Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Childe is in his office, an almost manic energy coursing through him. The book he’s holding is his newest addition to the honestly-probably-too-big collection, though it’s nothing like the things he is used to buying. Here in Liyue, his shelves are lined with hundreds of books – each containing delicate and beautiful illustrations or having come with exuberant price tags, usually both. They tell stories, they advise, they offer theoretical perspectives on his tactics, they keep him company. If this book is the company he has to keep, though, Childe would prefer absolute and eternal solitude, and not just because his apprehension grows with every flip of the page. 

He (finally) finds the entry he was looking for, reads approximately five words of it, then proceeds to drop the book on his desk. A cup of tea that was unfortunately underneath shatters on impact, spilling boiling hot liquid all over his body. He barely notices the pain, though—or recognizes that the glass had shattered at all, <blue> eyes locked onto the single-word-title. 

Hanahaki . 

The one, the only, the supposed ‘love disease’ that only appears in B+ romance novels and cheap romcoms as a piss-poor plot attempt at angst. Hell, a romance novel is how Childe came across the possibility to begin with. But no, it’s apparently real; though, as Childe skims the entry, he casts more and more doubt on the idea that it’s a love disease. What kind of love fucking kills you within months, anyway? It, apparently, only impacts those who don’t think that their love was being returned—for whom their feelings being unreciprocated was so detrimental that their body would have literally preferred to die instead. 

Right. Yes. Makes total fucking sense, guys. Clearly this was Childe’s exact case, considering he’s marking off every symptom off the list then some. He really should have suspected it, but he was busy having no clue it existed at all. 

He has no reason to panic. Especially since the book clearly specifies that once you (he) begin coughing up flower petals, it takes only five days for you (him) to die. Definitely nothing to worry about. Everything was going to be completely and totally fine, and any second now the words would morph to read something along the lines of: surprise, you idiot, you actually bought this garbage?

But no. Childe reads through all the every line and intricate detail (though he isn’t really reading as much as acknowledging that the words exist), then a few words from the proceeding entry, just to be sure. His eyes are glazing over the phrase ‘ observations of a vernacular disagreement between native speech and bird chirping ’ when it hits him. 

Childe, Tartaglia, 11th and Vanguard of the Fatui Harbingers, servant of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, is going to die. 

Ajax is going to die. 

As sudden as that realization comes, he finds himself out of breath— shit . What is his family going to do without him? Their caretakers are all members of the Fatui— Childe’s members, sure, but it’s not like they’d continue being “his members” after his death . He briefly considers writing to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa to inform her of this, to beg her to continue her mercy over his family, but ultimately decides against it. Knowing his Archon, she would immediately recall him and find a way to stop the disease at any cost. Her prized Vanguard has zero business dying in a foreign land when he isn’t even on a mission (anymore), and Childe does not want to spend the last week of his life in a medical lab drinking chemical after chemical. Celestia fucking forbid she puts him under the Doctor’s care in some last-ditch attempt to fix him. 

Politely speaking: fuck no, absolutely not, he would rather literally kill himself than any of that, thank you very much. Being honest, if this disease is guaranteed to end in his death, he might spare it the favor and just finish the job on his own terms. If he indulges his delusions for a second, it feels more of a victory that way. 

In a moment of morbid disbelief, he wonders if it really would be better to commit suicide. The alternative is to let flowers grow in his lungs until they eventually choke him to death. Going out for good in a bang would be the much better option—shit, it would be what he’s always wanted—but before he can reconsider that thought, a knock sounds at the door and.

He flinches in his seat. This is not a great sign, because Childe Slash Tartagalia Slash The Eleventh Harbinger does not flinch , but whatever. 

“Sir?” Ekaterina calls out, her voice carefully collected. Archons forbid she sound concerned for a Harbinger. “Are you alright? I heard something falling.” 

“Uh,” Childe’s voice is uncharacteristically quiet, and noticeably thinner than it usually is. He sounds like he’s dying.

Oh, right.

Childe squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight off an incoming migraine, and clears his throat. Attempt two, much louder this time. “I’m alright, just zoned out for a second.” 

“Alright, sir,” she replies. And she sounds skeptical, sure, but most Fatui know to shut up when told; she won’t press it, which is what matters right now. “If you need anything, I’ll be out there.” 

Childe would laugh at that latter half if he was feeling humorous: if he needs anything. He needs to live, that’s what he needs. He hears her footsteps fade away, and dully picks up the pieces of the broken glass up to discard into a wastebin. With another flick of his fingers, the tea disappears into thin air (tea is just leaf water, and whether she agrees with his life choices, the Hydro Archon hasn’t rescinded her blessing yet) and he picks the book back up to read, this time properly. 

Unknown origin . 

Unsurprising and not very disappointing, since he doubts that the origins are relevant to the cure, anyway. 

Stems from perception of unrequited love . 

That much he knows. Since, again, that had been roughly the plot of the novel he’d picked up the other day. The idea of unrequited love literally killing someone was just poetic enough for an author to write it into an insanely angsty storyline, and just ridiculous enough for any sane person to dismiss it as a part of tangible reality. Childe, even with his questionable sanity over the past three months or so, had been part of that latter group; right until the moment he realized he was smelling flowers everywhere, just like the protagonist. And then coughed up a flower petal, just like the protagonist. 

That protagonist dies at the end, obviously. Childe keeps reading. 

The only known cure is believing that love is requited. 

He knows this as well, but still grimaces at these words—there’s only one person on this planet who Childe would even come close to describing his relationship to as that of ‘unrequited love’, and there is no, absolutely no chance of him ever loving Childe back. Zero-zip-zilch-nada, none . They might not even speak again for the rest of Childe’s abruptly-shortened lifespan, which is probably for the better. 

The flower begins to take root in the victim’s body at the time of major perceived rejection. It is speculated that said flower intakes physical nutrients from the host and emotional nutrients from turmoil in order to bloom—a full blooming is estimated to take about three months from the time of planting. 

Check. Three months after a major perceived rejection—or in Childe’s case, an actual rejection, when it turned out that he spent the last two years being flawlessly played by his dearest coworker and his best-friend-slash-love-of-his-life. He absent-mindedly checks his calendar to find that today is exactly three months since the incident at Northland Bank happened; three months since he had last spoken with Zhongli; three months since he felt like his very existence was being snapped into two heartbreak-sized-parts. The flower has a sense of punctuality, fantastic. 

