnerable. He is so very vulnerable, stretched out like this, but above him, Zhongli presses kisses to his shoulders, his neck, and his hands stroke over Childe’s cock, doling out nothing but pleasure. He whispers filthy, decadent words into Childe’s ears, sweet things covered in praise, compliments laden with promises.
When Zhongli pulls away, no doubt looking for oil, Childe has no leverage to continue, to chase after that fleeting warmth. What little friction he can get by grinding against the pillow is too much; Zhongli’s hands were warm, soft, nothing like the fabric that now scrapes at him.
Zhongli’s fangs press into the softness of Childe’s thigh, splitting scarred flesh. “Precious boy,” he purrs. “How does it feel, knowing your pleasure comes so easy from my hands?”
Childe groans.
A forked tongue soothes the sting a moment later, and Zhongli croons wordless praise against his skin. “Do you crave me, when we are apart?” he whispers, almost too soft for Childe to hear. “Do you ache?”
Childe cries out in cracked delight as Zhongli plunges a finger into him, deep, his knuckles pressing against his taint. His body jolts, but he’s pinned by the weight of his pleasure, and no matter how hard he tries to move, to take more, he cannot manage even an inch.
“Is it enough?” Zhongli asks, and now his voice is harsher, urgent. “Is it enough, to feel this? Do I drown you? Overwhelm you?”
Childe moans, overcome. He is drowning, overwhelmed, unable to keep afloat. His hands are sweat-slick against the sheets. Every corner of his body is filled with pleasure too great to handle. “Yes,” he gasps, but his voice is choked, swallowed by the overwhelming feeling of too much.
Zhongli is too much, but Zhongli is perfect, and it’s Childe’s own feelings that have gotten him into this mess. His own emotions, his own despair. Why can’t he—why can’t he respond when Zhongli says he loves him? Why can’t he just fucking say the words back?
He knows why. He’s broken, shattered, and he’s a betrayer, too. A liar, a deceiver. Unworthy of this pleasure, this safety, and yet he takes it anyway. Takes and takes and takes.
Zhongli fucks him with that slender finger, his breath hot against Childe’s skin, his lips soft against his thighs. Wicked words spill from his lips, saccharine, debauched praise that has Childe moaning, has him breathless with need, has him blind with it.
“So beautiful,” Zhongli breathes, and Childe shudders. “So utterly perfect, just for me,” he croons, and Childe moans, low and deep. When Zhongli crooks his finger, the pad of it glancing off his prostate, Childe’s head jerks back, and he sobs. Tears track down his face; pleasure-driven, honest tears that Zhongli swipes away with a thumb before sliding down his body.
When Zhongli drags his tongue across Childe’s perineum, so dangerously close to his hole, Childe gasps. Stuck on his belly, he’s powerless, able to only take what Zhongli gives.
He gives so much. With light, barely-there touches, he peels away the cracked veneer of Childe’s facade, reducing him to a trembling mass of nerves and sensation. His hands are gentle as he adjusts the pillow, as he teases Childe’s cock with gentle, scorching strokes. One damnable finger pulls over his prostate, a ruthless tease, before a second slips in. It’s just enough to keep him hard, keep him aching, but it doesn’t provide him any relief. No, Childe burns hotter for it, a churning firestorm of need.
With wicked, skillful hands, Zhongli pulls pleasure from Childe’s body just as he pulls moans from his mouth. Angled like this, draped over the pillow with his cock and hole on display, every sensation is heightened, and Childe sinks into mindlessness, tears hot against his cheeks.
Zhongli works Childe until every breath from him is a whimper, until he’s too lost to speak, until nothing comes out of his throat but heaving, shuddering sobs. He plays until Childe is nothing at all, a raw and aching nerve as two fingers in his hole turn to three, and then he’s tugging at Childe’s rim, his fingers scalding, the stretch exquisite.
“Tell me,” Zhongli murmurs, and his tongue pulls over Childe’s rim just as his fingers sink in once again. “Tell me how I make you feel.”
He has no words. Just thin, breathless shudders that fall like gems from his mouth; each one a priceless artifact. If Zhongli is a god, at this very moment, then he is Childe’s god; his pleasure comes at his behest; his breaths are dictated by Zhongli, his very existence is his whim.
Zhongli’s warmth fades, and Childe hears the pop of a cork. He turns to look, his vision blurry, and Zhongli looms above him, stroking his cock, ecstasy written on his face.
Childe lets out a strangled moan.
The blunt head of Zhongli’s cock presses against his hole, slick with oil and precum, and Childe gasps. Zhongli rocks against him, the head catching on his rim before sliding past, brushing against his perineum, his balls, and Childe whimpers.
“Tell me,” Zhongli groans, his voice sonorous, and it shudders down Childe’s body, vibrating his very bones.
