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Lumine walks into the Golden House on a Tuesday. Her bracelets, and the pendent below her chest, all glow a defused red colour. Childe thinks, Oh, she made it to Natlan, and then Childe thinks, Fuck, she made it to Natlan.
Truthfully, Childe likes Lumine a lot. She’s strong-willed and incredibly powerful, but also probably the best person he knows. She’s a great opponent in battle, and pretty good company otherwise. Pseudo-Pyro Vision Lumine, however, is a different beast. She vaporizes all his shots before they can reach her, which defeats half of his fucking gambit, and every time she lands a hit while Childe is wielding his Electro Delusion it feels like he’s been struck by lightning. He steams and scalds and sweats through the fight, mask suffocating against the heat her flames produce.
Childe loses when Lumine parries a slash with a flame-charged sword. The resulting overcharge knocks him onto his back and leaves him breathless. He tries to stand, but his ribs ache in protest when he sits back up and his knee buckles beneath his weight. Without the strength to sustain it, the Delusion fades and Childe is left battered in a heap on the warm linoleum.
Lumine has the decency to look haggard, panting heavily while she clutches the shoulder Childe had clipped hard with a glaive rush. She keeps readjusting the sword in her other hand, blistered hands slipping around the leather-bound hilt.
“Good effort,” Lumine says, laboured. “I’ll collect my payment when you’re less…” she nods at where Childe is still wincing at the way the burns stretch against his skin.
She lumbers away, Paimin popping into view over her shoulder to prattle on about how surely something at Wanmin will fix her up good. Lumine gets stronger every time they fight, but Childe doesn’t think he’s ever lost this bad before. Not since he was a kid, at least.
Blood pools behind his teeth when he cracks a smile at her retreating form. He cannot wait to see what she has in store next week.
Once she’s gone, Childe allows himself some time to grow used to the way his movements agitate different pains before hauling himself out of the building. The streets of the harbour are never empty, but the hour is late enough that only a couple of stragglers bear witness to him stumbling home, laughing quietly to himself like a man crazed. He feels a trickle of blood slip down his arm and seep into his gloves, every step he takes makes his left hip scream in agony. He stumbles, once, and his blurred vision misses a grey cat slipping through his legs. When he takes a heavy step to steady himself, his periphery erupts in white.
He’s half tempted to seek out another fight somewhere, with some unsuspecting hilichurl or a treasure hoarder who thinks he’ll have the advantage. He wants to see how well he can do like this, if the blinding pain will heighten his instincts or if he’ll have to rely on overcoming his opponent as fast as possible, too sluggish to bob and weave.
Unfortunately, Childe is intimately aware of the way part of his singed jacket is half-fused to an open wound. The fibres tug at his every moment, wrenching open any scabbing that forms. He knows he needs that cleaned and taken care of. It’s irritating, but after all he’s been through and all he’s done, submitting to something like infection would infuriate him long past death.
The stairs to his apartment are fun, but more so than that is the realization that he doesn’t have his key with him. It’s probably still on his desk, neglected in favour of his fight with Lumine. Andrei would have long since locked up by now. Childe laughs at the new challenge, dehydrated throat forcing it out as a cough. At least one of his ribs is broken, while two more are surely bruised.
He tucks the tip of a summoned arrow beneath the latticework on one of his window panels, tugging until his fingers make purchase on the inside edge so he can pull it open completely. He opens the other panel easily and shoves the small drawer beneath the window indoors off to the side so he doesn’t have to contort his body more than necessary.
He hisses through his teeth when he throws his leg through the window and sidles the sill. He has to hunch his back to fit his frame through the window, bruised muscles warping around cracked bones.
When both feet are safely inside his apartment, Childe tumbles to the floor. He rolls onto his back on the hallway rug. He is just going to lay here for a moment. The adrenaline is wearing off, all things that were going aah-ooh-ouch are starting to go FUCK-ARHG-IYEE. He’ll drag himself to his medical supplies as soon as he catches his breath. It’s not easy, given that every inhale feels like a fresh stab wound. Childe squints blearily at the ceiling, making patterns out of the stars in his vision as he attempts to control his breathing.
