Etched In Stone

Promises in the Dark

As Childe sleeps, Zhongli loves.

--

It is quiet.

The lamp burns low.

Zhongli sits at the edge of the bed, and he watches.

Childe does not sleep well. He spends his nights in fitful sleep; drifts in and out of nightmares, the kinds of terrors that grip tight and do not let go. Zhongli has never asked, though he wonders. And perhaps, one day he will. Maybe Childe will answer.

Tonight, though, he dozes, quiet and content. Childe's face is slack. He drools on the pillow in a thin line of spittle. Zhongli's heart clenches with how much he feels when it comes to such a small thing.

This is new to him, the way that this chest seizes. How he aches and yearns for this man before him. Zhongli has spent countless years watching and observing mortals. He has walked in their shoes and lived as they do.

But this is new. Love. What a prickly little thing that sets his nerves alight, all-consuming in its might.

Zhongli thought he might have loved Guizhong, once upon an eon ago. He was wrong. This is different; this is softer and subtler, it fills him entirely. It overflows from him, and Zhongli doesn't know what to do.

He leans over, his elbow digging into the soft silk of the sheets. He brushes Childe's bangs back, fingers ghosting along his brow. He looks so soft here, comfortable within his bed. He cannot help but kiss his forehead, his lips lingering against Childe's cool, clammy skin.

Anywhere else, Childe's dreams cause creases in his brow. He tosses and turns, and flails in Zhongli's grasp. But here, in Zhongli's bed where he's surrounded by his smell and warmth and comfort, Childe sleeps. Quite like the dead and late into the morning.

In contrast, Zhongli stays up deep into the night, stroking fingers through his hair, and humming soft songs as he slumbers.

Guizhong would have liked him. No, Guizhong would have adored him. They would've pranked and played tricks. They would've shared meals and tea. They would've swapped notes on Zhongli himself, casual observations of his being.

Zhongli wishes they could have shared time.

Childe is tired. Beaten and exhausted, in more ways than one. He's stretched too long by this paper-thin loyalty to an Archon he no longer loves. He's divided by an ache for home, and for a newer, sturdier place that he's carved here, from Liyue stone. His debt collection, his weekly fights, their dinners shared at Wanmin Restaurant.

The late nights he spends underneath Zhongli, their skin sliding together as they dance the dance of the ancients. How he peppers kisses along the length of Zhongli's body, and whispers dirty and addicting words into his ears.

Childe does so much for others, and so little for himself.

Zhongli smooths his thumb over the arch of his cheek. He presses a gentle kiss to his brow and whispers sweet words into his hair that no one else will hear.

Childe shifts, pressing his face into the pillow, mostly asleep as he lets out a deep sigh. It's Zhongli's pillow, and his dragon's pride preens. What a perfect mate, he thinks, even if that isn't something they've discussed.

But he knows, Zhongli feels the need that's nestled deep in his gut. It's a burning, cursed thing at times— the thought of Childe leaving.

He says that he won't, even though they both know he will. Childe gives him promise after promise as he presses kisses to his wrist. As he sits overtop him and drags his hands down Zhongli's front.

In the afterglow of it all, with those soft words and murmurs.

Even if Childe leaves, he will always come back. And Zhongli will wait, even if it takes forty or one hundred years. But, for now—

He slides underneath the covers and leans against the headboard. Zhongli slides his fingers across Childe's smooth and pale skin. He traces the bruises and bites, subtle and harsh claims left behind in his wake.

Zhongli loves— oh, how he loves— and what a breath of fresh air it is. The pain of loss is worth the joy that he feels now.

Childe shifts again, gravitating towards his warmth. Makes a soft sound as he grunts in his sleep. Zhongli presses closer and runs his fingers through those stubborn, ginger curls. He traces the scars down his back and the freckles across his shoulders.

He makes a promise to himself to enjoy this.

And so, he does. Night after night.

He always will.