Work Text:
There is a storm. Most establishments have closed early that night, including Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, and just as Childe is about to turn in for the night, he opens the door to a familiar consultant, looking somewhat like a drenched cat.
“Xiansheng?” He gapes, before realising he was keeping the other exposed to the elements and quickly lets him in.
Apparently, Zhongli had been stuck at work when the storm had started and was unable to continue his trip home without feeling like he’d just drowned in a river. Which brings him here, the man explains as he drips all over Childe’s floor.
Though, he couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gotten his address, considering Childe has never told Zhongli of the existence of this place. Probably Ekaterina.
Sighing, Childe hands him a towel. “Xiansheng, you do know of the existence of umbrellas, right?”
Lowering his gaze, as if embarrassed, “It slipped my mind at that time."
Childe makes a face. While he thinks Zhongli’s tendency to forget his wallet is an adorable trait, he’s not sure what to think about this. How does one forget an umbrella in this weather?
"I hope you do not mind my presence in your home. The storm was too harsh for me to continue my trip home, and your residence was the closest.”
“Xiansheng is welcome at my place anytime,” Childe smiles, “It’s good that you came here. It’s late, and the storm is so big you can barely see outside. Perhaps you’d like to take a bath and stay here for the night?” he suggests.
“Ah, a bath would be nice. I shall be taking you up on your offer, Childe. Thank you,” Zhongli nods gratefully.
“It’s no problem. Wouldn’t want Xiansheng to get sick, after all.”
And just like that, he ends up taking a seat on the couch near midnight, waiting for the consultant to finish washing up. He isn’t mentally prepared for the sight that greets him when the door to the bathroom opens, though.
Zhongli, hair down and dripping wet, emerges freshly cleaned and dressed in Childe’s oversized shirt. Blinking, eyelashes glimmering, he calls, “Childe?” That is when Childe realises his mistake in throwing just anything wearable to the man, because his failure to include a pair of pants combined with the other’s shocking shamelessness has resulted in Zhongli wearing nothing but a pair of boxers on his lower half.
The hem of his shirt brushes against Zhongli’s soft pale thighs, barely covering his underwear. If Zhongli were to stretch just a little, his shirt would hike up and expose his navel, and the thought alone sends blood rushing to his head.
“Childe?” Zhongli walks over. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” he croaks, pretending he didn’t think that Zhongli looked outrageously pretty in his clothes.
“Your face is red. Have you fallen ill?”
“No, no, no. I’m fine. I’m peachy. ” He says, like a liar.
“Alright, if you say so.”
And somehow, that leads to this: Childe lying in his bed with Zhongli's head on his shoulder.
Because Zhongli has always been one with manners, he absolutely could not tolerate letting his host sleep on the couch, especially not after he’d intruded into his home, especially after Childe had so graciously offered him a warm bath and clothes to change into. Childe, having a sense of decency, also couldn’t allow his guest to spend the night on his couch after getting caught in the storm.
Thus, “Let us share the bed.”
“What?”
“Come, it wouldn’t do us good to sleep late.”
It’s fine. Childe wasn’t against sharing a bed if needed. Many times on missions with Scaramouche, he had slept right next to the midget without feeling a hint of discomfort, other than having to thwart the other’s attempts at killing him in his sleep.
So Childe thinks he can be fine. But he isn’t. Not with Zhongli.
The problem is that Zhongli does not just share a bed with him. He presses their bodies together, so close that with just the flimsy layer of fabric separating them, Childe can feel the shape of his abs on his skin. Snuggled under the covers, Zhongli nuzzles closer into Childe’s neck and tangles their legs together, and does this while scantily dressed in Childe’s clothes.
His breath comes in warm puffs on his neck. Almost like being intimate with a lover, and if Zhongli were to tilt his head up, their lips would meet. Worst of all, his eyes are closed peacefully in sleep, lips cutely parted in a way that says he is unaware of the turmoil he is causing Childe.
Childe's arm lies limply at his side. He doesn't know where to put it, but he doesn't want to fall asleep stiff like a statue. So in a brief moment of courage, he wraps his arms around the other's torso, breath hitching at how tiny Zhongli's waist felt in his arms.
This is new. Hugging someone to sleep, someone other than his family. The last time he'd done that was in Snezhnaya.