There have been, in rare instances, cases of near-immediate death upon a direct romantic rejection. 

Even more reason not to speak to the Archon, ex-Archon, whatever. He can’t tell Zhongli, or even let him catch a hint about this;as tragic as this is, he has no intents to succumb to the disease—no, he’s going down fighting, and that means he needs those five-ish days. That also means anyone who would talk to Zhongli—anybody who knows both him and Zhongli—can’t find out, otherwise he might die even earlier than his one-week time frame. 

A pretty restrictive clause, considering that a vast majority of his acquaintances and almost-friends know far too much about him and Zhongli (separately and together), but Childe can bear with it. He’ll live.

To resist reminding himself he most certainly will not , he holds up the no-longer-bloody flower petal he coughed up earlier and examines it once again. It’s definitely a Glaze Lily. 

Considering the fact that Glaze Lilies are Zhongli’s favorite flower, because Glaze Lilies are Zhongli’s ex’s favorite flower, Childe finds the entire situation entirely too ironic. Between the major fight and the Hanahaki taking over his lungs as he breathes, as well as a time limit of 5 days, he can picture this set-up being yet another angsty plotline in some distant, far-away novella, where the main character is not yours truly. Paimon would pore over the entire novel in one seating, a mildly sadistic glint in her eyes; he swears up and down some days that the fairy is a glutton for emotional suffering of others, not food. 

Paimon. His mind flickers to the Traveler, who’s seen things far and wide in his time. He’s pretty much from a different universe, Childe (not Tartagalia) is certain of it; so surely it’s not too big of a stretch to assume that he’d know just a little bit more about this disease than the scholars of Tevyat? If he swore to keep a secret… 

Then again, he thinks to how he fought with Aether — and not just sparred, fought — a mere three months ago, how he hasn’t heard from the Traveler since, and the small hope he allowed himself to have dissipates into thin air. Stupid, stupid. He has always considered himself to be the most accepting of death—a Vanguard is crafted to be struck down first, after all — but in the face of it, he is looking for a way to run. Pathetic.

Part of his fear is due to the fact that Childe is not, in fact, dying heroically in the most infamously brutal battle in all of Tevyat’s history or whatever. He is, instead, being strangled by his crush’s ex’s signature flower that is also growing inside of him. There’s very little glory in that, and even less dignity — he’s actually going to die because his crush said no . 

Though, Childe thinks, Zhongli is — well, he’s much more than a crush now, isn’t he? He’s —

Stop it , he reprimands himself. It’s pointless. He’s made his choice and you’ve made yours. It’s over. You’re over. You’re – he’s – done. 

He hates how small his internal monologue makes him feel, but listens to it nonetheless. The guy’s got a solid point, after all. The easiest choice here, and the necessary choice, is to do what he was taught to — do what he’s always done, what he’s been doing for the past month, and repress. He closes his eyes, takes everything in his heart he can firmly label as Zhongli’s—the pity, the rage, the hurt, the hope, the quote-un-quote love —and imagines himself shoving all of those things in a tiny box. In fact, he imagines himself taking everything he’s feeling at all and shoving it into that box. 

He then imagines throwing the imaginary box out of an also imaginary window. When he opens his eyes again, he feels considerably lighter and twice as empty as before. 

Great, just what he was going for. 

Besides, he can’t afford to sit around and wallow in self-pity or anything. He, Childe, Tartaglia, is a brother and a breadwinner of his family—his utmost priority should be to assure their survival after the inevitable happens. He’s calm. He’s rational. He can do this. He has to.

He, thanking Celestia for the fact that Tonia is about to be a legal adult and is financially literate, pulls out a piece of paper and begins writing as fast as his shaking hands allow him to. One letter is addressed to — lo and behold — Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He requests the presence of the Director—Hu Tao, Zhongli said her name was—and a legal consultant, as quickly as possible for an urgent discussion that must happen within 24 hours. For the hell of it, he adds that he’s willing to compensate for any losses they suffer as a result of his request. He has no clue how fast wills process here in Liyue, but the fact that his family is in Snezhnaya definitely doesn’t help the odds that it’s done before his death. And he needs it done before, or at the least relatively soon, if he’s got any hopes of Tonia being able to spend that money once he’s gone—he’s entirely too familiar with how cruel the legal system can be to a new adult destined to inherit millions. One of the coworkers, who just so happens to be that legal system, is arguably the worst person among a council filled with more war criminals than not. He opens the door to his room and strides out towards the front desk where Ekaterina is answering letters, tapping at the wood to get her attention.

“Yes, sir?” She replies, barely looking up from her massive stack of papers. It’s one of the busiest seasons of the year, and she’s up to her neck in work; like a good boss, Childe decides to just send whoever’s available instead of her. 

Even if he’s a lot more comfortable with her. Ekaterina doesn’t ask unnecessary questions; it’s one of the reasons why she survived. 

“Is there anybody who can deliver a letter to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor?” At that, the steady scratching of her pen ceases abruptly. Ekaterina narrows her eyes , looking up at Childe. 

Ah, right. She was there when the confrontation at Northland Bank happened. And, despite the fact that Childe is only her boss, had chased the man out as soon as Signora had left—complete with a glare that would translate in any language to the threat of direct violence. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that she, somehow, cared. Childe swallows whatever emotion threatening to surface and elaborates. “It’s to the Director.” 

She noticeably relaxes at this, which makes him feel kind of worse, and nods. 

“Understood—I am unable to go at the moment, and there is currently…” She glances at the daily log before making a face. “Nobody, it would seem, that is available.” 

Childe grimaces with her before shrugging. “I can just go myself.” 

“Are you sure, sir?” She raises an eyebrow. “My, you must be quite free. I’ll have an extra stack of paperwork for you to review sent up as soon as possible, in that case.” 

With the way she delivers that line, deadpan face and slightly snobby tone of voice, anybody else would assume that she’s reprimanding him for his behavior. Childe, however, 1) is a Harbinger and 2) has spent the last two years attending more meetings with this woman than he’s ever bothered counting. And he’s not totally emotionally incompetent. He can take concern for what it is, sometimes. He laughs, eyes rolling as he snags a piece of candy from the reception basket. “Can’t wait. Thanks, Kat.” 