Distantly, his mind registers that he’s been asked a question; that the answer has been demanded of him by the deity that controls his pleasure, but the sensation of Zhongli’s cock against his skin and aching hole is too much, is too good.
He latches onto that word, that fragment of his world, shattered by eyes that are ancient and gold. He claws his way up from the depths of his pleasure-soaked mind, and he sucks in one desperate, strangled breath.
“G-good,” he manages.
Zhongli’s exhale is thin, stilling the air around him. For one moment, the world holds its breath around them.
And then Zhongli’s pushing into him, spearing him on his cock, and Childe is crying out, the most pitiful, anguished sound leaving his lips, but it doesn’t matter, because Zhongli is groaning above him. Zhongli is fucking him, the motions of his body sinuous and graceful, pressing Childe hard into the bed. Zhongli’s cock carves into him, opens him up, and it’s a heady, weighted thing that he feels deep in his belly.
His own cock is so hard it hurts, but the pillow and the angle of his body isn’t good enough for him to feel anything but exquisite, razor-sharp pleasure as Zhongli fucks him harder, deeper. He’s so lost that he cannot do anything but take it, can’t rock back, can’t even speak, can only choke out soft, hushed sobs every time Zhongli presses in deep.
His tears wet the sheets beneath him.
“Childe,” Zhongli murmurs. His name is soft in the air as Zhongli rolls his hips, his cock hot against Childe’s insides. He pulls out, until only the tip is inside, and then pushes in, a slow, agonizing drag. “Childe,” he says again, and it sounds like a prayer.
It sounds like salvation.
“Childe,” Zhongli breathes, rolling his hips. This time, the angle is slightly different. His cock glances against Childe’s prostate, and it’s too much. It’s too much, and Childe cries out, shaking apart in brutal, blinding pleasure. Cum spills onto the pillow, his tears spill onto the sheets, and he’s sobbing, cracked open, shattered.
His throat is dry, his breath hot on his lips, but he finally, finally, finds his voice, and then he’s saying Zhongli’s name like it’s a fucking hymn, and he cannot stop. He cries out Zhongli’s name through a curtain of tears as Zhongli fucks him harder, as Zhongli takes his pleasure from his battered and broken body, as Zhongli, too, finds release with a shuddering gasp. He presses Childe so deep into the mass of pillows that his eyes roll back, and Zhongli’s name on his lips turns to splintered syllables and then to mangled moans.
The comedown is dizzying. Zhongli pets over his body, over scarred skin, and when he gets up, sliding out of Childe with a low groan, he keeps a hand light on Childe’s arm, his fingers delicate and soft yet firm.
Childe coasts on a hazy sort of euphoria, floating on downy satisfaction. With Zhongli to guide him, they walk to the bathroom, sinking into the warmth of the tub as it fills. Zhongli runs first a washcloth and then his mouth over Childe’s body, and he’s barely awake by the time they’re stumbling back to the bed, damp but clean.
Zhongli is warm at his back, his breathing soft and easy. His hand curves gently over Childe’s waist, and, with barely any effort at all, Childe slips into the undisturbed tranquility of sleep.
When Childe wakes, the bed is cold. Pulled by unremitting need, he drifts through the rooms of Zhongli’s apartment, passing silent display cases of trinkets and watchful baubles. His nightshirt clings to him with a film of sweat. He stops only to snag his scarf, now ragged and crumpled, from where it lays draped across the couch.
Outside it is frosty, and the dew from the night chills the soles of his feet as he walks. The streets are empty, either in observance of the unnamed Qixing’s death or because it is simply too early. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t quite care enough to ruminate on it for more than a few soundless footsteps.
He’s been foiled too many times at the cliffs for it to be a viable option. Fighting, too, would be a fool’s errand; there’s really nothing in Liyue besides Zhongli himself that could reasonably defeat him, and that would be unpredictable and messy at best.
That leaves himself. His own sword.
What better punishment awaits him, for someone as cowardly as he? What penance is more fitting, as someone so diminished? Every half-hearted endeavor, every foiled attempt has only served to chip away at his honor, until he is but a shell of his former glory. What would he give for his master to see him now: a dull, cracked weapon.
It’s hard to swallow. His emotions get stuck halfway down; a lump in his throat that bleeds anguish and sorrow.
What dramatics. If he really was resolute in his desire, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’d be dead and gone, not wandering westward, following the path of the river as it makes its way to Xingxu Pool.
The waterfall roars in his ears as he follows the meandering path downhill. The grass is soft beneath his bare feet, kind to him when he doesn’t pick up his heels all the way or stumbles over nothing, sore and bruised and oh so weary. From somewhere below, a crow caws, and something warbles in reply, hidden among the trees.
He abandons the path in favor of walking through the river; the shore is mostly large, flat rocks, slippery with algae. The water is cold, and the rocks even more so, but he is numb, and so he does not feel when pebbles bite at him or when his toe catches on an ill-favored twig.
