Chapter Text
Poetry was never something Childe was interested in. In Snezhnaya, he couldn’t remember a single time he’d read any; the closest they had were the folk songs and rhymes popular amongst the village children.
Since arriving in Liyue, he’s heard more poetry in one year than the two decades prior. Storytellers litter Liyue’s restaurants and street-corners, often speaking in verse. There are volumes of poetry in every bookshop.
Zhongli in particular has a fondness for it, and often mentions poets during his recollections of history. It’s rather sweet - at times, he speaks of them with so much warmth, it’s as if he actually knew them.
Sometimes, when he talks about them, Childe considers their tentative friendship. The Northland Bank’s list of outgoing expenses may label their meetings as business dinners, but Childe feels they’ve grown beyond that by now. It seems unlikely that Zhongli would talk about niche poetry at such length with any random business contact.
Or maybe he would. Childe cannot be sure - Zhongli is nothing if not eccentric, and his talkativeness is one of his most well-known traits.
It’s during one of their familiar dinners, after Zhongli has concluded his lecture on the different steaming processes of jiaozi and xiaolongbao, that the topic of poetry arises once again. Childe is daydreaming, indulging himself in the dual pleasure of the soothing baritone of Zhongli’s voice and the beautiful scenery around them.
He’s startled out of his reverie when Zhongli clears his throat pointedly. Childe blinks and realises he must’ve missed something important.
“As I was saying,” Zhongli continues, now he has Childe’s undivided attention again, “I regrettably have to cut this meeting short. Please, accept my sincerest apologies.”
“Oh.” Childe makes a valiant effort not to betray the disappointment he feels. “I see. Don’t worry about it, xiansheng.”
Zhongli readjusts his cuffs; it’s a habit Childe noticed after only a few interactions with the consultant, which means that he’s thinking hard about something.
It appears that he comes to a decision, because he nods to himself. “Know that I would rather not leave so abruptly. But I have another engagement to attend, that I cannot miss.”
Now that sparks Childe’s curiosity. He leans forward in his chair. “Another engagement? Doing what?”
Zhongli’s brow furrows for a second, before smoothing out into a placid smile. “A poetry reading.”
“Ah.” Childe sits back in his seat, interest dissipating. “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt that I will.”
Something strikes Childe about the way Zhongli’s voice lilts with humour... Like he’s sharing a private joke with himself.
“Y’know, I’ve never been to a poetry reading before.” he says conversationally, sneaking a peek at Zhongli’s expression. It remains unchanging. “Asides from the storytellers we sometimes listen to. I’m a little curious.”
Zhongli levels him with a dry look. “Is that so?”
“It is. I don’t suppose you’ve got an extra ticket.”
“Permission... would not be difficult to procure. But Childe, I’m not sure you would like it.”
“What, you think it’d bore me?” Childe fakes defensiveness. “I could surprise you.”
“Hm.” Zhongli’s lips quirk upwards. “I dare say I will not be the one who's surprised.”
A moment passes between them, and Childe feels like he's missed something important again.
Then Zhongli hums, dusting off his coat. “Very well. You may accompany me, if that’s what you wish.”
Childe grins, triumphant. He hastily signals to the waitress, who approaches to clear their dishes. She doesn’t even need to ask who to charge the meal to, already making a note to bill the expense to Northland Bank.
When they leave the restaurant, Childe can’t help but pause to drink in a long breath of fresh autumn air. The lanterns glimmer faintly above their heads, reflecting on the stone path. He can hear fragments of the evening clamour float over from the marketplace, a few streets away.
He feels content. It’s easy to forget how he misses the snowy peaks of Snezhnaya when he’s surrounded by such beauty.
And such pleasant companionship.
He directs his gaze back to Zhongli, who is watching him quietly.
He gestures to where the road splits. “Lead the way, xiansheng.”
Zhongli nods and spins on his heel. He turns right, and begins to climb a stairway. Childe hurries after him, skipping up the stairs two at a time. He follows Zhongli across a wide bridge, and then another. They slip across a narrow walkway and then descend another flight of stairs, before Zhongli leads him down a side-street.
Childe’s head is spinning as he tries to keep up with the direction they’re taking. Zhongli glances back, presumably to make sure Childe is keeping up with him, and then continues on his mystifying route.
Childe has always admired Zhongli’s extensive knowledge of Liyue and this solidifies his appreciation. He weaves through the labyrinth of bridges and stairs like he placed every brick himself. It’s impressive on an entirely new level.