Zhongli could probably hear the loudness of his heart now.
"...Mhn…"
He hears a low whine the same time he tries to put an inch of distance between them and Childe's mind goes blank.
So now he's back to tangled up in bed with a pretty man in his clothes, and Childe decides that this is one of the most stressful events he has ever been in, right after accidentally making Teucer cry.
Childe wakes up with a raging boner.
"The storm hasn't stopped?"
Turning around to lean against the counter, Childe is met with the sight of Zhongli, hair tousled and drowsy from sleep.
“Good morning, Zhongli-xiansheng,” he manages to greet with a smile, though there are eyebags hanging below his eyes. “And no, it hasn’t. The Qixing said it’ll most likely end by tomorrow, though.”
“I see. Then, I’ll have to bother you for the rest of today,” Zhongli nods.
He shuffles over to the counter and reaches for a mug, filling it with water from the jug. There is a content expression on his face.
“Sleep well?” Childe asks, because he certainly didn’t.
Zhongli hums in response. Then he stretches, bent elbows and arms behind his head, causing his shirt to lift and uncover a stretch of pale skin at his waist—
Childe drops the cup in his hand.
“Childe?!”
“Shit, sorry,” Childe blurts out.
He hurriedly squats down to clean up the mess, still trying to peel the image of Zhongli’s bare skin off his mind’s eye. Except, it only distracts him more and Childe winces when a shard of porcelain slices his finger open.
“Are you alright? You’re bleeding,” Zhongli frowns in concern, and Childe feels slightly guilty for that.
Until the consultant sinks down beside him, gently takes his hand and presses his finger to his lips.
“X-Xiansheng??” His eyes widen, brain short-circuiting.
The next thing he knows, it’s warm and wet and borderline obscene when Zhongli traps his finger between his pink, supple lips and starts to suck. The wet sounds he makes are barely audible under the relentless storm going on outside, but it’s enough to kill off a couple of Childe’s brain cells.
Finally satisfied, Zhongli finishes off with a lick and separates from the tip of his finger with a tiny pop.
“Childe?” Zhongli asks when he notices his expression, “Your face is a jarring shade of red. I’m starting to fear that you’ve caught a cold.”
“...Aren’t you going to work?” He croaks instead, looking to direct the other’s attention away from his embarrassment.
“Wangsheng isn’t open. Yesterday, The Qixing instructed everyone to stay home, at least until the storm abates,” Zhongli explains.
So Zhongli wasn’t going to work, and neither was he going to be able to leave the house. When was the storm going to end, again?
Shit. He’s so screwed. Childe buries his burning red face in his hands and hopes the other will not notice.
Despite being in his own house, Childe feels quite literally trapped.
He is bored. Twirling his knife around, Childe feels restless. He's tried working out, doing push-ups and jogging around the house in an attempt to get some movement in, but simple exercise did not compare to the thrill of battle.
So he asks the only living person currently with him, Zhongli, to a fight.
"Are you sure? Sparring in an enclosed area, especially your house, can spell trouble." The man says while sitting on his couch with a book of ancient Liyuen poetry in hand. Childe didn't even know he'd owned that book.
"Yes, so fight me," he insists. Because Childe once had the opportunity to witness Zhongli in battle with a camp of hilichurls and it was absolutely beautiful. Annihilating his enemies without breaking a sweat.
Thankfully, Zhongli agrees. "Alright."
And Childe grins, though he comes to regret his decision later on.
He'd failed to take into account the fact that Zhongli was still dressed in his shirt and boxers, and even though his undergarment cannot be seen, that does not mean that Zhongli cannot make it be seen.
Unfortunately, Childe comes to realise this with every kick or punch he parries.
This time, to minimise the damage, they have decided to fight without weapons. Lifting his leg up to strike, Zhongli swings in attack. At that moment, Childe's field of vision helpfully decides to zoom in on the long, slender limb, as well as his exposed stomach from beneath the fluttering shirt. Just a glimpse in a fraction of a second, yet enough for something animalistic and carnal to swirl in his gut.
He is so taken by the curve of Zhongli's waist that he barely dodges the incoming strike.
A thought occurs to him. I wonder how his legs will feel wrapped around my waist and squeezing in pleasure. I wonder how it'll feel like when I run my hands over his abdomen and leave my marks on his hips.