“Anytime, sir.”

When Childe looks back before exiting Northland Bank, he sees her focusing back on her paperwork once more, and mentally adds her to his will.

***

With how fast he’s moving, he’s surprised he hasn’t sprouted wings yet. 

Haha. Sprout. Fuck, he has to work on his sense of humor. 

He glides down Liyue Harbor with the speed and diligence that he’d carry himself with in the middle of a battlefield — passing by Liuli Pavilion, dashing by children and adults alike, and not sparing any of them a second thought. Yes, he’s wreaking havoc on the lazy, beautiful afternoon scenery of Liyue Harbor. All that matters to him is that he gets this request in now .

As Mister Childe, Diplomat from Snezhnaya extraordinaire, he would often stroll across Liyue in a leisure manner, seeming carefree, friendly, and relaxed—he had a reputation to maintain, after all. 

Not anymore. There’s no point in reputation for a dead man walking—in fact, nothing is going to matter in approximately a hundred and seventy hours, which means every second counts. He arrives at the door in front of Ferrylady in a minute and a half, sparing spares only a few seconds of disbelief to the fact that he’s out of breath before he remembers where the flower is growing. It sort of makes sense that his lung capacity isn’t the same as before, since it is being actively used to make Glaze Lilies bloom. 

Ferrylady seems surprised to see him, then blinks a few times before apparently justifying to herself why the Harbinger was there. “Mister Childe. You’re here to see-” 

He cuts her off before she can say his name. “No, actually. I’m here to drop off a letter for Director Hu Tao.” 

“Ah, Director.” Though evidently surprised that no, Childe is not there to see Zhongli, she manages to quickly layer a business smile on top. “She’s currently present right now. Would you prefer to speak with her directly?”

He considers this before nodding. If he talks it out with her, he can ask about the process behind drafting a will and learn everything he needs to before writing it up. It’ll also give him an idea of what he can and can’t with it, meaning less risk for him miswording something that’ll end up fucking his family. “That would be lovely.” 

“Then I will check for her availability. Do head inside—you are more than welcomed here.”  

Of course, he is “more than welcomed here” because of the friendship he no longer has with Zhongli. The one that shattered thirty-one-days ago with no hope of salvaging it anytime soon, not anymore. But he’s not about to let that bother him, not when it’s expediting the process of ensuring his siblings can live. “Thank you, Ferrylady.” 

He enters the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and, for a second, almost regrets it. The interior is clean, decorated tastefully with what he never doubted were pieces holding more than enough history to them, and Ferrylady leads him to the little waiting table on the side before heading indoors to look for Hu Tao. He doesn’t take the seat, but remains standing—very much anxiously, he can tell, but can’t bring himself to sit anyway. It’s fine. Ferrylady is efficient as she is meticulous, she’ll be back any moment. 

As if on cue, the door to the back swivels open, and from it walks—

Zhongli.

Well, fuck. 

Childe mentally swears for not considering the idea that Zhongli might actually be working during his visit. He was so caught up in the efficiency of his plan that he had completely disregarded this very probable event that was, as a consequence, manifesting itself into reality before his very eyes. 

The Funeral Consultant pauses dead in his step. Childe tries not to kill himself on the spot. His eyes grow wide in an uncharacteristically breach of that perfect, delicate, and elegantly constructed mask; and oh, he’s always been so bad at keeping from his impulses. It fucking infuriates him, but Childe reminds himself: he can’t lose his cool right now. He actually can’t lose his cool ever—his death has to be perfect—and being infuriated at Zhongli, even if this asshole is the indirect cause of said death, won’t do any good. 

This, however, does not mean Childe has to play nice. 

“Ah, Mister Zhongli.” 

Just as the ex-Archon is about to open his mouth, Childe steals the opening line, complete with a smile that they both know doesn’t get any more artificial. And he doesn’t miss the way the other’s mouth snaps shut at the honorific, either. Part of him wants to get up right then and there and yell—how dare he pretend to be hurt by something as small as the use of honorifics—but that part of him is the same part that wants to tell Zhongli everything and break down sobbing, so Childe smartly ignores it for his chosen coping mechanism of complete and perfect repression. Love may be taking his life, but it sure as hell isn’t going to crack the Fatui persona he spent years perfecting when he needs it most. 

“Childe,” the other finally continues, after a socially unacceptable length of silence has passed. “I presume you’re here to see me?” 

Somewhere in the distance, he hears the Fatui mask snap in two. Luckily for him, he has a second, slightly sturdier Fatui mask underneath. He plasters a placating, mildly apologetic smile on his face and shakes his head. 

“Sorry, no. I’m in need of a Funeral Parlor’s assistance, and Wangsheng was the first that came to mind.” Childe shrugs. “This is the best of the best, after all.” 

“You. In need of a Funeral Parlor’s assistance.” He purses his head to the side, his ponytail swinging ever so slightly to the left in a way that definitely does not make Childe’s heart ache. 

God fucking help him, Zhongli is amused. In that moment, in some insane flash of lightning, Childe fully understands exactly what he was and will continue to be to this man: a toy. A fun little mortal plaything that was interesting to talk to for about two years, and continues to be entertaining in some way or the other. That’s the only explanation that’s running through his head. Any sane man would be on their fucking knees asking for Childe’s forgiveness here, but Zhongli isn’t—though, maybe it’s ludicrous to expect sanity from an Archon. Especially one that’s acting like the months of heartbreak Childe went through, that moment so devastating that he was now going to die from it, means nothing to him. Like Childe means nothing to him. When Zhongli means everything to Childe, to the point where he’s literally going to be the death of him. 

“Yep.” He replies, forcing his voice to be level. 

“You’re not requesting us to comply in covering up a murder, no?” The Consultant quips, and wow, is that his flower rapidly growing inside his lungs or does he feel like he’s been punched for no reason? He takes a second to joke to himself that Hey, maybe he doesn’t even need to receive a direct rejection for an instant death before responding. 