Eventually, after some more twists and turns, they reach a small doorway. Childe is unsure exactly where they are, but the district looks unfamiliar. It’s bare of the colourful neon lights that decorate Liyue’s main tourist sector, and the buildings they pass are pretty, in a cold, decorative sort of way. It doesn’t seem like anyone has lived near here in a long time.
Zhongli ducks into a doorway and motions for Childe to follow him. “Be careful.” He murmurs. “It’s dark.”
Childe steps inside and finds himself in a narrow corridor, so dim that he can’t make out where it ends or begins. If he focuses, he can see Zhongli’s silhouette, waiting for him a few feet away.
Cautiously, he steps forward and they begin walking.
Abruptly, Zhongli stops short and Childe nearly bumps into him. When he turns, the darkness around them seems to press closer, reminding Childe that they’re scant inches apart in a tight, enclosed space.
Half-forgotten fantasies flick through his mind, of them pressed together in different scenarios. It makes it difficult to focus on what Zhongli says next.
“The term I used was poetry reading, but you should know that it’s more of a performance.” Zhongli’s hushed voice dips lower, and Childe has to strain to hear him. “An externalisation of the poet’s vision, you might say.”
“...Alright.” Childe whispers, unwilling to break the quiet tension that has settled over them. “I trust you. I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”
Zhongli’s eyes widen, then crease as he smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Neither one of them moves. A beat of heavy silence passes, where the only sound is their breathing. Zhongli is so close that Childe feels the puffs of air hitting his face.
Then Zhongli steps back and continues calmly down the corridor, oblivious to the overwhelmed state he’s left Childe in.
Childe sighs and shakes it off as best he can, jogging to catch up.
Finally, they come to the end of the hallway and Zhongli takes a key from his pocket. Childe hears the distinct sound of a lock clicking, and then a door in front of them springs open.
It opens into a larger room - empty, save for an ornate tea set in a display case, and another doorway.
A woman wearing a glossy black kimono stands at the door, holding a guest list. In the dim lighting, she looks impossibly pale. When she turns to them, Childe feels distinctly uneasy.
Zhongli has no such qualms and strides towards her. “Good evening.”
She gazes at them wordlessly, then gestures to the list she’s holding.
“Zhongli. And a guest.” Zhongli responds, and she nods, writing something on the document in long, smooth strokes.
Childe stares at her. She’s wearing the same red kohl as Zhongli does, but where Zhongli’s liner neatly rims his eyes, her’s spirals and curves across her temples, like adeptal markings.
She finishes writing and reaches inside her kimono, producing a small, dark card. Zhongli takes it from her hands, squinting at it in the low light. Then he chuckles and nods approvingly. “Ikkyū. A fine choice.”
She bows and steps out of the doorway, motioning for them to enter. Zhongli does so and Childe follows hurriedly. Something about the woman’s self-imposed silence unsettled him and he’s irritated that she could elicit such a reaction.
The room they step into is dark enough that Childe nearly trips again. The space is dotted with small tables, seating only two, and lit by beautiful red lamps. In the centre of the room, a stage stands, shrouded in shadows.
Zhongli, clearly familiar with the scene, threads his way in between the couples, reaching an empty table right next to the stage. Childe joins him, determined not to appear awkward.
They sit, and a young woman appears at their side. Childe waits for her to speak, but she remains quiet, staring at him with large, piercing eyes. He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. Why do the staff here remain so stubbornly speechless?
Zhongli is unperturbed by the odd behaviour. “Sake, please - room temperature. And some tea. For you, Childe?”
“Uh... Water is fine.”
The woman nods and retreats, long black skirt swishing behind her.
Childe lets out an agitated breath. “Is that normal? This weird mute act?”
The red lamplight dances across Zhongli’s face as he shakes his head. “It’s not based on any preexisting tradition, if that’s what you’re asking. Just a custom that this establishment chooses to observe.”
Childe watches the waiters flit from table to table, swift and silent. “I had no idea Liyue held such secrets. In all honesty, I had no idea an event like this even existed.”
“It seems that in the Fatui’s rapacious hunt for power, culture is often overlooked.” Zhongli responds archly, then smiles. “It is an Inazuman tradition, actually. As is Ikkyū, the poet whose work we’re going to hear.”
“Ikkyū.” Childe repeats, watching Zhongli twitch at his awful pronunciation. “Is he reading it himself?”
He startles when Zhongli barks out a laugh. “I should think not, Childe. He’s been dead for six hundred years.”
“Oh. Six hundred years, huh.” Childe considers, whistling softly. “That’s a long time.”
