Day 9: Sanguine
Childe has learned over the years that he fights better with his fists than he does with his words.
Words are pesky things; they slip out unintentionally and are easily twisted. Fists are honest. They hit hard and can crack bones, but the pain is temporary whereas words can sting for years to come.
Childe loves the pain that comes with a good punch, be it across his face, or his knuckles buckling against someone else. It reminds him that he's alive, that he's still there, that he can still think and feel. That he hasn't lost himself to those darker parts of himself.
When he was younger he wanted that. Surrendering to the Abyss was his ticket to godhood, the path to more.
And then it was not.
Childe narrowly dodges Zhongli's hand when it comes into his vision, turning just in time for his fingers to arc off his cheek. Zhongli pulls his punches but still hits hard. If Childe hadn't moved with impressive speed, he'd be nursing a split face instead.
"I will not hurt you," said Zhongli with that insufferable frown of his.
"You can get in some good hits without doing lasting damage, you and I both know that."
Zhongli didn't think much past that, strangely eager to put up a fight. Childe wonders what changed. When he was young and restless, he'd beg for a go every week. Zhongli was firm in his refusal. But now—
"You're distracted," says Zhongli, sweeping close, his mouth warm against Childe's ear. His hand grazes Childe's side, hooking around his waist from behind and tossing him.
Childe goes with the motion, falling to the ground with grace, rolling. His head spins when he rights himself, but he's no worse for wear. As expected, he strikes back out, jabbing toward Zhongli.
Zhongli toys with him, leaning back, effortlessly blocking every strike.
It isn't about getting hits in, it's about working out their frustration. Childe came back to face his past and fears, but most of all, to repair the one thing left that matters to him—and that's this man before him.
Childe pauses, wiping the sweat from his brow. The salt stings his eyes as it drips down his face. Zhongli stands opposite him, stock still, entirely cool. Not even a pink tinge to his cheeks, or rapid-fire breathing that burns his lungs.
"I'm always distracted when it comes to you," says Childe, cheeky, his mouth curling into a grin.
Zhongli smirks back, just the subtle tilt to his mouth. Most would've missed it, unused to the soft twitches of his expression, but not Childe—he knows this man like the back of his hand.
Or so he thought. Things have been murky ever since he came back.
Zhongli is the first to move this time, flying towards him for another grapple. They met in the middle, Zhongli's solid weight smacking into his gut. Childe grunts, fingers raking across his back. He lacks the same strength so he tries to topple him, pulling Zhongli to the side.
Only Zhongli has the weight of a mountain, his feet planted into the earth as though they are rooted like trees. Annoying. Vexing. Definitely hot.
"Persistent," says Zhongli in a low-timbered hum that caresses Childe's soul.
Oh, that's unfair. He knows the way it curdles Childe's gut, how it sets his veins alight. It makes Childe push at him more, pull at him when Zhongli resists, fingers digging into the tough muscles of his back, right between the shoulder blades.
Zhongli is the one to topple Childe, throwing him to the ground with a sickening crack. Pain lances through Childe's shoulder but he knows it's relatively minor. Makes his blood sing. Electro crackles at his fingers with instinctual impulse, called forth without even thinking.
"Absolutely not," snaps Zhongli, tearing the Delusion from Childe's waist. He tosses it to the ground where it settles, flaring to life before dimming dull.
"I didn't mean to," mutters Childe. "It's just habit."
"I—" They pause, standing there awkwardly in their makeshift fighting pit at the top of Mt. Tianheng. "It is a request, not a demand. I'd rather you use your blades than that infernal thing."
Childe summons Hydro next, the water slick as it thins into a long and narrow straight sword.
Zhongli raises an eyebrow. "That is not your usual," he observes.
"I've learned a few tricks over the years."
"I'm sure that you have." Zhongli holds out a hand and calls forth Geo. It's as if the life force of the earth itself coalesces in his hand, lengthening into a similar weapon. Fancier, because even in moments like this, Zhongli has refined taste.
He momentarily observes the ornate hilt before wrapping his fingers around it. Zhongli is dangerously handsome, and that look alone on his face could kill Childe where he stands. The look of thrill, of divine entertainment.
As if Childe is the only thing that captures his gaze.
Childe lunges, his sword flashing. They meet in the middle in a shower of sparks. Childe has never seen Zhongli wield a blade but it comes as no surprise that he seems practiced and effortless. There is so much that Childe knows, but also doesn't know—six thousand years of brutal history that Zhongli has kept locked tight.
Until recently. Childe begs to know more and so they fight. And with every match they share, Zhongli sheds more and more of that ancient history. He weathers away and Childe sees him.
He is a god, but he is also a man, and he too, is learning.
"Have patience with him," said Madame Ping to Childe on his first day back. He hadn't yet gone to Zhongli's home. She caught him by the elbow in a bruising grip that he felt for days. "He is old and stupid, and even we adepti still have things to learn."
Childe has learned to listen, letting Zhongli bear himself however he sees fit because this is not something that he does with others. He is kind and verbose, but about the world, not himself. The fact that he indulges with Childe speaks volumes.
Their blades scrape off each other with every strike. Childe feels wild, adrenaline thrumming his veins. Zhongli watches him back with a golden-eyed and feral gaze, and Oh, it's—
Childe loses his ground, wholly distracted. Zhongli circles Childe's blade with his own, hooking them, knocking it right from Childe's hand. Childe stumbles.
Zhongli's blade arcs through the air, slicing through the meat of Childe's cheek. Childe calls Hydro in pained panic, forming a knife. He attacks wildly, his cheek stinging as blood drips from the cut. Zhongli leans close instead of pulling away and the blade sinks through his palm with surprising ease.
He doesn't even flinch, he just looks at where the knife is settled into his hand with the barest of interest. Instead, Zhongli reaches out to pull Childe close, curling his other hand around his chin.
Childe stares. He watches the blood drip from Zhongli's palm onto the ground. It sizzles away when it meets the earth. "I thought you'd bleed gold," says Childe, pressing his thumb into the sanguine red that stains Zhongli's hand.
"I can if you so wish," says Zhongli, the implication of his more non-mortal self hanging thickly in the air. He smooths a thumb over Childe's bottom lip, considering him.
Childe has missed this sort of intimacy. It has helped, he thinks, the way that they've fallen back together and indulged. They've spent nights with lingering touches and wandering hands as they bare the darkness that taints their hearts.
It is healing, as is Zhongli's blood which is warm and real underneath Childe's thumb. Zhongli is warm and real too.
"There are times where I thought I might've dreamed this up," admits Childe in a quiet hush.
Zhongli's expression melts and his grip turns softer, less ravenous. "Ajax," he murmurs quietly.
"I've fucked up a lot of things but I'm glad that this is real. I'm glad that you've—"
They fall to the ground underneath Zhongli's heavy weight. The Hydro blade dissipates as Childe forgets, losing himself in his warm body instead. Solid. Unyielding like stone. Comforting, like the earth.
They are things that Childe never had in Snezhnaya, that made him fall in love with this man all those years ago.
Zhongli watches him as though he is something precious. "Ajax," he says again as though his name is a wonder. His lips are chapped when their mouths meet.
Childe pulls him closer, arms around Zhongli's neck as he's pressed into the ground. And he just sinks away, as they kiss and kiss and kiss.
They are stained red with blood but it suits them just fine.