He feels really fucking stupid that it takes him almost an entire minute to realize that the light on the ceiling is on. He’s on his feet again immediately, daggers out because a bow in close quarters may not be his best bet right now. There are audible footsteps approaching him, so whoever it is must be an amateur. Good, then. Childe presses himself against the wall, out of view, until he sees a form move past the threshold.
Childe moves faster than he expects to, given his injuries. Seemingly, Childe moves faster than his injuries are expecting, too, because his knees buckle the second he has the figure pressed against the wall, dagger against their neck. He probably could have played it off as an intimidation tactic or something along those lines, if not for the gentle hands placed on his waist and upper arm.
Ah, yes. His kind-of-roommate, who appears in Childe’s apartment for approximately 63% of his downtime nowadays. To whom Childe had given a key, because the quickly chilling autumn made being indoors a better option, because evening dinners on balmy summer nights had become routine, because Childe’s place is spacious and cushey, because maybe this isn’t the first time Childe’s forgotten his key and his companion is more dignified than breaking into a place he’s been invited. Who, for whatever reason, had just kind of stayed, and read all of Childe’s decorative novels and got passive-aggressive when Childe brought back fresh-caught fish. How could Childe have forgotten? Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe he has a concussion.
Zhongli holds him steady, not pulling him up so much as letting Childe use him to stand straight on his own.
“Good evening, Childe,” he says, not pulling his hands away. His eyes flit over Childe’s body, brow furrowing in concern. “Were you perhaps mauled by a tiger on your way back?”
“I think she prefers ‘Lumine,’ actually,” Childe says, and wow his voice is hoarse. “Tea’s on the stove?” Childe asks, turning around to limp (goddammit) towards the kitchen.
So Childe has a big, fat, mind-numbing, heart-pumping, bees-in-his-stomach crush on Zhongli, right? Over the moon for the man. Zhongli’s voice is like spicy honey and he’s just so pleasant to be around and his eyes are like the melting sunset that Childe wants to ride him into, and so on and so forth.
It’s just that this is not the ideal scenario. Childe doesn’t mind losing—it’s always a learning experience, something to break apart and analyze to get stronger, faster, better—but he can’t stand being perceived as weak. He will lick at his wounds in a cold bath with the lights off and go out the next morning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Here, now, he’s not alone. He’s beaten, bloodied, and crumbling in front of a man who dropped a meteor on him as an apology.
Childe hunches his shoulders, as though to hide from the judgemental gaze he can feel. There is, in fact, tea on the stove, because there is never not tea on the stove, these days. He leans his good hip against the counter as he pours a cup that has already been set out for him. It tastes awful, though that could be the blood in his mouth. Even so, there’s an earthiness behind it that Childe has learned to recognize as pu’erh. The moon rose ages ago, yet here Zhongli is, drinking caffeinated tea.
“You keep your medical supplies in here, correct?” Zhongli pulls a small trunk from a shelving unit in the kitchen.
Childe freezes. “I can take care of myself,” he says. It should be light, reassuring, but the words are wispy as they leave him, hanging unsure in the air. He can, he knows he can, but he feels like a wounded animal who wandered into the lion’s den.
“Of course,” is all Zhongli says, because Childe has had more meaningful conversations with the Rex Lapis statue on Qingyun Peak.
Zhongli sets the trunk on the kitchen table, then stares expectantly at Childe. Childe, petulant, swirls the cup in his hand, watching flecks of tea leaves swirl at the bottom. To bide his time, Zhongli unlatches the trunk and flips the top open to familiarize himself with the contents. He neatly sets out bandages, bottles of liquid, and tubs of salves, then hesitates. Slowly, he reaches into the velvety interior and pulls out a squat-looking bottle to study up close.
“Bubu Pharmacy doesn’t sell them like this,” Zhongli comments. He shakes the bottle, a handful of dried violet grass bulbs rustling within.
Childe would have bitten his lip if it wasn’t already broken. “You mentioned they were good for infections, so.”
The smile Zhongli answers with is, in a word, disarming. To the extent that Childe tucks his proverbial tail between his legs and shuffles forward into the proverbial den to sit down in front of the proverbial lion. Before he can seat himself gingerly, so as to not aggravate his hip and rib cage and shoulder and knee and tailbone, Zhongli raises a hand.
