Work Text:
Despite the humiliating way his Liyue Mission had panned out (RIP La Signora but also fuck you), failure is not something Childe is intimately familiar with, not since he had crawled out of the maws of the Abyss, half-feral and covered in blood.
As he looks out at the sea of elegant nobles, their painted faces covered by decadent jeweled masks that make it nigh impossible to tell who is who, it occurs to Childe that his current mission is spiralling in that unfortunate direction.
This mission is supposed to be straightforward. Step 1: make contact with the lord who practically owns 50% of all the businesses in Fontaine; Step 2: make a deal to allow the Fatui to get a foothold in said businesses; and Step 3: glorious profit. Although this type of mission is not typically something Childe is interested in, Childe agreed to take it on, given how straightforward it had seemed (and because the Harbingers are short-staffed––fuck you very much, Scaramouche).
He regrets his decision. He can’t believe he’s about to fail on Step fucking 1. And it’s all because he can’t find his target.
Childe adjusts his own gold mask over his eyes with a sigh. He had even dressed to kill, sporting a slinky, sleeveless red silk gown that cinched at the waist, giving his beanpole body a lovely hourglass figure. The dress has a slit that sits high on his hip, which gives people a glimpse of his long, silky legs whenever he so much as twitches. As an added touch of elegance, he’s got matching silk gloves that run up the length of his arms, a simple choker, and a pair of strappy killer stilettos that make his ass look fantastic.
All that red against his pale Snezhnayan skin is doing wonders at getting more than a few eyeballs on him (alongside a few wolf whistles). It’s too bad that all this attention has not led to any leads on his mysterious target.
A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne. Childe reaches over and plucks off a glass, taking a sip and making sure not to smudge his crimson lipstick. He should just call it quits and replan. No point in staying longer --
A figure catches his eye, the warm blend of gold and brown an unusual sight among the rainbow of silks and velvet crowding around him. Not even the onyx mask partially obscuring the stranger’s face is enough to hide his identity, not with the gold geometric designs emblazoned proudly across the back of his dark velvet coat, nor the tell-tale amber glow from his eyes.
Childe blinks. Is that…Zhongli?
Wait. Seriously, what is Zhongli doing here? The last he’d heard (over dinner the night before he was set to leave), Zhongli seemed happy enough to wander around Liyue for his retirement. He had been in such a good mood that he had given Childe a beautiful set of dragon and phoenix chopsticks, even if Childe had ultimately been the one to pay for them.
Childe hides his frown by throwing back his champagne. He can guess all he wants, or he can try to get to the bottom of this, and he knows which of those two options he likes better.
He hands his empty glass to a waiter and struts over to Zhongli, his shoes clicking on the gleaming marble floor with every step. Childe can make out just how many people have surrounded Zhongli, no doubt taken by his velvet voice just like he had when they first met.
Going by how stiff Zhongli’s stance is, all that attention is not welcome.
Childe slips into an opening among the crowd and plasters himself to Zhongli’s side like a limpet.
“Zhongli, darling, there you are! I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He curls his hands around Zhongli’s arm and looks around, feigning surprise. “Oh, my apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but this one is taken. Run along now.”
“Childe,” Zhongli greets once the crowd around them disperses, with a few baleful glares thrown at Childe. “What brings you to Fontaine?”
Childe snorts and pulls away. “That should be my question. What brings you to this country, let alone this gala?”
“I am accompanying the Traveller on a matter. We were supposed to meet with a contact, but it appears he had to make an emergency trip to Sumeru, so he could not attend.”
A mysterious contact?
Oh, for the love of --
“Is your contact called Monsieur Arnault?” Childe groans at Zhongli’s nod. “Welp, this evening has been nothing but a complete waste of time!” The target is not even in Fontaine!
Zhongli gives him a look. “Do I even want to know what sort of nefarious plans the Fatui have concocted involving Monsieur Arnault?”
The corners of Childe’s ruby-stained lips curl into a mischievous smile. “Nefarious? Never. Just trying to make his acquaintance is all.”
Instead of the relief Childe is expecting to see on the other's expression, Zhongli crosses his arms over his chest and looks Childe up and down, his mouth flattening to a thin line.
“I see,” he says. “Is it often that you make your acquaintances in this fashion?”
In this fashion? Just what is that supposed to mean?