Zhongli gives him a strange smile. “Yes, I suppose it is an exceedingly long time for some people. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, nonetheless. His work has a uniquely timeless quality to it.”
The server returns. Childe opens his mouth to interject when she places a cup of sake in front of him, but stops when Zhongli smiles encouragingly at him.
Suddenly, Zhongli’s eyes dart away and Childe turns to see the curtains of the stage rustle. Then, in a rush, they spring apart, revealing a tall young man standing in their centre. He wears only loose black trousers. When he moves, his body ripples with power, muscles flexing. He signals to the heavens, and then dips into a low crouch, praying.
A woman steps onto the stage. Childe’s breath catches in his throat - she’s gorgeous, and the red kimono she wears slips low over her shoulders, revealing enticing inches of milky white skin.
Vaguely, one of Zhongli’s lectures comes back to him, as he watches the scarlet fabric dip over her breasts. The red benihana dye faded quickly, so the colour became symbolic of mad, passionate love - all consuming and ever-fleeting.
Childe’s mouth is dry. He hurriedly takes a swig of the sake in front of him, then gasps. It burns like Fire-Water down his throat. He turns to find Zhongli looking at him, expression mildly alarmed. Childe watches him take tiny sips of the concoction and realises his mistake.
Zhongli isn’t reacting to the display in front of them in any way that suggests confusion. He blinks slowly, eyes following the scantily-clad performers as they circle one another.
Is Childe reading too much into this? Is this yet another of Liyue’s - and indeed, Zhongli’s - quirks that baffle his Snezhnayan sensibilities?
The man onstage reaches out suddenly, gripping the female performer’s waist. She lays a graceful hand across his eyes, obscuring his vision.
When she speaks, her voice is bold and euphonic. “A woman is enlightenment when you’re with her.” With a twirl of her fingers, she unwinds a red rope from around her obi sash. With quick, looping motions, she begins to bind the man’s arms behind him. “The red thread of both your passions flares inside you...” she murmurs. Childe watches in astonishment, as an intricate pattern of knots begins to form. The man bends before her, as she tugs him this way and that. Eventually she finishes, and fits her delicate white hand around his throat like a collar.
“And you see.” The young man opens his eyes, gazing at her with undisguised devotion. His muscular arms strain against the rope, and the bindings leave matching scarlet marks where it cuts into his skin. Slowly, the female performer inclines her head, until their lips almost brush. Then she pulls back cruelly, watching how he struggles closer.
Childe feels heat stirring in his stomach, as he watches the actor gaze coldly down at him. He imagines the power she’s revelling in, and the warmth inside of him grows. His thoughts stray to the consultant seated beside him and for a moment, he sees Zhongli in the trembling body of the male performer. He silences his mind before it can delve into more dangerous territory, but the image sticks with him - Zhongli, bound and desperate, kneeling at his feet.
Onstage, the man’s shoulders heave as he squirms against the bondage. “I believe the lady is the master of loveplay.” He announces, when her hand around his neck loosens. “If I get ill...” He huffs out a ragged breath. “Then she can cure the jewelled stem.”
Childe’s eyebrows shoot up as the woman’s fingers dips lower, ghosting across the male performer’s crotch. He arches into the sensation, eyelids fluttering.
Just as she edges her nails past his belt, the curtains fall closed, leaving the audience on a precipice of anticipation.
Childe feels like he’s snapped out of a trance. He turns to Zhongli and is immediately accosted by the image from earlier, of the consultant tied-up and needy. His face burns. “Zhongli,” he hisses over the smattering of applause. “This is the theatrical performance you wanted me to attend?”
Zhongli’s eyes widen at the distress in his expression. He chooses his next words carefully. “Indeed. It has a rich and interesting history in Inazuma, and the actors are consummate professionals. We’re exceedingly lucky to be blessed with their presence in Liyue.”
Childe struggles for the language to describe the spectacle they just witnessed. “But they’re— She— This is practically softcore pornography.”
Zhongli pulls his tea nearer and takes a long sip. “There is a carnal element to the proceedings, yes. But it’s closer to art than... pornography.” When he lowers his cup, an imperceptible smile plays across his lips. It hits Childe that this isn’t accidental; that Zhongli didn’t innocently stumble into this establishment one day, and begin watching. He must’ve gone looking for this.
A thousand thoughts flash through his head. Childe takes a sip of the sake, hoping it will calm him somehow. But before he can voice even one of them, the curtains part again and Zhongli turns his unwavering attention back to the stage.