“Strip,” he says, “I will find a cloth.”
Childe and his heart-boner are out of his ruined jacket before Zhongli is even out of the room. It’s at this point that Childe accepts his fate of being eaten alive. He peels off article after article, ruddy-stained and torn, dropping them in a heap on the floor. He sits in only his undershorts and organizes the supplies on the table a little further, pulling closer the appropriate antiseptics and balms. He does it to be helpful—every product sits in a nondescript, unlabeled container that Childe has memorized, but he wonders idly if Zhongli would be able to tell them apart.
Summoned, Zhongli wanders back into the kitchen with several clean black cloths in his hands. He pauses briefly at the sight of Childe. Childe imagines it’s because more of his skin is bruised than isn’t and there’s a decent amount of blood outside of his body, too, but it would be cool if it was because Zhongli thought he was sexy and dangerous and alluring looking. Zhongli blinks as if to clear his head from its stupor, then approaches the table to set the cloths down.
He removes his gloves, plucking at each individual finger before pulling the whole thing off, then he pushes the cuffs of his sleeves up to his elbows. Each movement is rushed, and Childe does not get to bask in the visual for long before Zhongli has moved to wet one of the cloths with water.
Zhongli returns. The only warning Childe gets is, “My hands are cold,” before the man of his dreams is touching him. Caressing him, practically, running the wet cloth across his body to clear away crusted blood and dried sweat. Zhongli was right—his hands are cold. Graciously, deliciously frigid as they press against Childe’s bare skin, against the light burns still throbbing with irritation. Childe bites back a sigh not entirely appropriate for the situation.
The thing is: Zhongli is not gentle with his treatment. The first cloth is rubbed abrasively against his skin, leaving Childe slightly pink in Zhongli’s effort to clean him up. The second cloth, doused in a disinfectant that it turns out Zhongli didn’t have to ask about, is pressed against the smaller knicks without a word. Childe sucks in a breath at the sudden stinging sensation, though he relaxes easily as Zhongli laves the disinfectant across more and more cuts. He applies adhesive bandages against all the things that don’t require wrapping, thumbs pressing and swiping across deep bruises with little consideration.
It is deeply comforting to know that Zhongli is not pitying him. Zhongli is not treating him like glass, or like broken china. Frankly, Zhongli is treating him a little bit like a decorative pillow with a stubborn stain on it, but it’s still nice. It’s like he’s actively invested in Childe’s well-being and needs him patched up as adequately and as quickly as possible, rather than like he owes this pathetic mortal cooed comforts and tender healing.
Zhongli works swiftly, and it isn’t long before all of the minor injuries have been cared for. Childe is, quite frankly, rather surprised to find that he doesn’t have more major ones. There are only 3—excluding some of his, shall we say, enfeebled bones. There is a gash on his right arm, blood seeping through a cluster of gauze; a palm-sized burn on his left hip, angry red and skin peeling above it; a more severe-looking burn just underneath his right pectoral, but Childe can’t really feel it, so surely it can’t be all that bad!
“I believe this will need stitches,” Zhongli says mildly, peeling away the soaked gauze from Childe’s arm.
Childe groans, because stitches mean he won’t have a complete range of motion for at least a couple of weeks, but digs through his trunk anyway. He hands Zhongli a sealed tin with needles and thread, then pulls out a small vial full of a pale, cloudy substance. He takes a shot.
“Two minutes ‘til it kicks in,” Childe explains, “then you have ten minutes to sew me up.”
At this, Zhongli looks incredibly disturbed. “You can’t possibly use poppy milk when you give yourself stitches.”
“I don’t,” Childe agrees, “I usually use a belt.”
This, apparently, does little to placate Zhongli, who sighs, looking away. His gaze turns town to Childe’s arm, where he runs his forefinger along one of Childe’s favourite scars. Three short, even, thin lines just below his shoulder, where he’d been nailed by a shuriken during a brief stint in Inazuma. “Your scars are impressive,” Zhongli comments, voice low, as if mostly to himself.
Childe, grappling both with trying not to preen at the words and attempting to rationalize how the action could possibly be just platonic, does not get the chance to think of a response before Zhongli speaks again.