“Not really, no.” What’s even funnier is that he technically is compliant in this murder, if this could even be called a murder to begin with. Just then, Ferrylady walks back in—thank the fucking stars —and nods at Childe. 

“She would be happy to see you. I will lead you to her.” She then pauses, fully, and turns to Zhongli—as if just now realizing his presence. A brief, coworker-appropriate nod his way. “Ah, Mister Zhongli. Welcome back from your break, sir. I hope the time off was well spent.” 

“Thank you, Ferrylady,” The ex-Archon gives a polite smile back, and Childe automatically ignores his voice before the gears to his brain slam back in. A break? Zhongli took a break from his duties at Wangsheng? For a significant amount of time? 

In the two years Childe had known Zhongli, he never once took a break. He always remarked that employment was a contract, and that contracts (naturally) were not to be broken. Childe did point out a few times that Wangsheng was unionized, and therefore paid time off was written into the actual contract Zhongli signed—to not much avail, though. Zhongli always kept their lunch breaks to the hour, performed his duties diligently, and showed to Wangsheng every morning like clockwork. 

But, then again, Childe apparently never knew Zhongli at all. 

Something in his chest tightens, and he takes a few seconds to realize that is literally something in his chest tightening. The flower, probably. Maybe he should stop thinking about Zhongli so much. 

“This way, please.” Ferrylady’s words snap him out of his thoughts, and he curtly nods to Zhongli before following the woman through to the back, not sparing himself a second glance at the other. 

He enters the room to see Hu Tao sitting at her usual desk. Upon seeing Childe she grins brightly before shoving her paperwork off to the side, apparently delighted at his visit. “Mister Childe! You wanted to see me?” 

He is often reminded of Teucer when he sees the Pyro user. Both a love for theatrical fire, both capable of being serious when required, and both ever so loving of others and their duties. He smiles a bit, and part of it isn’t really a mask at all, before he takes the seat in front of her. 

“Director Hu Tao.” He says in greeting first; noticing the solemn tone of the Harbinger, Hu Tao quiets down, listening intently to what he has to say next. “Does Wangsheng Funeral Parlor assist in writing and executing wills?” 

Hu Tao goes almost silent at that. Shock flickers across her face before it’s shoved underneath not an uncaring look, but a professional one. They are not here as Mister Childe and Hu Tao, meeting briefly before Childe steals her employee away for lunch—rather, as a soon-to-be deceased and a Funeral Parlor Director.

She nods. “We offer services where we can connect you to a lawyer of your choosing. Said lawyer will coordinate with us in order to complete the will, then work to have it processed as soon as possible.” 

“And how long would that take?” Upon realizing his question was as damning as it gets, Childe hastily restates it (as if that’ll make things any better). “Rather—assuming I requested that service today, and I paid everyone involved triple their rates for the process to be done as quickly as possible, how long would it take for the will to be fully in effect?” 

Hu Tao looks even more grim at that. “Three months at minimum.” 

Three months . Two extra months, even after Tonia turns eighteen. “And if I were to personally request the Qixing to expedite the process?” 

“If you were to have a perfect final draft of the will by, say, tomorrow, then it could take under a week, given the stars align in your favor. Though that is for the will to be only processed, not fully carried out; that would depend on your Executor, the one designated to carry out the contents of your will,” Hu Tao replies. 

Childe feels his mouth going dry. He forces himself to swallow. 

“What about the financial aspects of the will? If I left a large sum of money towards my sister, how fast would she be able to use said money?” 

“Assuming you make good on your triple-rate deal and you have the cooperation of the Qixing, at best, three days. You would have to make your will extraordinarily simple.” Hu Tao purses her lips. “Why not open a joint account under Northland Bank for you and your sister?” 

“She’s underage.” Childe swallows, again, because his mouth is dry, again . “Turns eighteen in a month or so. Not enough time.” 

Hu Tao, bless her fucking heart, refuses to press the fact that Childe has been implying his own death for the past ten minutes. 

“I’m no legal consultant, but I can certainly hook you up with one. If you need a way to circumvent normal circumstances as fast as possible, she’s got your back.” She picks up a piece of paper and begins writing a note to someone—even Childe, who isn’t actually familiar with the way she writes, recognizes the chicken-scratch to be out of urgency rather than carelessness. On the side of her desk is a bell; she pulls the attached rope, and before the first ring fades an assistant appears in the doorway. 

“Take this to Yanfei, please. Tell her it’s urgent and that—” She looks at him. “Triple rate?”

He nods. “If it means she’ll get here.” 

“Tell her it’s urgent and that she will be paid triple her normal rates to be here immediately.” The assistant takes the note and leaves the doorway, and Childe exhales, not even aware that he was holding his breath. 

Hu Tao, upon the exit, turns to Childe with a more serious eye. “Mister Childe,” She begins. Oh boy. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re implying very directly that you are going to be passing away in the near future.” 

Childe grimaces, but doesn’t deny it. Luckily, he already has an excuse prepared. 

“It’s a disease.” He mutters under his breath. “Illness, sickness, whatever. It’s going to kill me pretty soon.” 

Hu Tao looks as if she’s about to cry. Which makes absolutely no sense, but then again, she is sixteen. “Have you—have you gone to a doctor? Bubu Pharmacy has some really good care, you know, and—”

Oh, Archons. 

“There’s no need to.” He cuts her off. Distinctly, he realizes he’s using the same tone of voice he does on his youngest siblings. Firm — because yes , he does have to leave tomorrow, he’s got duties, Big Brother’s already explained this — yet gentle.“I’d rather do what I can to make sure my loved ones are set financially.” 

“But—you can’t cure it?” 

“It doesn’t have a cure.” He tries for a smile, then drops it when an actual tear rolls down her cheek. Fuck, he’s normally pretty good with kids.  

“I’m so sorry.” She says in a hushed tone, and Childe mentally kicks himself for saying all that to her, even if it was necessary. He feels horrible . 

“It’s going to be alright,” he reassures—genuinely—then takes a deep breath. “I’d rather keep it private, if you understand. Nobody except those absolutely necessary to the process knowing.” 

“That would—just be me.” Hu Tao mentally checks over something before nodding again. “Yes, just me. Though Yanfei would likely infer something along these lines if you talk to her long enough, and if you intend to speak with the Qixing, you’ll have to tell them exactly why you’re doing this as well.” 

