Etched In Stone

Intertwined

Childe braids Zhongli's hair as he thinks.

--

Calloused fingers and lingering touches. Butterfly kisses against smooth, pale skin. Soft breaths and the steady rise and fall of Zhongli's chest. These are the moments when Childe finds himself woefully distracted.

He can't stop staring. Zhongli's hair is silken under his touch as he pets it, parting the strands with a strange sort of gentleness that is only seen in their teapot. Childe pets and pets and pets, fingers sliding through glossy locks, nails scraping over Zhongli's scalp as they barely dig in.

Zhongli doesn't stir. He doesn't sleep either—or rather, he doesn't need to. But around Childe, he indulges, lazing about in the bed, sharing sheets and heat and warmth. Bodies, plastered together, curled around Childe until they melt together, unable to be distinguished.

Here, he dozes, blissful, moon-kissed in the deep of the night. The trust of an old god is a tricky thing, double-edged like the Hydro blades Childe conjures at whim. Childe doesn't deserve it but he holds it in the palm of his hand. Zhongli gave him the key to his heart and invited him to crack it wide open.

Childe did. It's a heavy burden to bear. And they are still learning, but—

It's a process, Childe supposes. He might claim loyalty to a stone-cold woman made of ice but he never knew it until Zhongli. Childe kneels before him willingly, not out of expectation. He worships him because he is devout, reading to bend and crack underneath those ancient, all-knowing fingers.

Skin, black like charcoal, peeking out from the loose shirt Zhongli sleeps in. Glittering golden lines like the sunrise themselves, spider-webbing over his joints before disappearing behind fabric. Orange like those scented candles Zhongli burns, or the fire under the tea kettle that boils a brew, or Cor Lapis borne from his very hand, nestled into rocky cliffsides.

Childe sighs and Zhongli still does not stir. Like a rock, sunk to the middle of a lake, ears plugged full as he drowns in his dreams. Utterly at ease, forehead smooth instead of drawn, laugh lines and soft wrinkles erased.

And yet, Zhongli looks older. Tired. Exhaustion wears at his being, and though Zhongli will never admit to it, Childe knows this is why he retired. Mutterings of erosion and the occasional things he forgets.

Zhongli is both perfect and imperfect, and Childe loves him all the more for it.

Childe hums as he shifts slightly, separating the long, silky strands of Zhongli's hair. Unbound, it drapes over his shoulder, pooling against Childe's thigh and the couch. Three separate gatherings held in his deft fingers. One is pulled over the second, and then the third comes next, and they continue chasing each other in a pattern that goes on until it can't.

He braids Zhongli's hair like he used to braid Tonia's, using the quiet peace to sort out his thoughts. A soft whistle through his teeth. Zhongli sighs in his sleep, snuggling into his lap as Childe ties the length off. Flayed open wide. Entirely prone.

Childe's hand rests against Zhongli's neck next, feeling his pulse, a steady thud thud that reminds him that this is not a dream. This is real. They are real, hopelessly intertwined like the thick braid he's just made, parts of one whole that have only just found each other.

He dips close until he's hunched over, back curved like a vulture. Darkness no longer bleeds through his heart. He doesn't thrive on the twisted rot of the Abyss, or the blood of his victims. Childe is still selfish but it's to horde away this man who lazes in his lap. Childe wants to live forever, not for euphoric godhood, but so he can wake up every morning beside Zhongli.

Three words. They are not easy to say. Childe thinks of them enough but they remain stubbornly lodged, thick in his throat.

But here, it's easy to whisper them against warm skin, fleeting little things that Zhongli won't remember in the morning.