“It’s exceedingly rare that I take any sort of physical hit. When I do, the result is not quite the same as, say, a normal person. My skin itself is quite robust,” Zhongli says, in the way that’s not a gloat but a statement that drives Childe a little wild with lust and violence in equal measure. Then, he looks Childe dead in the eyes in the way that drives him a little wild with love and awe in equal measure. “That you would endure all this and not only come out victorious but eager to fight again… You’re quite the warrior, Childe.”
Childe’s heartbeat picks up rapidly in his chest. He thinks Tsaritsa, have mercy, then suddenly Zhongli is kneeling before him. He’s smearing a thick layer of salve across the burn on his hip. Childe’s head feels cottony when he turns to ensure Zhongli’s chosen the right tin to use (of course he has, why bother checking?). His thoughts catch up to him slowly.
“But… m’ arm…” the words seem to loll out of his mouth, thick and lazy.
“Taken care of within ten minutes, as directed,” Zhongli says.
Childe blinks hard at his arm, wrapped properly in bandages with blood no longer leaking through. “‘M fffucked up,” Childe observes.
Zhongli laughs, a sudden but soft chuckle, like he was caught by surprise but didn’t mind being so.
“Do tha’ again,” Childe slurs. Zhongli does, this time flicking bright eyes up to meet his. Childe grins, broad enough to hurt his cheeks.
A minute of silence passes, wherein Zhongli dips two clean fingers into the tin of salve before beginning to apply it to the other burn. Childe’s head clears more and more of the effects of the poppy milk, though he considers maybe taking another light sip if it would get Zhongli to laugh like that again.
“You’ll still need to see a healer, yet,” Zhongli says, stepping back.
Childe, haze still clinging to him, makes an unhappy sound. Zhongli raises a single brow at him. Childe stretches his shoulders back, adjusting from all the time spent sitting in the simple wooden chair. The flair of pain in his ribs is sobering enough. Maybe he will have to see someone about this, lest he waste away doing something so silly as resting for longer than necessary.
“Baizhu hates me,” Childe—he doesn’t whine, he’s just rightfully upset about the status of their acquaintanceship. “And he won’t let the zombie anywhere close to me.”
Zhongli hums thoughtfully. “You did try to destroy Liyue Harbour,” the chiding is so casual, so dismissive, Childe bites his tongue. “Also, I presume it may not benefit you to call Qiqi a zombie rather than her name.”
“She is,” Childe says, petulant, but muttered under his breath so there’s at least a chance of Zhongli not hearing it.
Zhongli hears it. “Stand,” he demands.
As if punishing Childe for the remark, he doesn’t offer any assistance as Childe grips the edge of the table and forces himself up, once more growing accustomed to the pain in his hip. However, when Childe lets go of the table and nearly topples over in his attempt to comfortably find balance, Zhongli’s hands do shoot out to steady him, fingers gripping carefully in the spaces between his wounds.
“Are we done? Can I take a nap, now?” A brief, reenergizing 12-hour nap would probably do his aches some good.
“Not yet,” Zhongli says, pulling away because the world is cruel and hates Childe, specifically. “The burns on your abdomen need to be wrapped, as well. You may rest after, but I hope you do not mind if I interrupt you. I know an aide for the pain, but I’ll have to fetch it elsewhere.”
Childe brightens. “Fire water?”
Zhongli levels him an unimpressed stare, gaze breaking to flick towards the bloody clothes on the floor. Childe’s grin grows sheepish. Zhongli’s face softens, shaking his head with a small smile as he reaches into the trunk once more to pull out a roll of broad bandaging. Then, because the world is beautiful and Childe is so lucky to be alive, Zhongli begins the act of wrapping the bandage around his torso.
“There is a strain of ginseng whose roots have proven to be quite effective at relieving pain and reducing bleeding. Specifically, when the roots are boiled in vinegar. I believe it’s that the acid is crucial in producing a certain chemical that decreases inflammation, though it has been quite some time since I’ve been told the details. Cloud Retainer taught me this method many years ago. Despite the bitter taste, many ancient soldiers did report significant improvement in their conditions.