The sound of the waterfalls fade into nothing as he walks. This far downstream, the river has narrowed to something calmer, and hordes of lily pads gather on its surface.
The sky bleeds orange and pink as the sun claws its way above the horizon. In its tentative rays, the coldness retreats, its spindly fingers trailing over his bare legs before making a home in his chest.
When the river bends almost violently, Childe turns right instead of following the bulk of its flow. He finds himself atop another, smaller waterfall, tucked away in a small cave. Crystalflies cast macabre shadows on the walls, and the air is cool and humid.
It’s calm. Peaceful, undisturbed.
Suddenly weak, he staggers down the moss-covered knoll. His legs give out just as he sits, and he hits the ground a little too hard, his breath sputtering from his lungs.
Fuck.
Sprawled on his back, he blinks up at the rocky ceiling. Zhongli’s words from earlier come back to him—No matter where you go, the ground sings of your presence—and for one terrifying, drawn-out moment, he wishes, so very desperately, for Zhongli to swoop in and save him again.
The only sounds now are the rush of the waterfall and the chirp of insects.
But Zhongli—he hadn’t really helped. Not in the grand scheme of things. No, it was him who made it worse, with his betrayals and his lies. You can’t go back to the one who broke you open hoping they’d be able to stitch you back together.
He’s been permanently changed by Zhongli’s hands, altered in such a fundamental way where even the Tsaritsa’s reach had fallen short. His soul will bear the scars of betrayal forevermore.
His hands tremble. He must be swift. Zhongli spoke true—he has complete mastery over Geo, after all, and it is only perhaps due to both the funeral and the sense of complacency he’s been lulled into by Childe’s own lethargy that he’s gone undiscovered up until this point.
With great effort, he pushes himself up until he’s sitting. His back hurts, pressed up against a small boulder. It’s a mundane pain that serves no purpose but to annoy him, and he huffs in irritation.
Drawing upon his Vision drains him more than he expects. It’s been too long since he’s used it, and with his inactivity, his control over his own element has diminished, grown tremulous. Still, a sword of Hydro is no trouble at all, and he runs his thumb lightly over its smooth, cool pommel.
Fear makes him shake, destabilizing his very foundation, but anguish holds his hand steady. Not good enough, he thinks. This is not good enough, is too long. He needs something sharper. Something that bites on both sides. It needs to be quick and painless. Needs to be effective.
The sword ripples and shrinks, splitting in two until he’s holding his fondest, most trustworthy companions. He waves one Hydro dagger away with a twist of his hand, and turns the other over to inspect its blade.
Better. This is better, much shorter and less awkward. It’s plenty long enough to go through his heart, but he doesn’t have to do something stupid in order to get it there.
His breath comes quick and hot. His scarf is too tight around his neck, so he casts it off, unwrapping it with unwieldy fingers. The slow, creeping terror makes him dizzy, but his grip on the dagger is firm. His mind is foggy and sluggish, but he’s come this far. He’s not going to give up now.
Blood seeps through the blade, a swirling hint of red before it disperses, and Childe winces. He presses the pad of his finger to his tongue, tasting salt. It’s sharp. Good.
But that was the easy part. Everything up until now has been easy, compared to what lies ahead.
Uncertainty. The emptiness of the ether. Release, freedom, relief.
A dry sob tears through him. He’s numb, so numb. His heart pounds in his ears, drowning out the rush of water.
Soon it will be over.
Hydro swirls above his chest, a physical manifestation of his disquiet.
Where should he—how should he? Sitting up? Laying down? It doesn’t matter. Won’t matter.
He needs to hurry. He doesn’t think he can bear it, if someone catches him here. Can’t bear it if someone sees him at his weakest.
With a snarl, he raises his blade high, and it catches the reflection of a crystalfly’s golden wings. For one deafening heartbeat, all he can see is Zhongli—Zhongli’s face, pale and alarmed as his head snaps up. Zhongli’s eyes, ancient and gold. Zhongli, who’s a god, when all Childe is and ever will be is mortal—before Childe plunges the dagger down into his chest.
The impact steals the breath from his lungs. Something in his chest cracks, a terrible sound, and it echoes, reverberating around the cavern, tearing through his eardrums. Agony razes through him, sears through his veins, but this is what he wanted, this is what he wants, this is good, this is good, this is good.
His lips part—but there’s no air to breathe, no words to say.
The darkness from the cave sweeps across his vision, and it’s cold, too cold, but relief and horror and solace and dismay make a battlefield out of his stomach. Hydro splashes around him, warm and wet. Or maybe it’s blood, or both, but his hands are dull, heavy puppets instead of limbs as he loses his grip on them, loses his grip on reality.
Something in his brain clicks, and he jolts, his body straining for air, for warmth, for anything, and then there is nothing at all.
In the distance, a dragon’s roar shakes the mountains.