"I'm so fucking angry," hisses Childe.

A strange thing to say right after kissing a man. Childe holds his hair in a vice grip, fingers grazing his scalp as he pulls, tugging his head back. Zhongli moans, soft and breathy, unable to catch it before it bubbles up from his throat.

"I'm so—so—"

"A man of few words." A small remark from Zhongli, salty and sweet, and a little bit rude.

"Gods you're infuriating. Archons—"

"Strange to use such a curse in my presence." Strange, but entertaining. Childe has never pulled his punches when it came to creativity with his vulgarity. He might not carry a panache for overdrawn and lengthy monologues but there is something to be said about the subtle underhandedness of his insults.

Childe's gaze turns cool though his cheeks are still tinged pink. "Last I checked you aren't one. Last I checked, you chose not to be one."

"Everyone retires, even old gods." Childe's grip loosens and he sweeps a thumb through the baby hairs on Zhongli's neck. He calms, ever so slightly, and Zhongli takes his chance. He grabs Childe's chin in his fingers. "Even Harbingers."

"You know that's a lie."

"It doesn't have to be."

Childe kisses him again, avoiding the unspoken question. He turns Zhongli's face, tipping it, tongue sneaking in to sweep across his own. It is a good distraction, one that Zhongli has often dreamed about on cold and lonely nights.

He kisses back, nipping at Childe's lips with sharp teeth, the hold on his chin bruising.

When they part again, Zhongli says, "Why are you kissing me?"

"Why do you think?"

Zhongli slides his thumb across Childe's bottom lip, considering. There are many reasons and he knows them all, but— "I want to hear you say it."

Childe is prideful enough to be the last to give in. He left Liyue without a word and now he's back again, angry and aggravating at his own expense. Zhongli hasn't made the best choices but he is not alone in that. They truly are birds of a feather.

"Zhongli," he says, this time quiet, gentler, words caught in his throat. "Zhongli, I—"

Zhongli kisses him this time, a sweet thing that coaxes Childe's mouth open so he can devour that wet and slick heat. He has never cared much for kissing, until now. A dragon lurks in his chest that wants to eat Childe alive, and so, Zhongli does.

Childe has him pressed into the ground after they took a tumble mid-spar. He'd seen Zhongli flush, hazy with lust from the battle and the way he watched Childe dance across the field. Childe cursed before dipping his face.

His lips are not soft. They are chapped from the bitter-cold winds of winter in Snezhnaya. His hands are rough too, calloused from his weapons and years of fighting. So different from the smooth skin of Zhongli's curated form.

He wonders what Childe would say if he let it melt away, showing off blackened, scarred skin, and glittering lines of Geo. Old imperfections cut into his divine being, carefully hidden when he walks in a mortal's shoes.

Childe would love it. Zhongli thinks he would kiss every scar, every line, dragging those rough-cut fingertips across every inch of his skin. And he wants that, so Zhongli kisses him, holding him close.

They part. Childe breathes heavily and swallows. "I love you," he says. His voice is hoarse. He trembles, scared.

"Yes," says Zhongli, "you do."

It has never been a question and neither is Zhongli's answer.

So when Childe kisses him once more, Zhongli lays open underneath him, ready for a new kind of fight.