“Alas, modern medicine has come a long way, but the pharmacy is certainly closed, and I’d prefer that you take no more poppy milk tonight. To my knowledge, Hu Tao has at least a small stock of san qi in the mortuary, so it should be no problem for me to retrieve some quickly.”
It is maddening. Zhongli wraps the bandage around Childe’s abdomen, up his torso, stable fingers keeping it taught and flat against Childe’s skin. He is so, so close, arms reaching back behind his waist to thread the bandage around Childe’s back. He works his way up to Childe’s chest until he reaches a point where he has to lean closer to pull the bandage over his shoulder, across his chest, and back again. He chatters away all the while, mouth in tantalizing proximity to Childe’s jaw, even voice sending shivers down Childe’s spine.
Zhongli is not a particularly physical sort of person. Childe can count on 3 fingers all the times Zhongli has touched him in any sort of capacity before tonight, and one of them was when he threw Childe into the side of a mountain during their apology duel. Before, at least, it was easy for Childe to focus on the soothing coolness of Zhongli’s digits against his charred skin, but this? Zhongli’s fingers on him, yet obscured through a thin layer of fabric? Zhongli’s chest, inches away from his own? His arms so close yet so far from wrapping around Childe’s body? Childe swears he can smell Zhongli’s cologne like this, all cardamom and amber.
Childe’s fingers twitch at his side from where they yearn to reach out and reciprocate. He swallows hard when Zhongli pulls away slightly to loop a knot that ties the bandage in place. “And where will you get the vinegar at this hour?”
“The pantry. I recall you brought some home merely a few weeks ago,” Zhongli answers easily.
Childe flushes, completely abandoning the last of his walls. Archons be yielding, he likes this man. He likes the way Zhongli made no indication that this apartment is still only under Childe’s name, likes the way Zhongli has comfortably carved out a place for himself without so much as asking. He likes Zhongli’s hands, his rough application of care, and how adept he is in his movements. He likes his forearms, their complimenting heights, and the deep rumble of his laugh. He loves how Zhongli knows so much, about everything, all the time, except for how Childe jubilates at his praise. He loves how Zhongli talks, guides, lectures, babbles, ever one to enjoy the peace and quiet but just as willing to fill it.
Childe is tired, now, after the fight, the treatment, and especially the poppy milk, and his heart is scrambling with how effortlessly like melted into love. So, when Zhongli asks if there is anything else Childe requires of him before he retrieves the ginseng root, Childe cannot be blamed for his intentionally playful quip of, “A kiss to tide the pain over until then?”
He expects Zhongli to roll his eyes, as fond as it is exasperated, then say something unrelated, just like every other time Childe has flirted at him. He doesn’t do it often, but enough to recognize the pattern in response. This is to say, Childe is blown out of the water completely when Zhongli reaches up to cup his cheek and plants one square on his lips.
Then, Zhongli says, “Would you like me to assist you to your room?” like he didn’t just fucking kiss him, like Childe didn’t lean further in when Zhongli pulled away to chase the affection.
Childe’s no fool, so he says, “Please,” just to feel the press of Zhongli’s arms steadying him again, because ‘if you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Zhongli,’ is 9 more syllables than his poor, fractured mind can process.
Zhongli is a solid weight to lean on as Childe limps back to his room. He settles carefully onto his mattress, moving slowly under Zhongli’s critical eye. He doesn’t bother with his blankets, but Zhongli does pull the light quilt from the foot of his bed to rest over him for some kind of warmth. Childe supposes he is still mostly nude, after all.
“I’m surprised you don’t have more of your friends knocking down your doors when they’re injured, if you treat them like this,” Childe says, grasping for Zhongli’s attention. The longer he can get Zhongli to stay, the longer Childe can exist in this moment: unguarded, in love, and half-convinced he’s died two hours ago.
“I cannot say many of my friends engage in the same extremes as you do,” Zhongli says. There’s a sort of confirmation there, that perhaps he would if he could, that lowers Childe’s heartstruck high by a smidge. This is before Zhongli, clearly intent on flipping Childe’s entire world upside down and backwards in a single night, continues, “I also cannot say I would treat them with the same consideration as I would a lover. Perhaps Xiao, though that is a different situation entirely, and he seems to—”
Yes, yes, Xiao, Zhongli’s strange pseudo-ward who has threatened a thousand deaths upon Childe for his crimes against humanity, whatever. More importantly, “Did you say ‘lover’?” Childe demands, with all the tact of a warhammer.