Childe slaps on a coy smile to hide his confusion. “Mr. Zhongli, you’re going to have to be more specific. Is it my appearance that you find offensive? I thought I looked quite striking, certainly enough to make a memorable first impression.”
He cocks a hip to one side and tosses his hair a little, letting the slit of his dress part to reveal more of his shapely thigh.
But Mr. Zhongli does not react beyond standing there, staring at him. Childe has a distinct impression that Mr. Zhongli does not approve.
Huh. Maybe Zhongli finds Childe’s dress too risqué or something. Whatever the case may be, Childe finds his mood quickly souring from the non-response and from the beginning tinges of embarrassment bleeding into his chest.
“Well then. Here I thought I could at least get a dance as thanks for chasing away that crowd, but apparently not. Have a good rest of your evening, Mr. Zhongli.”
He doesn’t even get to take three steps away before a hand lands on his shoulder.
“I apologize, Childe. I do not mean to offend you.” And Zhongli sounds contrite, so there’s that, at least. “I do not find your appearance offensive at all. Far from it. I suppose it would be rude of me not to acquiesce to your request after you have so graciously helped me.”
They’re pretty words, but why does Zhongli continue to sound so stiff? Is he that bothered by Childe’s dress? Childe doesn't think his outfit is that scandalous. Sure, it’s a bit more than the usual uniform he had worn around Zhongli, but compared to the rest of his wardrobe, this dress is really nothing to write home about.
Come to think of it, since when has Zhongli not acted like a stuffy old man? The man has been nothing but prim and proper since Day 1. Reserved like a monk. Even with the way Zhongli had stopped Childe just now, he had done so carefully; his gloved hand had made light contact with Childe’s shoulder for exactly the three seconds it took to get Childe’s attention before retracting as if burned. Zhongli has even taken a respectable half-step back to maintain the proper speaking distance: not too far to denote coldness but not too close to be overly familiar.
Prim and proper Mr. Zhongli. Always so disciplined. Always so polite. Always in control.
Something hot and dark begins to churn at the pit of Childe's stomach as he really observes Mr. Zhongli.
Hm. He wants to break that steely reserve.
He wants to break Mr. Zhongli.
Or, at the very least, put a nice long crack in the perfect veneer of decorum.
Childe’s lips curl into a mischievous smile once more. “Alright, Mr. Zhongli. I accept your invitation to dance, but on one condition: I get to pick the music.”
He doesn’t give Zhongli the option to answer; he stops a nearby waiter and whispers a request in her ear, slipping a generous handful of mora as thanks. Seconds later, the slow, airy music that had filled the ballroom breaks, giving way to the first playful tunes of an accordion, and then, of a violin, soft at first, but getting louder. And faster.
Zhongli looks at him unimpressed. “Tango.”
Childe grins. “Oh, so you are familiar with this dance. Very good. It saves me the trouble of explaining.” He gestures towards the dance floor. “Since I picked the music, you can take the lead. Now, shall we?”
Despite his displeasure, Zhongli remains ever the gentleman as they make their way toward the dancing crowd. Although tango requires dance partners to stand close, almost pressed together, somehow, Zhongli still manages to exude distant prim and properness with the way his left hand barely cradles Childe’s right while his right skims over Childe’s back along the bottom of his ribcage. His form is picture perfect, but he’s holding Childe carefully, delicately, like one would an antique vase.
The first few steps are made with that same care and robotic precision. A move forward with the left foot, forward with the right foot, a quick step forward with the left, then a quick side step. Rinse and repeat.
Very textbook.
Very boring.
Time to switch things up.
Just as Zhongli is about to step forward, Childe twists and delivers a quick little back kick so that his heel slides seamlessly between Zhongli’s legs. The ends of his dress flutter to reveal a flash of pale skin and delicate dark stiletto. A classic gancho.
He hears the sound of murmured excitement from the crowd and grins. Zhongli, on the other hand, merely looks exasperated. “Really, Childe.”
“Come now, Mr. Zhongli, what’s the fun in tango if we’ll be doing the same steps over and over again?”
Another quick little kick and then, he shifts, putting his weight on the balls of his feet. Slowly, he lifts one bent leg and rubs it against the side of Zhongli’s pants in one sensual line of heat as he raises his limb higher and higher. And as he does, the split of his dress falls open to show off the smooth expanse of his calf and thigh, all the way up to his hip, earning him a few scandalized gasps from the audience.