“Honesty is my only policy, Director,” he jokes. “You don’t think I’m completely honest to everybody, everywhere, all of the time? I’m heartbroken here.” 

Haha. Heartbroken. 

Shut the fuck up , his brain mutters, and Childe listens to it. 

Somehow, though, that seems to drag a choked laugh out of Hu Tao, and she reaches for a tissue when the doors open again. 

Someone dressed head to toe in an outfit that screams proficient lawyer walks into the room; she has an actual box of codices attached to her hip. Hu Tao blows her nose before gesturing for the lawyer to sit, and the girl— Yanfei , Childe recalls—surveys the atmosphere in the room carefully. 

That is to say, she tries to figure out why it feels like someone’s fucking dying in here. To be fair, someone is , that someone being Childe. 

“Legal Advisor Yanfei, this is Mister Childe, 11th of the Fatui Harbingers and our newest customer. Mister Childe—Advisor Yanfei, the best Liyue can offer you.” Childe gives a polite nod, and receives one back. 

“I’m flattered, and wonderful to meet you. Now, what’s the matter at hand?” 

Straight to business, as pink hair usually implies.

“Miss Yanfei,” Childe begins. “What’s the quickest way to make sure that a 17 year old in Snezhnaya can receive and use the contents of my bank account after I die?” 

A low glint passes over Yanfei’s eyes. 

*** 

It’s several hours after the sun has set that Childe leaves the Funeral Parlor. The employees had clocked out much earlier, which (hopefully) included Zhongli—at the very least, the ginger hadn’t seen him on his way out. Childe sighs as he exits the doors and begins his walk back to his apartment near Northland Bank, this time very much at a slower pace than when he last crossed this street. 

Long story short, Yanfei’s suggestion was that he leave all the assets to be given to Tonia when she turned eighteen, and to set a bank account up for her before transferring a month’s worth of expenses towards it. Although (if the Qixing chose to collaborate) the will would likely be considered legally binding within a few days, the issue was that it would take a week after Childe’s death for his will to actually be carried out. Yanfei had approved most of his choices on the who-gets-what part of things, so he only needed to write up the final contract form before sending it to the legal advisor. 

Childe had written Yanfei a check for her time, but the advisor had vehemently refused him on the triple offer, saying that she wasn’t initially busy and that it would be an “unfair contract.” 

Contracts all over the place, this damn nation. 

It is poetic that, even though his life is ending because of a contract, he’s trying his damned best to establish a final one before his untimely demise. Ah, well. Education’s expensive, general life far more so, and Childe now officially has more money than he will ever use in his lifetime. 

As to how the children will be raised—well, ideally, the Uncle and Aunt Childe placed in Snezhnaya will continue their services. For that, he needs the Tsaritsa’s approval, meaning he should seek counsel with her, meaning somehow returning to Snezhnaya. He’s unsure that this will be viable, since the fastest boat to the Capitol takes three days minimum, but he has to at least look into specifics and ensure it’s not an option before dismissing it. 

He goes over his bucket list: write a will including god knows how many people, send the will, set up Tonia’s bank account, send money, write to the Tsaritsa, write to the Traveler, write to his siblings, write to-

Zhongli. 

He really, really wants to write a letter to him confessing everything. Laying every pathetic thought he’d ever had to rest in a neat piece of paper, only to be read when he’s unable to be mortified by anything at all. But no, he would rather die (which he is doing) than be desperate, or cut through what was remaining of his dignity. 

He wonders how the other would react to reading his words. Maybe he would laugh, scoff, be appalled at how Childe dared to think of him as anything more—or maybe his lips would curl into a smile, understanding just how excellently he had succeeded in making Childe trust him, to the point where Childe would consider him to be a potential lover. 

The thought makes Childe, well, sick. The same tightening feeling constricts his chest once more, and he spends a few seconds standing completely still, trying to breathe without feeling like his lungs are being set on fire, tears crowding his eyes like a foggy Kamera lens. When he blinks himself back to the world of clear sight, he’s standing in front of his apartment door. He fumbles for his keys before entering, and upon locking the door behind him, collapses onto the couch.

It’s a quarter past two, and even though Childe has so much to do, he can’t help but succumb to the exhaustion that is taking over quicker than the disease is. He’s out like a light in seconds.

Chapter Text

Childe wakes to a neat, methodical knocking echoing in the apartment. Upon waking, he discovers another fun fact—the fun fact being that, at some point in the middle of the night, he’d paused his restful slumbers to choke up a concerning amount of blood and flower petals all over himself. His clothes are stained in a familiar dark red, and Childe pauses for a few seconds before losing the will to carry out a wash. Fuck it: he is literally dying. 

A knock rings out again, this time louder, and it is absolutely not helping his incoming headache. Whoever is knocking at—what’s the time?—one in the goddamn afternoon is going to get their ass kicked to Celestia and back. 

Wait. One in the afternoon?  

Holy fucking shit. Suddenly wide awake, he gets up—or tries to, anyway. His arms are weaker, and his entire body feels sluggish , like he’s been drugged. Then he remembers that Glaze Lilies are commonly used as sedatives in medicine, and then swears under his breath before forcing himself up. 

“Hello?” Somebody’s calling out. 

“Is this the residence of Childe?” 

He doesn’t recognize the voice, but he tries to answer anyway. Inconveniently, though, time itself slows down at that exact moment to fuck him over; the entire world moves in slow motion as pain erupts from his chest to his neck to his mouth—blood spills from said mouth, spewing in a somewhat comedic way as he hurls up more petals to the floor. He coughs once, twice, then promptly blacks the fuck out. 

***

When he wakes again, he feels worse than ever. Breathing is, predictably, much harder than before, but on the plus side there doesn’t seem to be any more petals he coughed up over the night—day. He tries to get up and succeeds, the head pounding effect of the Glaze Lily petal seeming to have dissipated. The clock now reads three, hopefully in the afternoon. He doesn’t have to do anything today, not with Yanfei promising to reach out first as soon as she’d figured out all the fine details, but he did want to make Tonia her bank account. If he’s going to black out every single time he coughed up petals, being a Glaze Lily spawner is a far more serious problem than he thought it’d be; the book mentioned the frequencies of these attacks going up as the days went on, and it’s only day two. 