It is exceedingly rare that Childe interrupts him, which must be why Zhongli looks so stricken at Childe’s outburst. Or, perhaps not, because Zhongli answers, “Are you not?”
So. Add ‘cardiac arrest’ to the list of afflictions Childe has sustained today. Childe shoots up, or tries to, before his ribs revolt against the sudden movement, and Zhongli’s hand on his sternum is gently pushing him back into his pillows.
“Am I?” Childe says, rattled to the core.
“You gave me the key to your home,” Zhongli offers. The words come slowly, verging on a hesitance Childe has never heard from him.
“Because I— How would that make me your—”
“You let me into your home, and I let you back into my city. Despite our respective misgivings, we both willingly offered the other the right to solace in our most precious places,” Zhongli explains. It seems so simple when he puts it like that, almost romantic, even—but still.
Childe forces a laugh. “That’s just forgiveness, Zhongli. Friendship, at best. I’m grateful we maintained our relationship, but that does not us lovers make.”
He is grateful, truly. Despite his feelings, Childe has been more than content to have Zhongli by his side once more as a close companion, often reading on Childe’s sofa while Childe pores over recon report after mission update. He will happily continue on like that, even if this brief taste of Zhongli as a paramour will take root in his lungs for the rest of his days. Yet, Zhongli pushes back once more.
“I was of the impression that our mutual feelings did. I hadn’t considered us more than friends until you’d given me the key, but surely you were aware of my affection for you? I understand that I was somewhat delayed in coming to terms with them, but I thought my position was clear.”
“Your position…” Childe trails off, overwhelmed. Then, all at once: some of Zhongli’s clothes, tucked neatly in a drawer in the same dresser Childe uses. Zhongli stopping by to visit him between their individual appointments, asking what he would like for dinner. Zhongli making dinner. A small figurine of a whale on the bookshelf in the living room, an earring with a teardrop shaped topaz gem, both bought with money Zhongli had saved himself.
“You like me?” Childe cries. All this time, he thought Zhongli was the emotionally dense idiot, plodding carelessly around Childe’s feelings.
“That is more juvenile of a word than I might use, but it is mostly synonymous. Yes, Childe, I do like you.”
“And you knew that I…”
Zhongli cracks a smile, something barely more than a twitch of his lips and a softness around his eyes. “You have something of a penchant for staring at my mouth when I talk.”
“Maybe kissing me would’ve driven the point home!”
Zhongli’s smile grows. He cocks his head, not unlike one would at a dog after a trick. “You did not ask.”
Childe has more than half a mind to lunge at Zhongli and all his chivalry. The rapid shifting would likely tug at his stitches, though, and in this particular moment, Childe isn’t eager to face his lover’s (???!!!) wrath.
“Once I heal, we’re fighting again. Somewhere in Tianqiu Valley, this time, where there are fewer cliff faces for you to stuff me into.”
“We are, are we?” Zhongli’s tone is placating, but not in a condescending way. It’s… affection, Childe realizes.
“Yes. You owe me another apology, Mr. Zhongli. You failed to inform me that you’re in love with me.”
“I assure you, from now on I will be much more forthright in my romantic expression.”
Zhongli does not correct Childe’s choice of phrase, he notes. Childe hums, satisfied with this resolution until he gets his duel. He then tilts his chin up slightly, expectant. True to his word, Zhongli props a hand next to Childe’s head and leans down to meet his mouth in another kiss.
(Several hours later, Childe is roused from a deep sleep by the clinking of a plate on his bedside table. It holds thick-cut slices of something that looks like a vegetable but smells like rotting fruit. Sleepily, Childe lifts his good arm to slap around for chopsticks, only to feel Zhongli’s thumb against his chin, pressing gently. The ginseng tastes vile, and Childe will probably be too asleep to feel the effects, but Zhongli brushes his fingers against Childe’s temple and says softly, “Rest well, beloved,” and Childe considers eating the whole plate now just for more of whatever that is.)