Zhongli, bless his archon reflexes, is quick to react. His hand flies from Childe’s back to hold his thigh to stabilize him.
“My, my, so you’re not afraid to touch me after all,” Childe purrs, “And here I thought you were just shy.”
Under his onyx mask, Zhongli’s eyes flash gold. “I assure you, I am most definitely not shy.”
“Hm, I’ll be the judge of that.”
Childe breaks free of Zhongli’s hold and spins to the rising tempo of the music. He hitches his dress up to allow it to swish around his calves, step after powerful step to the dramatic trills of the violin, basking at the way those golden eyes are following him. Zhongli slides into place just as he’s out of his spin. He grasps his hand, stops his motion, and forces them back into position for the next step just as the song repeats its main melody.
“Fast recovery,” Childe praises. He lets Zhongli lead a little as a reward. Whatever hesitancy the ex-Archon has shown before has all but dissipated. His steps are sure, sturdy as stone, with a touch of stubbornness threading his movement as if he’s trying to get an unruly pet to submit.
“What game are you playing?” Zhongli murmurs.
“None at all!” At Zhongli’s huff of disbelief, Childe chuckles. “Alright, maybe I want to tease you just a little.”
He hooks his leg around Zhongli’s to pull the man closer to him, and he takes a few precious seconds to luxuriate in the feel of strong muscles tensing under his touch, at the solid warmth pressed against him, and the delicious scent of sandalwood and petrichor filling his every breath. Then, he leans in, his lips barely kissing Zhongli’s ear.
“Mr. Zhongli is just so much fun to tease. How can I possibly resist?”
A hand flies to his back and locks him in place.
“Teasing the Prime Adeptus. A reckless endeavour,” Zhongli whispers back with just a touch of growl to his voice. “Are you so bored that you seek to make trouble here?”
The hand on his back trails down to grip his waist. When Childe tries to struggle, that grip tightens along with his hold on his hand.
“Hmph. I see I have been far too lenient. It’s time I remind you who’s really leading.”
The music swells around them once more, but the politeness Zhongli displayed earlier disappears. Zhongli manoeuvres Childe’s body to do exactly what he wants. He guides Childe to the center of the ballroom with confident steps and tugs Childe back when he attempts to break free, instead using the momentum to bring Childe into an elegant spin. Childe resists. Tries every trick in the book to fight. He tries to pivot and brings one leg out to hook around Zhongli’s, only to have Zhongli counter with his own steps forward, stopping Childe in his tracks like an immovable mountain. When Childe tries to glide away, Zhongli is there to cage him back in his arms in the next breath. Every spin, every kick, every twist and turn is matched and controlled by Zhongli to the backdrop of increasingly faster violin and piano, and the growing cries from the excited crowd.
“Stubborn,” Zhongli hums, and his eyes are glowing like molten gold under that dark mask. “Even now, you fight me when it is clear just who is in control. Be a good boy and do as I say, Childe.”
Childe responds by trying to knee the smug bastard in his gut. But Zhongli, damn him, shifts out of the way, and as he does, he grabs the knee and steps backwards, pulling Childe’s body with him. Childe curses, throws his arms around Zhongli’s neck, and lets his free leg trail behind him in an elegant drag in a desperate attempt to make his movement look graceful.
“Fast recovery,” Zhongli parrots, his lips quirking up into a teasing smile. “And flexible.”
Childe glares from behind his golden mask. “You haven’t won yet.”
He breaks free, annoyance spiking at Zhongli’s amused smile, and delivers a high kick, his dress fluttering up to reveal the matching red panties he had worn with the dress, but he misses. Zhongli ducks under his leg and lets the stilettoed foot soar harmlessly over his head. He’s not so passive when Childe delivers a second kick, and Childe yelps when the ex-Archon catches his ankle and props his foot up against his shoulder to show off the smooth line of taut pale flesh.
“Very flexible,” Zhongli praises. He even has the audacity to trail his fingers across Childe’s shin to the Harbinger’s increasing ire. “But that is not a tango move.”
“I like taking creative liberties!” Childe spits out.
He unhooks his leg from Zhongli and they dance (rather angrily, in Childe’s case) to the lively orchestral tunes that match the rising tension between them. Between quick steps and sharp turns, he tries to throw in an elbow jab or a kick or two, all of which Zhongli uses to his advantage. The elbow jabs turn into fast spins, and the kicks turn into lifts that have Childe draping elegantly in Zhongli’s arms. If Childe weren’t so annoyed, he’d be impressed by the effortless way Zhongli carries him as if the Vanguard were as light as a feather.