Yeah, he’s kinda fucked. 

He drags his body out of the couch and forces himself into clean clothes, barely making it out of the door without collapsing. He then makes a very, very slow stroll through the streets of Liyue to Northland Bank, which gives him plenty of time to consider his next options. 

He has, without second doubt, reserved the fifth day to be the day of his death. With how bad his condition is right now, he very much questions his ability to stay sane by then, but he figures he deserves at least one day in which he can simply relax. On that day, ideally, he will—whatever the method—kill himself. It makes perfect sense, to take control over his own death instead of “giving in” to the fucking flowers. Of course, this means that every preparation made during the 3.5 days leftover must be pristine , otherwise he’ll have human regrets and haunt this land forever or however Liyuean folklore goes. 

He had originally planned to meet with the Qixing in order to expedite the processing process, but now that he’s thinking a little more clearly (and breathing a little less easily) he could instead transfer a years worth of funds to Tonia’s account, no need for any kind of a check at all. In fact, Yanfei had suggested this very method yesterday—send a letter to Snezhnaya via the fastest possible route containing her bank account information and everything she needed to know, then mark that off his list of things to do. Since he already has to do paperwork anyway, he’ll also handle writing everyone letters once he’s in-office. 

When he walks into Northland Bank about six hours later than he normally does, Ekaterina sends him a worried glance, but he shrugs her off with practiced excuses—errands to run, training to do—before heading straight up to his office to set up Tonia’s bank account. He fills out the necessary forms, then brings the paperwork up to Ekaterina, who seems a bit perplexed but accepts them without question. Even when Childe specifies that the bank account were to be effective immediately, and that she was to wire ten million Mora to it (also effective immediately), she most definitely does not suspect anything is amiss at all. Nope. Absolutely not. 

She has no reason to be, especially when Childe is being extraordinarily careful to ensure that he isn’t coughing up blood nor flower petals in front of a single living soul. In fact, he had soon mastered the arts of not coughing up blood at all —as blood pools in his mouth, he could instead swallow it back into his stomach, picking the stained flower-petals out to covertly discard them into a desk drawer. 

Technically, very technically, his body still had the blood. It was just in his stomach now instead of lungs. He pauses in the middle of writing Ekaterina’s letters—which are half instructions on what to do next and half gratitudes for her putting up with him—to perform this very technique, neatly picking the petals off his tongue again. 

Five this time. It was four just a half-hour ago, then three earlier this afternoon as he was getting changed; two this morning, and one a couple days ago. He’s perfectly aware of why the flower petals have been getting worse, and that is the fact that Zhongli had—apparently—invited Childe out to lunch while he was busy passed out. Ekaterina had delivered the correspondence with a very pleased look, probably at the fact that Zhongli was just given an accidental fuck you, in the form of Childe not even responding to the request. In his defense, he was knocked unconscious from either blood loss or sedatives or both. Maybe it’d been his premonition tipping him off—sparing Childe the inevitable heart attack he would’ve had if the invite was delivered when he was conscious. Because, well, the audacity . 

Of Zhongli. To invite him out to lunch. Celestia must really fucking hate him: you get one little crush, and not only does the crush break your heart, he also kills you, while inviting you out to lunch while having no idea that he’s killing you, or that you’re are going to die because of him at all. 

Childe pretends he feels worse about being invited to lunch than about him missing the invitation altogether. 

For the millionth time that day he considers leaving Zhongli a letter too. He decides against it, then considers it again, then totally, for good decides against it—over and over. He forces himself to focus on Ekaterina’s letter, and after a few more minutes of beating himself up mentally, finally finishes the list of people who she are to deliver his letters to, complete with address and order of significance. 

At the top of the list is Tonia/his family, then the Tsaritsa, then the Traveler. The letters aren’t done yet, but those are the final list of people who will be hearing from him after his death other than Ekaterina. He does not and will not add Zhongli anywhere near that list. Absolutely not. The asshole doesn’t deserve to be there. 

He concludes the letter with a signature and a happy face because why the fuck not (he briefly wonders if he’s in a terrible mood because of the Glaze Lilies in his lungs acting as some mysterious psychedelic, the fact that he’s dying in a few days, or the fact that he’s missed Zhongli’s invitation) and places it inside her designated envelope. Already inside the envelope are all the documents necessary to promote her to be the manager of Northland Bank after he’s dead. He mentioned, at the end of his little note, that he thinks of her as more than capable for the position. Every contract in there is already signed by Childe, and Ekaterina would just need to add her signature for the documents to be legally binding. Fantastic. 

Upon sealing the envelope with wax and setting it aside, Childe reaches over to the desk and brings out the first draft of his will that he had completed before he began Ekaterina’s letter, skimming over the contents. Another sigh escaping his lips. 

Every single Mora he ever had were to be left with Tonia, as well as the house his family lived in and everything within it. As for slightly more sentimental gifts, Tonia would receive Childe’s copy of the book The Art of War , written by an ancient Liyuean philosopher, with little doodles and annotations that Childe had made in its margins over the years. That book had single handedly gotten him through both the Abyss and the Fatui training camps; hopefully it’ll help her get through the inevitably shitty life of being an adult. Teucer will be given Childe’s little ruby earring that the Harbinger wears absolutely everywhere—Childe clearly remembered promising the child that he could have it some day. It's a bit of a pity it came so soon, but it’ll have to do.  

He leaves his bow and double-sided spear with the Traveler. He figures that if anyone would need it, it would be him; it’s also only appropriate, since those were the two weapons Childe used during their fight. 

Both his Vision and his Delusion, along with his Harbinger mask would be returned to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa—a symbol of his loyalty, he hoped she would understand—along with every other weapon he’d ever had before. 

Finally to, well. 

Zhongli. 

Childe had taken half-an hour to sit there and argue with himself over this notion before he hit the fuck it point. In his will, on its very last line, is a single sentence indicating that Zhongli would receive the chopsticks that he had once gifted Childe—the one with the dragon and phoenix pair engravings. 

