Day 8: Barbed

Childe is like barbed wire.

Thin, rough-spun metal, sharp around the edges. Twisted and spun lean, hoisted up to keep others away. He is one of the Vanguard. He is to protect the Tsaritsa at all costs.

And yet, he is here, head resting in Zhongli's lap. As barbed wire ages, it grows brittle. It wears down, rusting around the edges, losing its sharp bits as it dulls. Eventually, the wire grows slack and useless, a novelty of its past prime.

Zhongli pets his hair with a gentle touch.

Childe dozes softly, his face relaxed. Before things went to shit between them, he used to do this; watch him sleep. This is the first time that Zhongli has had the chance since Childe came back.

He looks older. Heavy with exhaustion, soft, dark circles etched into the skin underneath his eyes. He is ragged, pulled too thin, his skin a little sallow, lacking the youthfulness that once pulled at Zhongli.

And his hair—Zhongli sighs as he smooths a hand over the shock of white, a physical manifestation of his Delusion. Just like the soft wrinkles around Childe's mouth.

It is not fair, he thinks, even if it's his fault. Zhongli has waited too long to apologize—which he still hasn't done. Not quite. Sure, he's said quiet, soothing words. Given a promise to be honest. Sweeping, lingering touches that make Childe shiver, but—

'I'm sorry' seems to be lodged in his throat. Simple words that only bring him fear. He suffocates on them, his throat seizing, his mouth dry, his entire being like a husk in his bitter loneliness. Zhongli has never been good at this. His only solace is that Childe has never been good at this either.

There was an attractiveness to it when Childe was younger. Zhongli delighted in his brash, wily tenacity, drawn to a man so different from most. As Morax, people feared him, walking around him on eggshells. As Zhongli, they still do, but because his constitution is seen as kind and gentle. Quiet. Unassuming.

Childe never treated him as such, and so, Zhongli followed like a moth to the flame. He craved the way a dying man does water. He loved how Childe's barbs dug in deep, sinking into his skin. For the first time in eons, back then, Zhongli felt truly alive.

But, Childe left, and like barbed wire, he took a chunk of Zhongli with him, flaying the skin right from his bone. If he looks, Zhongli can still see the scars, thick and ugly, worse than anyone else left.

Love hurts, said Madame Ping to him, once. It can be a bitter thing, but like any true delicacy, it only makes us crave more.

Those years burned him deeper than any fire. They cut him to the core, through muscle and sinew, more than any other god he put into the ground.

But, like bitter-sweet grapes, we can bottle it up and make a fine vintage. Given time, love can round itself out.

Zhongli does not deserve the wisdom of Madame Ping who has put up with his insufferable childishness for centuries. And he does not think that he deserves Childe, either, for that ship sailed a long time ago, riding the sails of Zhongli's tied tongue.

And yet.

Like barbed wire that has fallen to the ground, Childe has come back to him and found solace. He swears he is there for business but knows that Zhongli smelled the lie from the other side of the port. Childe's edges have rusted so much that his god is no longer born of the ice, but of the solid earth itself. He is so dull that his knife barely cuts even when he chases death. Zhongli thinks him a fool at times—but a lovable fool, nestled against his thighs. Cradled by his warmth.

Given time, said Madame Ping.

Zhongli has all the time in the world. His eyes sweep over Childe's face and to his hair. Childe does not. Both stone and metal wear down with time, but mountains last eons and metal turns brown, dents, and crumbles away.

It is a thought that Zhongli does not like.

But he will also take what he can get.

And so, he drags his fingers through Childe's hair, nails against his scalp, pulling a soft groan from Childe's throat. He hums softly and says to him the things Childe wants to hear; he speaks of his past, of himself, of the things that haunt him.

Zhongli fears—and that fear will never go away. "There are times that I wonder if you will leave again," he says to the quiet room. Childe does not stir.

Logic says yes but his heart begs no.

He loved those barbed edges when Childe was a wild thing, but he loves this milder, less-hostile version even more. And, even though he is retired, Zhongli is still the god of geo. He is still the soil and earth itself, and what is steel if not melted ore?

"Even the worst of rusted iron can be polished, however," mutters Zhongli, his face dipping low. Childe can be patched up again if given the chance. Stretched long and thin, retwisted and strung about once more. A new, stronger wire with the tensile strength to weather decades.

Age has brought Zhongli two things: the drive to settle down, and to do it with foolishness. He thumbs across Childe's hot cheek with a cool, ebony thumb, his mortal guise melting away for a moment.

Finally, Childe stirs. He blinks awake and his eyes settle on Zhongli. He just watches, laying there prone, waiting for Zhongli to make the first move.

It is the first time they kiss since he's come back, full of fangs, teeth, and bitten lips.

It is perfect.