Truly, the strength of gods is awe-inspiring, even ones that are retired.
If only Zhongli would stop sounding so smug about himself.
“Having fun yet?” he asks as Childe is dipped backwards in a dramatic arch over his arm. “Certainly more fun than you would have had with Monsieur Arnault, no?”
Childe snorts. “As if I would do anything like this with Monsieur Arnault. I like to separate my business from pleasure.”
For some reason, that answer makes Zhongli chuckle.
“Good,” he purrs. “I will admit, the thought that Monsieur Arnault or anyone could get close and personal to this sight had me feeling a touch…vexed. I am glad I was wrong in my assumption.”
Zhongli drags his gloved hand over Childe’s clavicle, then down his chest and his stomach. He stops at his navel, fingers splayed out in a gesture that screams of possessiveness, and all of a sudden, Childe feels his breath catch in his throat.
Zhongli continues, his eyes blazing under his dark mask, “I am glad that you have not forgotten your promise to me. I was worried. A mortal’s memory can be so fickle, after all.”
What is that supposed to mean? And why is Zhongli looking at him like he’s prey?
But all he can think of saying is: “That is not a tango move, Mr. Zhongli.”
Zhongli’s smile turns positively wolf-like. “I, too, like taking creative liberties -- especially when the inspiration strikes.”
Childe isn’t given another opportunity to think, not when Zhongli has, apparently, taken his cheeky statement as some sort of permission to kick things up a notch, holy fuck. He’s being taken on a whirlwind tour around the ballroom, and it’s taking every bit of concentration to not trip over his own feet as he tries to match Zhongli’s intricate steps, his speed, all the sharp turns he’s taking, the spins, the kicks -- all the while keeping up with the escalating tempo. His heart is pounding in his chest so hard that he can barely hear the audience cheering, and sweat is beading down his brow, but like hell Zhongli will upstage him, not while he’s wearing his hot red dress.
He's being lifted and he takes the chance to do the last series of intricate kicks that give the audience a good view of his legs and his panties, but he has to cut his moves short when Zhongli, the madman that he is, growls and flips him around like a ragdoll so that he’s seated on Zhongli’s bent leg in a perfect display of a sentada. Before he can process what just happened, Zhongli’s hand cups his face so that he’s turned towards him.
“No more of that, Childe,” Zhongli says, no, commands, because there is no disguising that tone of possessiveness mixed with pure frustration. “I have been generous before, but no more. I will not share.”
Childe looks at him with wide eyes. Why does he feel like he’s missed something very important here?
“I don’t -- Mr. Zhongli, I don’t understand.”
“Hm. We will need to discuss more thoroughly afterwards, then.”
He’s guided into more quick spins and tricky footwork, though no more kicks, not when Zhongli hasn’t stopped looking at him with laser focus. He does manage to end on a dramatic note, though. As the music draws to a close, he dips into a deep lunge with Zhongli bent over him, one knee tucked between Zhongli’s legs, while his other leg stretches out behind him, showing off all that tantalizing flesh among the ruby red of his dress clinging to his skin.
The audience around them burst into raucous applause. Even the musicians are standing up.
“Bravo! Well done!”
“Good show!”
Childe gets up and bows, but before he can soak up the attention, he finds long fingers lacing his, and then, he’s led off the dance floor and towards the exit by Zhongli.
“Mr. Zhongli? Where are we going?” Where is he taking him?
Zhongli does not let up his hold or ease up his pace. He barely turns around to deliver his answer, and even then, his voice sounds tight. Tense.
“To my hotel room, where we can have that discussion about not sharing. Clearly, there is much I need to do to provide further clarification.”
Childe is not sure why, but that answer fills him with so much dread.
(It’s fine. Zhongli ends up making his point about not sharing more than loud and clear. He makes it a point to drill it into Childe all night long as he presses Childe into the mattress of his decadent bed, keeping him there until the first ray of sunlight shines through the windows. Nothing could stop Zhongli’s diligent effort to remind Childe of, apparently, the promise he had made to marry the ex-Archon, not Childe’s sweet mewls of pleasure and, as the hours trickle away, his pleas for clemency, for forgiveness.)
(The dress, sadly, does not survive the rigorous discussion.)