Everything else was as concise as he could make it. The funeral was to be held in Liyue—he decided against Snezhnaya, since the idea that the Glaze Lilies inevitably growing on top of his grave would die faster than he did (haha) in the cold Snezhnayan climate. He planned to ask for forgiveness in his letters to his siblings—he really did hope Tonia and Teucer would understand. 

Despite having only been there for two years, and him recently committing a terrorist action on the people there, Liyue felt like home. He may not be welcomed there anymore, and perhaps his resting site would be spat upon, but he most definitely did not want Tonia and Teucer to see a freeze-dried body be shipped halfway across the world to be buried in cold soil. He declared Hu Tao as the Executor, as previously discussed in their meeting yesterday, and—

And someone is knocking on his door. Again, actually. The knock is strangely familiar, and with a start he realizes that it’s the same knocking he heard earlier in the day—when he was briefly woken from whatever comatose state he entered yesterday night. Very carefully concealing the relevant papers under a stack of innocent enough debt-collecting due dates, Childe massages his temples as he calls out: “Come in.” 

The door swings open, and where Ekaterina should be standing is Zhongli.

If he hadn’t not-delivered his will to Hu Tao yet, Childe would have really seriously considered just killing himself already. 

Childe reaches for the nearest, most normal-human-being response possible and goes for yet another smile. His voice is strained, but he can’t do it all. “Ah. Mister Zhongli. Again.” 

“Yes,” Zhongli replies, his voice strangely soft. “I was worried for you, as you hadn’t responded to my request earlier today.” 

Oh.

He was? 

For the second time in five days, Childe considers throwing his persona to the winds for the preferable action of strangling Zhongli to death. He was worried? Because Childe hadn’t responded to his request? Like Childe was some dog who willingly bent and catered to his every wh—well, actually.

Now that Childe is thinking about it, he basically was a dog to Zhongli, wasn’t he? He paid for everything, even his own gift, changed all his schedules to accommodate Zhongli’s, and took the ex-Archon everywhere. Ah, of course. Zhongli must be worried his puppy isn’t acting as eager and desperate as he used to. 

That is a very interesting revelation. It definitely doesn’t make Childe sick to his stomach, and definitely doesn’t cause him to swallow a small mouthful of blood. 

Zhongli, upon noticing Childe’s silence, continues the conversation himself. “Though I can very clearly see you are busy. Please, however, do not overwork yourself—you appear to be quite exhausted.” 

Wow, thanks, Zhongli. He muses to himself in the middle of repressing his emotions and swallowing another mouthful of blood. It can’t possibly be because I’m hurling up blood every two hours. It can’t possibly be because I’m dying of a flower in my lungs. It’s clearly because I’m overworking myself. I won’t do it anymore, no worries! Everything fixed . 

The musing, though satisfying to his sick, dying brain, comes with a cost. He went silent for too long, and Zhongli is now observing him very carefully. 

The same look he gives to some jade fragment presented by a merchant, who claims it to nothing but cheap pieces — but he knows better. He has always known better. He looked at things, and people, as if he alone saw and understood the true value in them, and made his final judgments based on his opinion alone; perhaps that is what drew Childe to him, hook-line-sinker. From the start, he was never meant to survive this. 

“Ah, yeah,” he replies like a sane person, instead of saying everything that just went through his brain including whatever the fuck that last bit was. “I’ll just have to watch myself, then. You know how easy it is to get rooted up in things.” 

If he willingly lets that pun land, it’s most definitely not his fault. His normally excellent sense of humor is actively being strangled to death. Zhongli seems to find the word choice funny, though, and he smiles just a bit—so absurdly genuine, exactly like the smile he used to give when Childe said something nonsensical to Zhongli’s long rant about a random niche topic, and Childe suddenly hallucinates that they’re in Liuli Pavilion.

He blinks once, twice, then realizes that he is in Liuli Pavillion, and Zhongli is seated across from him, and Zhongli is ranting about something—Glaze Lilies, funny enough. He can’t remember why that’s so funny, though. They draws from the memories of the earth, you see, Zhongli says, pauses, and seems to mouth: they draw from me.

And then his entire world goes sideways. When Childe blinks again, much harder this time, he’s back in his office. Zhongli is by his side. Zhongli is touching his arm , and doing—something, maybe shaking him back to reality, and the other is so fucking close that Childe struggles to register what’s going on, much less what happened. 

He can hear each inhale of Zhongli’s breath. He can—almost— feel them wash over his clothes; they’re now clean, evidence-free, yet he wants to claw out of them on the spot anyway. He shakes his head harshly.

“Oh,” he says, eloquently. “I think I tripped.” 

“Childe,” Zhongli replies, concern patent in his voice. “You were sitting.” 

“I was, wasn’t I?” He chuckles, finding the situation a bit funny. “No need to worry, I’ll be fine after some rest.” 

Except the rest he’s referring to is death, in three days, because he really isn’t going to get anywhere with this shit before then. Zhongli predictably tenses up at the usage of ‘sir’—because Childe only insisted on that during the first week they knew each other—and nods, standing. 

Because the Archon War apparently raised this guy with manners, he holds out a hand for Childe to grab onto while rising.

Childe fucking ignores him and uses the desk instead, heaving himself onto the chair. Zhongli continues to look worried; whatever deity that gave Childe this disease should have just struck him down instead. At least he wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. He vaguely wonders why the gods above didn’t make Hanahaki’s end result immediate instead of taking days to kick in—seriously, he’s known government systems faster than whatever this disease has got going on—but then again, they’re probably getting a kick out of all this. 

Schoolyard crush on a fucking Archon. God, Childe would be laughing too. He is not the dainty yet wise, gentle yet brave, barely-legal lucky girl that the storyline might prefer him as; he will not use his wits and love of the world to finally find a way to win Rex Lapis’ heart. The last one who succeeded died nearly a hundred years ago, and it is her signature scent that envelops all of Childe’s senses now — bitterly floral, but ultimately sweet. 

Zhongli shifts, for once having lost that preternatural grace, then resumes his previous position — meaning he thankfully gets out of Childe’s personal space. 