And then he is suddenly on his back, pressed to the ground in defeat.
Zhongli's hair falls over his shoulders and tickles Childe's cheeks. "It is my victory."
There is a scalding hot heat where Zhongli's thigh meets his hip, sitting on Childe's lap and straddling him, separated only by his underwear and the pair of sweats that Childe has on. Then he shifts ever so slightly, the friction brief and so teasing, that Childe has to picture Scaramouche's face to stop himself from gripping Zhongli's hips and thrusting.
He blinks slowly and takes a deep breath, mentally counting to three. By the end of it, there are red crescent-shaped indents on his palm. Childe has to swallow the lump in his throat to speak.
"I yield." So please get off me. You're driving me crazy.
Childe barely manages to suppress a boner. He's really glad, because it would've been extremely painful and awkward to explain to the man. Especially because said man seduces like there is no such thing as sex. He highly doubts that Zhongli even knew what effect he has on the people around him. Childe is not blind to the infatuated stares he attracts just by the flutter of his eyelashes.
He doesn't really blame them, though. Now, ten minutes after their impromptu sparring session, Childes feels himself starting to go insane.
"Do you have any snacks, Childe?" Zhongli had asked, "I'm feeling somewhat peckish after our spar."
To which he'd offered, "I have some sweet treats in the freezer, if you'd like."
So it starts with a melting popsicle.
Tongue peeking out, Zhongli tilts his head and gives it a few kitten licks on the sides, scooping the melting substance into his mouth slowly. Where the sugar dribbles, moving down, he gently runs his tongue down the length of the frosty treat, tantalizingly slow, stopping the liquid from flowing where it threatened to make a mess on his fingers.
Childe watches, mouth gone dry, and gulps as a pair of soft, pink lips wrap tightly around the rod. Nimbly, Zhongli’s fingers reach up to brush a stray lock of silken hair behind his ear as he slowly takes in the dessert, eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering in pleasure. A low hum tumbles out of Zhongli’s lips the moment the popsicle starts to move, scandalously disappearing into his mouth and then out, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows around the tip, glistening lips parting from it with a wet sound.
Holy shit.
Childe finds himself having to fight an erection with nothing but sheer will for the fifth time this week. An all time high. He didn't even know he had it in him, but Zhongli just finds a way to bring out the hidden potential in him.
His display felt positively sinful. It didn’t help that his flavour of choice had been vanilla, streaks of white on his tongue and dabbed at the corner of his lips. Something that he sensually licks off, like after finishing a delicious meal. Currently, Childe cannot decide between looking away and opening his eyes wider, so he merely gapes at the man in front of him. Though he has to swallow the lump in his throat to speak.
“...Maybe you could just wash your hands?"
Is all Childe dumbly says as his popsicle drips all over his fingers.
Zhongli looks up, not seeming to have heard. “Hm?”
“No, nothing. Carry on.” Childe tries to sound as stable as possible.
Childe has 99 problems. Zhongli is all of them.
It gets to the point where Childe begins to grow paranoid. Somehow, Zhongli seems to be a walking temptress and has the ability to turn even the most inconspicuous things into something erotic.
During lunch, he cooks foods that require chewing, and throws in crunchy vegetables he'd come to the conclusion that cannot be eaten sexily. But Zhongli always finds a way, Childe comes to learn when the man first daintily licks a drizzle of mayonnaise off a piece of steak, then eats it off his fork with some sort of allure.
“It tastes good,” Zhongli says, a hint of white on his lip.
Because of this, Childe nearly consumes his meal through choking. He doesn't know how the consultant does it. But he hopes that Zhongli doesn't eat like this in front of anybody.
In the evening when it was Zhongli's turn to shower, Childe made sure to place a set of clothes including a proper shirt, a pair of underwear and a pair of sweats on the counter.
Nothing can go wrong with this, he thinks. At least, it'll make sleep come a little bit easier.
Then Zhongli steps out of the shower with a towel slung around his shoulder, and Childe realises that Zhongli doesn't need to show skin to be pretty. Dressed head to toe in Childe's wardrobe, something possessive washes over him, and Childe suddenly wants to see the man writhing under him. Clad in his clothes. Smelling like him. Marked by him.
He's definitely screwed like this. Tonight will be yet another sleepless night, it seems.