Six people stand on it now, clad in loose white material. Three women and three men, swathed in what appears to be bedsheets. Childe fights the urge to look away when the sheets slip low over their hips.
They arrange themselves, spinning concentric circles around each other.
Their hands link, until they form one long chain of bodies and pale fabric.
The male actor at the edge of the stage steps forward. When he speaks, his oration echoes around the tight space of the viewing area. “Three Poems on Love and Longing.”
The chain breaks and they split into three couples. A man and a woman, two men and two women.
“Day and night, I cannot keep you out of my thoughts.” The actor’s tone is confessionary, as he drags his partner nearer, burying his face in his neck.
Childe sneaks a surreptitious glance across the table. Zhongli is listening intently, eyes tracing the performers’ every motion. When one of the men grunts, he sees Zhongli’s throat bob.
Are Zhongli’s lips trembling? Is he shifting in his chair, clenching his fists to restrain himself, just like Childe is? Is he picturing himself in their places, vulnerable and aroused before a watchful crowd? The lighting is too dim to tell for certain. Every few moments, the lights from the stage catch on Zhongli’s face, and Childe strains to see in the brief moments of illumination. He needs to know if this is affecting Zhongli the same way it’s affecting him.
But he’s being far, far too obvious. Reluctantly, he looks away before Zhongli can catch him staring.
The young men embrace, hips grinding together for a second. They part, panting. “In the darkness, on an empty bed, the longing deepens,” they recite, voices hitching as they rub against each other.
Another couple darts in front of them, finger intertwining. The woman’s voice is playful and sweet. “I dream of us joining hands, exchanging words of love.”
The man cradles her face in his hands. “But then the dawn bell shatters my reverie...” He drops her hand. “And rends my heart.” He finishes mournfully, stepping away.
Childe’s focus is torn between the actors, trying to track where they’re directing him.
The two women drape themselves over each other, hands wandering. A gasp rings out in the taut silence when one of the female performers kneels between her partner’s legs. “Women, lovely flowers that bloom and quickly fade,” she intones, lips brushing the thighs framing her head. “Flowery faces, in full flush, lovely as dreams.”
Her fingers creep higher and Childe gulps when he sees a hand knot itself in her hair, guiding her. He feels lightheaded, as he watches the figures move in dream-like harmony.
The woman still standing tilts herself closer, back arching. Her voice is breathless. “When flowers burst open, they grow heavy with passion.”
“But once they fall...” A deep voice interrupts her. On the opposite side of the stage, the man dips the female performer, her hair trailing across the ground. His grip on her wrist tightens and she shivers. “No one speaks of them again.”
Childe is beginning to regret their close proximity to the stage. He can see every bead of sweat on the actors’ faces, every time their muscles flex under their skin. Every whimper or sigh they utter reaches his ears, burrowing into his consciousness. Their words echo over and over in his mind, vision splintered and blurry with lust.
He feels an itch travel up his spine, just below the skin. His fingers clench and unclench.
Childe lets out a choked gasp of surprise when one of the actors pushes his hand into his partner’s trousers - as if Childe is the one being touched.
Zhongli turns and shushes him.
The men on stage are grinding together, bizarrely tender and unheeding of the spectators. “Even if I were a god or a Buddha, you’d be on my mind.” One of them whispers, tone hushed as if it’s an unspeakable admission, meant only for the two of them.
Now the women speak unbroken, their movements kept minimalist.
“I sit beneath the lamp, a skinny monk chanting love songs. The fierce autumn wind nearly bowls me over.”
One of the performers wraps her fingers loosely around the other actor’s neck, drawing her in for a kiss. “And my heart is choked with thick clouds.” She whispers against her partner’s lips.
The young man suddenly throws himself forward, tackling the female performer and clinging to her back. The next words are a desperate exclamation: “A sex-loving monk, you object!” His partner makes a show of indulging him, allowing him to bury his face in her chest. “Hot-blooded and passionate.” He murmurs to her, like a pledge. His hands slide upwards, until he’s caressing her breasts. She gives him a low-lidded smile. “Totally aroused.” He finishes, fingers brushing her nipples.
“Remember, though, that lust can consume all passion.” The final actors declare, hands inside each other’s clothing. They’re grasping at each other like this is their last-ever opportunity; like they’re lovers soon to be parted. Their desperation is heady.
Childe’s breathing quickens when they groan, voices breaking with need. He’s trying to ignore it, but his dick is slowly hardening.
