Etched In Stone

Bloom

Childe brings Guizhong's garden back to life and Zhongli tells him that he loves him.

CW: Smut

--

Childe's cheeks are pink, burned by the midday sun despite Zhongli's insistence that he has the teapot set to overcast.

"Childe, you should—"

"Don't tell me to stop. I'm already elbows deep—literally." He smiles back at Zhongli, nothing but teeth and curved lips. He digs his hands into the soil, squeezing at the earth, scooping out a palmful before tossing it aside. His fingers are stained brown with dirt. It crusts his knuckles and cuticles; fills out the spaces underneath his nails until they're black and filthy.

Because Zhongli can feel the earth in his bones, he feels the way that it adorns Childe's hands, as if his being is pressed right into the creases of his skin. Zhongli sighs, watching from where he sits on the porch and sips his tea. Stares as Childe does his work diligently, pulling at weeds and tilling the soil with his hands.

"The soil needs to be churned," he'd said. Then, Childe rolled his sleeves up, knelt into the dying grass, and started to preen Guizhong's mostly dead garden where those old Glaze Lilies stubbornly cling to whatever remaining memories fill this pot.

"Let's fix it."

Those words seem like eons ago, not months, but time is always skewed for Zhongli. Yesterday Guizhong was alive and today Childe is tending the flowers in her place, fingers dragging across the ground as he churns the earth.

Zhongli should help but he finds himself anchored to the porch. Childe doesn't ask, he just sets to work, sinking to his knees, soiling his trousers.

It is awkward; two lives and two loves—one which he loved like a nice cup of tea, the other like the earth loves the sun, unfolding under its warm rays. It's been a while since that moment on the mountain where the breeze flowed past him and Zhongli realized that it isn't just love, it's a matter of completion.

And yet, he cannot find the strength to leave the porch. He clings to his cup as though it grounds him. Sips at tea that only tastes like ash in his mouth.

Childe—oh, he's a sight. He smiles gently as he tills, humming a soft tune.

Zhongli is almost certain he doesn't know what he's doing.

But Childe tries. And Zhongli watches, leaning against the sliding door as everything else around them just melts away.

#

Today, Childe weeds, pulling at pesky roots that threaten the flowers. The Garden is neatly shaped, looking more like itself. The Glaze Lilies are still wilted but have slightly perked up, turning towards the sky to seek out sunny warmth.

Improvement, which frankly, Zhongli didn't expect.

"What do you think?" asks Childe, dragging his forearm across his sweaty brow. He's shirtless and squints in the bright midday, and Zhongli does everything he can to keep his eyes firmly planted on Childe's face. Anything above the neck.

"Adequate," he says. And it is. But— "That is to say... ah—" He pauses and clears his throat. "It's getting there."

"Wow, Xiansheng. High praise."

"I only meant—"

Childe laughs. "I'm kidding! Zhongli, you really need to learn how to take a joke. I know this still looks like a nightmare. But, as you said, it's getting there. Just needs a little more love."