Zhongli is warm. Clinging to Childe like a Koala, nuzzled into his neck. The more Childe tries to shift away, the harder he is embraced with the strength of someone wanting to become one with him. There is absolutely zero space in between them, chests cuddled together and arms thrown around each other.
Childe is stressed. Childe is sweating. Childe is, for the lack of a better word, suffering.
The arm that he’d slung around Zhongli’s waist is shaking. Childe wasn’t sure how to hold him in a way that wouldn’t give away all his scandalous desires. Neither did he want to crush him, because at that moment, Zhongli’s waist felt particularly tiny in his hold. When his fingers come to comb the amber tipped hair that cascades down his lower back, Zhongli hums in delight like a cat being pet. Then he shuffles closer, somehow always finding a gap between them to close.
And now their crotches are pressing against each other.
If Childe wasn’t religious in the past, he is now. He stills and prepares to pray.
Zhongli moves. His pretty lips ghost over Childe’s throat, just shy of touching, kissing. His hips jerk to find a comfortable position in his slumber, only that it rubs against the other, almost goading, and it sends heat bubbling in Childe’s lower half.
“X-Xiansheng.”
Childe bites back a groan. The same time, a knee prods the space in between his legs, but it doesn’t go any further.
It’s intentional. It has to be. Zhongli was teasing him, wasn’t he? There’s no way one man could be this provocative on accident. Especially not when the subtle movement of his hips is driving Childe insane with want, desperate for more.
But Zhongli is asleep, peaceful and calm. He doesn’t stir, no matter how loudly Childe’s heart thrashes in his ribcage. His breath is steady, figure relaxed unlike Childe’s tense frame, because he is well and truly asleep.
Zhongli isn’t aware that he moves in his sleep, nor is he aware of Childe’s itching to pin him down and ravish him.
So Childe cannot do anything but watch. He counts the eyelashes on the sleeping beauty and traces the curve of his nose and brow. He gently runs his fingers through silken hair, gentle and soothing, and feels his heart skip beats until sunlight pours through his windows.
The storm is over when Zhongli wakes.
“It’s time that I depart,” Zhongli says.
Now, his mask is in his hair. Red scarf billowing over his back. Childe is back as the 11th Harbinger of the Fatui, Tartaglia, while Zhongli is once again, the prized consultant of Wangsheng Funeral Parlour.
Dressed in his brown coat and hair tied up with a gem, Zhongli prepares to go to work. This time, he’ll return home.
“I hope I’ve been a decent host, Xiansheng,” Childe grins as he follows the man to the door. They’ll be parting ways the moment they step outside, but it’s not like he has no intentions to go bother the man once he’s free. “Otherwise, Xiansheng might not ever want to come back.”
Zhongli gives a small smile. “I assure you that you have been a wonderful host, Childe. My time here has only been comfortable and nothing short of that. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s nothing. Zhongli-xiansheng chose to come to my house for shelter, so I had to live up to that honour, right?”
“Indeed.”
Zhongli gives a short chuckle, and it sends Childe’s heart flipping in his chest.
“Thank you, Childe.”
The sudden softness of the tone catches him off-guard. Then, after a pause, Zhongli leans in and tenderly pecks him on the cheek.
“E-Eh??”
Childe cups the spot where he’s just been kissed. Then he turns red.
Zhongli looks away with a sort of shyness. “Someone told me that in order to sincerely thank someone, you should give them a kiss.”
Childe isn’t sure if he should be thankful or sad that Zhongli doesn’t kiss him on the lips. He also debates between telling the man that he shouldn’t go around kissing random guys and indulging his naivety, but Zhongli leaves the house before he can decide on anything.
“See you later, Childe.”
And the door shuts.
Once the man is out of earshot, Childe sinks to the floor and screams.
The doors to the Northland Bank slam open.
“Ah, welcome sir,” Ekaterina greets, but is stopped by her boss stomping over to the receptionist counter.
He slams his hands down.
“You.” He points, accusatory.
There it is. The source of all his problems.
“Me?”
“Just what did you tell Zhongli?” Childe demands, neck still hot from the embarrassment.
And it dawns on her. Ekaterina smiles.
“Your address,” she says, slowly, “And how to show one’s sincerity, is all.”
Childe leaps over the counter to strangle her.