It is late and the moon hangs high in the sky, full and bright, watching Childe back as though it's an old friend.
The climate in the Serenitea Pot is chilly but not cold, perfect for a man such as himself who hails from snow-tipped peaks and winters that are made of ice. His hands are warmed by a cup of hot tea, steam billowing, pinking his face as he leans over for a sniff.
Earthy, like Zhongli. Balanced, like Zhongli—at the end of the day, everything always comes back to Zhongli. Childe sighs, sips at his tea, and thinks about all the moments that have led to where he is right then.
Zhongli is quiet when he pads across the floor, caught in the middling state where he's more god than mortal, comfortable in his home to let himself loose. His tail drags across the floor in a soft slither. He is barefoot, claws digging into the smooth wooden planks.
"Laogong," he greets as he sits, leaning over to nuzzle the side of Childe's face. Zhongli calls him this when he feels old and reminiscent, when those older and less wiser days from his past pull at his being and he's drowning in memories. His expression pinches slightly, a line digging into the soft spot between his eyes, etching a crease that makes him look ancient. "You seem tired."
An observation. Childe laughs, nuzzling him back, pressing a sweet kiss to the high curve of Zhongli's cheekbone. "The older I get the earlier my nights end. I'm fine. It was just a long day." Zhongli watches him through a narrowed-eyed gaze steeped in concern, but nods. Childe hands him a teacup. "I can't promise it's any good. It's that special blend Tonia sent."
Zhongli's face crinkles slightly, nostrils flaring. Tonia takes after Childe with no palate for tea but insists on sending batches from her travels because she knows Zhongli's weakness for a well-brewed cup. Zhongli sips it, letting the flavor wash over his tongue. He doesn't cringe. A good sign.
"What finds you out here?" Another probing question subtly asked, Zhongli's intent fused into his words so strongly that it drips from them, seeping into the ground. His words are quiet but his concern is sincere; Childe doesn't often find himself watching the moon, deep in thought. It must seem odd.
"I'm just…" He doesn't know how to explain it, the need to sit there and consider everything that's led him to this moment. "It's a nice night," he finally says. "I think you, of all people, would understand wanting to enjoy it."
"Me, yes. But you?" Zhongli's expression shifts, his eyes golden with curiosity as they glint in the dark night like Mora. "Ajax, you do not sit and think, you do."
And so Childe does. He leans close, takes Zhongli's face into his hand, and kisses him. It's a soft kiss, a lingering thing that while not passionate is love incarnate. Slow, steady, the gentle press of skin against skin. A tentative brush of tongue that leaves Zhongli gasping in delight, meeting it with his own.
Soft, fluttering breaths, and the sharing of intimate space. This sort of love is a quiet thing that Childe feels in his bones, pulsing in his veins like that one, two, three beat that brought them together.
When they part, Zhongli chases him, nearly losing his balance before pressing a hand to the worn porch floor. "What was that for?" he asks.
Childe smiles, feeling his face wrinkle, creased and cracked from the decades, the sort of wear and tear that enhances his features instead of ruins them. This is his love, worn so openly, so plainly for everyone to see. "It probably didn't occur to you," he muses, tone soft as he curls a hand around Zhongli's, his rough, calloused fingers dragging across smooth skin. "It's our anniversary."
Zhongli blinks, head tilting to the side. His mouth parts and his tongue darts out to lick at his lip nervously. "I—" His brow creases. "I am sorry. I didn't—"
"I don't expect you to," says Childe. Zhongli forgets every single year but it isn't because he is thoughtless, it is because time is different for him. They don't experience the years the same. For Zhongli, the moments that pass are like grains of sand in a timepiece; he's lived and breathed far too many of them, so they bleed together. He loses his place, satisfied and content, never thinking about those moments that might mean more because every moment with Childe is like that for him.
"Ajax," says Zhongli, his voice barely a whisper. "It is unbecoming of me."
"I love these parts of you." Childe tugs his hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before nuzzling his knuckles. Zhongli smells like the earth, like petrichor and the woods after a deep rain, like stone and sand, and the highest peak of Mt. Tianheng.
He is lucky, he thinks. I am lucky, he knows, to have this god at his whim.
"Happy anniversary," says Zhongli far too late. It is a little silly, even he knows, with the way a half-grin spreads across his face. A placid look smooths over next and he asks, "How many years has it been?"
Their children are grown. Childe is a mess of aching joints and salt-and-pepper hair, and though still solid when he stands, there's a softness around his gut that he has a tendency to suck in. He kisses Zhongli's wedding ring next, the one with their vows etched right into the stone, nestled against the vein that leads right to Zhongli's heart.
A silly tradition, he said before they got married, citing that chopsticks were far more practical. Until he'd heard the myth and turned soft and goopy, eternally romantic when given the chance.
"Thirty-two, not that I'm counting." He is, he always is, but not because its fear, it's just a matter of counting the years he's spent in blissful fondness.
Zhongli's expression is peculiar. Heady, laced with something else, something apprehensive. But whatever it is, he doesn't ask. His fingers are cold against Childe's chin, frosted by the night chill. Zhongli tugs at him and Childe goes, he'll always go wherever he asks, his entire life defined by the footsteps he takes close on Zhongli's heels.
This kiss is like the other, subtler, searching, lingering tongues and the clattering of teeth as they melt into each other. And they kiss and kiss and kiss underneath that bright full moon, the tea in their cups cool until it's tepid, long forgotten.