"Mulled wine," says Childe. "Rich, earthy, served warm—"
"Served what?"
Childe rolls his eyes. "I knew that's where you'd draw the line. You take a nice red wine and you mull it with spices. Traditionally served warm to keep the cold away. There's literally nothing better for the Yuletide, and yes, that's including firewater."
Zhongli's nose crinkles at the thought. He doesn't drink much alcohol, to begin with. All that comes to mind is a drunkard of a bard who delights in shirking his duties and spinning verse instead. But, he's never given it a fair shake in this form beyond a drink or two with Childe.
But—
"I don't like red wine," he finally says, cringing. It just isn't his taste. He prefers other types with flavor profiles that transcend mortal tongues.
Childe considers this, thumbing his cheek. Then, he grins, that terrible rapscallion smile that makes Zhongli's heart skip a beat.
And really, Zhongli should've known better.
#
There is a compromise.
Zhongli comes home from a particularly grueling day at the funeral parlor to the smell of osmanthus wine over the cookfire. Cinnamon fills the air. Nutmeg, cloves, orange peel—the sorts of flavors and spices that scream the Yuletide season, filling the air with a rich, earthy scent.
"I figured I'd meet you in the middle, yeah? Combine traditions? Mulled wine for the Yuletide, but osmanthus because it brings luck."
Zhongli happily takes a cup when Childe serves him one. It's the least that he can do for all the work that's been put into it. A quick sip. Flavor bursts on his tongue, the floral notes tinged spicy and sweet. It is not heavy in his mouth, surprisingly light as he swallows it down.
Childe is right. It warms him from the inside out, perfect for the chilly air. So he drinks another cup. And another. And then another.
And now, he has lost count of the cups but it doesn't matter. Zhongli loves the way that his veins tingle with his tipsiness. How his tongue has loosened and his laughs come louder, more raucous.
They sit on the open porch in the teapot. Childe laughs too, face flushed, skin pink down his neck before disappearing into his collar. It lays open, unbuttoned, and Zhongli can see the sharp line of his collarbone.
Oh. His mouth is dry. He wants more wine—or, or—
Zhongli leans close, pressing his nose into Childe's nape, inhaling deeply. Everything around him tips, sloshing around. He chuckles, his brain pleasantly fuzzed as he just drowns in Childe's fresh, sharp scent. "Ajax," he murmurs into his ear, lips ghosting the shell of it.
Childe falls to the ground, the floor hard against his back. But he only smiles up at him as Zhongli settles overtop. Their cups of wine are forgotten to the side. Zhongli presses his hand to Childe's sternum, fingers dipping into the open collar.
They do not often have moments like this. Plenty of times they lose themselves in each other, but it is never with tipsiness, their bones and joints slackened with liquid courage. Here, Zhongli feels unhindered by the weight of his age or the things he's seen and experienced. The thought of erosion is far away, at the barest of edges of his mind.
Instead, he thinks of the warmth of Childe's skin. The delightful way that he blushes, watching back with half-lidded eyes, and lashes that sweep across his high cheekbones. Everything is loose-limbed and easy. They slot together as if made for one another.
Their kisses are sloppy. Unrefined. Nothing but teeth, tongues, and laughter as they try to ground themselves and find a good pace. Zhongli's veins thrum. His brain is dulled but his pulse is alive, and he licks into Childe's mouth with feverish intent.
Too hot, too cold, just right. Any and everything, all at once, but also not enough. Everything turns lazy, lingering instead. Childe lays on the ground, an arm curled around Zhongli, and they just kiss in the brisk winter air, and the crackle of the fire just inside.
Childe tastes like wine, like spice, like Yuletide. He sighs into Zhongli's mouth and chuckles. Amused. In love. So, so many things. It isn't as though Zhongli never feels them but with the wine in his gut, it feels more clear.
When they part, Childe looks curious. "What are you thinking of?" he asks, fingers tugging at the clasp that holds Zhongli's hair together.
"That I love you."
"I mean, I know that."
Zhongli can feel the fond expression that pulls at his face. He aches, from the way his heart beats fast, to where his trousers are tented. He pets Childe's hair and presses their foreheads together, savoring the moment. "Right now," he says finally, "I don't think it's ever been more apparent. This is where I want to be."
Zhongli learns that osmanthus wine doesn't always taste the same, especially when carefully cultivated underneath Childe's expert hands. The taste of it lingers in Childe's mouth. And, perhaps, this is the point of Zhongli's retirement, learning to see things through a new lens.
"Ajax." Zhongli dips and they kiss again, slow and passionate as they find their rhythm. Hands wander and heat builds. They are beautiful like this, drunk on each other, sloppy as they get frisky like teenagers lost in their lust. "Ajax," he says once more, and then he's gone, hips rolling against Childe as they cling to each other.
Zhongli whines at the weight of Childe's cock against his. Even through the fabric of his trousers, he feels it, hard and long. Perfect. Zhongli claws at the opening there, fingers sloppy as they tug at the buttons.