He shuffles closer to the table, so that it will hide the clear outline of his erection. If Zhongli sees how much this is affecting him...
He wills himself to think of something else. But all his mind can focus on is being in the performers’ place, slowly taking Zhongli apart in front of the rapt audience. Coaxing gasps and pleasured sighs out of him, just like the actors do to each other.
One of the male performers jerks, huffing. His body grows taunt, back clenched. Then he relaxes, satisfaction written across his face. His eyes are bleary - almost as if he had reached his conclusion right there on the stage. “Lust transmutes base metal into pure gold.” He finishes, breathless.
Zhongli makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. Childe turns to see him shifting uncomfortably, and freezes. “Are you okay?” He asks quietly, before he can stop himself. His eyes linger on the way Zhongli is clutching the tails of his coat over his stomach. No, not over his stomach. Over his lap.
Zhongli - educated, unrufflable, learned Zhongli - has a slight red flush spread over his face, just visible in the dim lighting.
“It’s poor manners to speak during a performance,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t sound particularly angry. He sounds... for lack of a better word, aroused, voice lower than usual.
It feels like Childe’s entire world has spun off its axis. The performance is abruptly recontextualised.
“Are you getting off on this?” Childe asks, disbelief loosening his tongue. He‘s reeling. He doesn’t even care how many lines he’s crossing with such a question.
Zhongli’s eyes glint in the lamplight. “It is perfectly natural for the human form to react to erotic imagery.”
“But you said it was art. Not porn.”
“You’ll often find that what one generation deems vulgar, another considers high art. In this sense, pornographic stimulation and artistic value can be seen as two sides of the same coin.” Zhongli draws a finger across his own cheek, as if hoping to wipe away the blush staining him. “This performance is enjoyable to me because it embraces that sentiment in the fullest variety possible.”
Childe tries to listen. Really, he does. But the performers are still touching each other on stage and the air feels saturated with lust. To be in such a place, so close to such a person as Zhongli... It’s indescribable. It’s the most exquisite type of temptation.
A beat of tension passes between them, as Zhongli waits for Childe to respond. But what he wants to say is stuck in his throat. They stare at each other for a long moment.
Then Zhongli turns studiously back to the stage and the poetry reading continues.
Childe senses he just missed an important opportunity. But that hardly matters to him; now that he’s caught a glimpse of the carnal enjoyment beneath Zhongli’s expression, he’s transfixed. The tiniest twitch of Zhongli’s mouth sends a tidal wave of lust rushing over him. The red light seems to tease Childe, catching in the hollows of Zhongli’s face. Every little reaction is like an arrow to the heart.
He’s acting like a teenager experiencing hormones for the first time, and it’s frankly ridiculous, but it genuinely feels like he’s catching on fire every time he looks at Zhongli. He’s so, so gorgeous, taking a composed sip of his sake. Childe watches, hypnotised, as his lips touch the rim of the cup.
Zhongli’s gaze doesn’t stray from the performance for even a second, watching the actors embrace and recite Ikkyū’s words. Childe is struck by the irrational urge to grip Zhongli by the shoulders and demand that he looks at Childe instead.
For him, the rest of the reading passes in a delirium of longing, unable to tear his eyes away from Zhongli. He doesn’t hear a single word the performers utter, but judging by Zhongli’s satisfied expression, it was pleasing. The other members of the audience drift by their table, heading into the various doorways that line the dark walls. Childe hadn’t noticed them when they’d first entered, but now he watches person after person disappear through the narrow archways.
Suddenly, it’s so quiet that he can hear Zhongli’s breathing. The only people that remain are them, and a few silent staff members, fading into the background.
He glances up and finds Zhongli standing, smiling down at him. “Shall we go?”
Childe swallows. “Go where?” he asks, aware of how foolish he sounds. But the tantalising glimpse behind the hidden doors has left him curious. He casts a meaningful look towards them, a question in his eyes.
“Go outside and walk back to our homes before the sun rises.” Zhongli notices where Childe is staring and chuckles. “Perhaps we can partake in the backstage entertainment another time. I believe that watching the performance was more than enough for your first visit.”
Childe nods slowly. The knowing amusement on Zhongli’s face is a little disconcerting. He seems as pristine as ever. The only traces of his previous arousal are the creases in his coat from where it bunched over his lap. Not even a speck of colour remains in his cheeks. He looks wholly composed and Childe has never wanted to dishevel someone so badly in his entire life.
He rises from his chair and follows Zhongli out through the long corridor. Behind them, the red table lamps flicker out, leaving the room in total darkness.