Childe gasps when Zhongli's hand finally takes hold of him, stroking from base to the tip. "Gods," he hisses, face finding its home in Zhongli's neck. Zhongli takes in his scent again, nipping at Childe's jaw, drowning in the spicey aroma of his arousal, in that salty brine that clings to him like a second skin.
Even Zhongli is mulled, like their wine, heated and warmed, spiced with love on this blustery cold night. Childe gives and Zhongli takes, squeezing the tip of Childe's cock with every slick glide of his hand.
Everything is uncoordinated. Zhongli laughs as his head spins. Childe loses his balance and barely catches himself, joining in the laughter as they try to right themselves.
"Wait, wait—" Childe bats Zhongli's hand away. He doesn't even pull off his trousers properly, he just shoots Zhongli a smirk before rolling him onto his back and trailing the length of his body. Zhongli's cock twitches as Childe nuzzles it. Oh, it aches, desperate to be touched. "At least one of us was sensible," muses Childe, pulling at the thin material of Zhongli's clothing, so unlike the sturdier stuff he's prone to wearing.
Childe wastes no time in getting his mouth on him. First, it's teasing bites at his thighs, then soft kisses down the length of his cock. Zhongli isn't sure if it's the wine in his veins but everything is more sensitive, hotter, he feels like a livewire set alight with Childe's touch.
White-hot and wet heat surrounds his length. Childe swallows him to the base, nose pressed into his groin. Zhongli bucks, unable to stop himself, hands finding purchase in Childe's hair. Childe chokes, just barely. A soft groan warms Zhongli's cock from the root to the tip.
Everything is blurred. Zhongli melts against the ground. He holds Childe's head firmly against him, sinking his cock deeper into the back of his throat. Again and again, Childe encouraging him with every devilish moan.
"Fuck." Zhongli rarely curses in such a crude way, but he's lost every inhibition. "Fuck, I don't want—"
To come like this. He doesn't want to spend himself into Childe's throat, he wants to fuck him instead, deeply, roughly, hands curled around Childe's hips in a bruising grip. So rarely does Zhongli have such possessive urges. It's the wine—it's definitely the wine. His mind is hazy and fuck, Childe is so handsome, tears leaking at the corners as he groans around his cock.
"Off," says Zhongli. He tugs on his hair gently and Childe pulls off, sputtering, drool dripping from his mouth. What a mess. A handsome, wild, and untamed mess.
"Zhongli, I—" Childe's voice is hoarse. Raspy. "You—I—"
"Beautiful." Zhongli cups his face, tracing his swollen lips with a thumb. "And all mine. Always mine. Ajax."
Childe is easily guided onto his knees, chest pressed to the cold wooden floor of the porch. He sighs into Zhongli's forgotten robe, cheek rubbing over the silk. He hisses when opened up on Zhongli's fingers, the pace too quick, too clipped, but frustratingly perfect. Childe begs for more in a loose and wanton tone, and Zhongli just knows that it's the wine that flows through his core too.
Zhongli's cock slips right in with a swift thrust, Childe's body relaxed and yielding. He does just as he wants; he fucks Childe quickly, passionately, yanking him back into every thrust. Childe cries out underneath him, chanting his name, pressing back against him to drive his cock deeper.
They are uncoordinated. The room spins and sweat beads on Zhongli's brow. Everything is slurred and hot in his veins, like the pleasure that swirls in his gut. He forgot what it's like to imbibe. He's never been a fan, but it means Childe will open up so readily, if it means they can share kisses and wandering hands and heated words with wild abandon, then Zhongli just might indulge with more frequency.
Zhongli comes too quickly. Fucks Childe through, ignoring his oversensitivity. Childe writhes underneath him, blissed out. He comes too, all over that pretty silk robe that's nearly as old as the damned teapot.
When everything slows the world tilts. Zhongli collapses against Childe's back without even pulling out. "Celestia," he mutters, smoothing back the damp hair curling at Childe's neck. "Ajax, that was…" Whatever words he has are useless. Zhongli sighs, kissing the top knob of Childe's spine, teeth grazing the skin there as other, older instincts pull forward.
Like that warm, spiced wine, their night has settled into a soft simmer. Childe whimpers softly as Zhongli pulls out. He spreads his ass, watching his comes drip from Childe's hole, rim pink and loose. Divine.
"I know that look," says Childe, looking over his shoulder. He's red-faced. His pupils are blown large and wide. His cock is half-full and twitching again. "Do you want more wine?"
Youth, thinks Zhongli, not unkindly. He sweeps his thumb over Childe's hole, watching it clench. "I'd rather drink you up," he says then. It is an invitation, a quiet request disguised with a casual remark. That fire still burns through Zhongli's veins.
Childe's expression falls half-lidded. "Is that a promise?" he asks, arching his back in a dangerous way that has Zhongli's eyes chasing every curve.
"A no to the wine," says Zhongli, leaning forward to nip at Childe's asscheek. "But, a yes to you and your whims."
Zhongli loses himself again, to the sounds of Childe, to the smell of arousal and sex, to the heat that warms his bones. Childe tastes better than any mulled wine he can procure, and Zhongli is more than happy to take his fill.