“Well, then. I will be taking my leave. Perhaps we can meet for a meal another day…” 

Childe could fucking cheer. They will not meet for a meal another day, no; with any luck, they’ll never meet again. This will be the end of things, until Zhongli receives a parcel in his mailbox and opens it to finally understand. The smile he’s flashing the other is genuine, maybe even delighted, and Zhongli reciprocates warmly: something kind behind his eyes as he continues — 

“Ajax.” 

***

There is a ringing in his ears. 

I understand that we have been distant…

Childe hears the sound of his own breathing, ragged and desperate, as he tries to climb to the top of the mountain. His hands are cut open, bleeding freely onto the snow below; he is the singular splash of color here. Soon, even the trail of blood up the mountainside  — red patterened onto a vast plain of white, the only evidence of his existence — will be covered by the snowfall. 

He will be covered by snowfall.

Ajax . That’s not even how it’s pronounced. The distinct Liyuean accent is what pisses him off more than anything; had Childe not tried, day in and day out, to rid himself of his own? Was he not trained, before even arriving to Liyue, on the particulars of the dialect — just so he would seem more approachable to the locals, to Zhongli? 

“Wait,” he calls out. 

Zhongli turns around, looking surprised, looking— hopeful.

Childe opens a small desk drawer. The very same drawer he set his bow, spear, earring, and copy of the Art of War ; the drawer that held the single gift from his ‘friend’ ever since it came to his possession. He brings the box up with shaking hands and sets it on the desk with a click. He then produces the piece of paper that came with the chopsticks—the receipt. 

Zhongli stares at him, his expression morphing promise to devastation. Childe is smiling in return. 

Finally, he’s placed a finger on why Zhongli has been upsetting him so recently. He — who hasn’t given a fuck about how Childe would react to him being lied to and played for two years — thinks nothing is wrong. Thinks his betrayal, because that’s what it was , means nothing; as if it was as simple as a rejected dinner invitation and not something that shattered Childe’s world. Zhongli has, simply put, chosen to ignore everything that has occurred and move on when Childe — Childe will never move on from this. Childe will die from this, and Zhongli will not. Zhongli will never. Zhongli moves on. 

He always has, and always will. Childe quietly wonders if that is what it means to be an Archon.

Guess what. And for once, his internal voice is on his side; suspiciously childlike, but shaking with the blinding rage that Childe can’t quite reach. Being an Archon doesn’t mean you get to away with it . 

Childe pushes the chopsticks further into the center of the desk. “What are you waiting for? Take them back.” 

His tone is polite, conversational, and deceptively light. He takes a page out of Zhongli’s own book and pretends . Pretends this isn’t significant. Pretends nothing is happening. Pretends, pretends, pretends.

Unlike the Archon, however, Childe is not a fucking coward; he is looking Zhongli directly in the eyes. He does not run from the “harm” he’s causing — though it’s difficult to imagine that the other will feel anything but disappointed that Childe was done playing. 

The chopsticks were gifted to him by Zhongli. At the time, Zhongli had told him it was to celebrate. Childe will die soon, and there is nothing to celebrate now.  

Zhongli lets out a small, strained laugh. 

“Those were a gift to you,” he tries. “You must keep them, they are a sign of good lu-” 

“Mister Zhongli?” Childe cuts him off. Strangely enough, he doesn’t feel much of anything. Something inside him is gritting his teeth, digging fingernails so hard into his palms that he’ll draw blood soon, but it’s not — him. He could laugh, here, with Zhongli. It’d be the last time they would ever laugh together. “Take them.” 

Zhongli’s laugh disappears within seconds, his expression unreadable. Childe has never seen this emotion on the other’s face before, and some sick part of him is glad to have witnessed it — it means that this is something rare for Zhongli, and that’s close enough to special. The other swallows, harshly. 

“You mean it.”  

“Does it look like I’m joking?” Childe murmurs back, gleefully drinking in the sight of the other undone — emotional —  hurt . Finally, hurt. “Last warning, xiansheng .” 

Zhongli doesn’t reach out. Well, Childe gave him the chance. 

Slowly, carefully, he opens the box. The chopsticks are sitting — still in pristine condition, just as the day he purchased them — on golden silk cushions, hand-woven by an artisan somewhere in <location>. His Delusion jumps to life, a purple glow filling his office in seconds; the other inhales, sharp, and finally reaches for the box, a flash of Geo reaching for the box to try and shield it; with one swift motion, a sharp crackle of electricity is shot through the container, colliding with the force of an Archon’s shield — 

But Childe had been faster. When the smoke clears, a shiny layer of transparent gold is protecting a box split cleanly in half. The wood inside has been shattered into fragments. 

“Goodbye,” Childe murmurs, soft enough that only he can hear.  

With that, he knocks sharply on the desk twice. Ekaterina, probably having stood guard outside the door this entire time, reports immediately to the room — her eyes widening when she witnesses (and guesses) what has occurred. If she sees Zhongli, eyes blown wide, at a loss for words; or Childe, standing deadly still, his gaze locked onto the expression of the other — she comments on neither. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Have Mister Zhongli escorted outside.” He replies, his tone even as he resumes his seat. After sparing a glance down at the mangled remains of the chopsticks, he continues — “And have these disposed of.” 

He’s not sure what happens next. Ekaterina must have taken the chopsticks from his desk  and led Zhongli out of the door at some point, because when a burning pain in his chest ignites — a pain Childe has never felt before, even in the Abyss, where the air could easily cripple you for life were you not detoxified regularly — he’s alone in his office. 

He doesn’t care to hold the blood back this time, and instead spits the liquid out into the wastebin, hacking violently as his whole body shakes. When he hauls himself back up, there is a nice coat of iron lingering on his tongue and flower petals—somehow untarinished and perfectly, transparently light blue — are floating in a pool of blood. 

Celestia, losing that much blood in one day can not be healthy for him. But then again, he is dying, so he supposes there isn’t much he can do about it anyway. Though he briefly wonders how he’s going to explain to literally anybody who sees that wastebasket why there’s a quarter-liter of blood in it, his mind soon refocuses onto the task at hand. 

It actually refocuses onto Zhongli, and his expression, and how he had nearly stuttered when asking Childe if he meant it — but for both his physical and mental health, the most important thing in his life right now is the letters he needs to write. Not whatever the hell just happened. 

After how-many-fucking-minutes has passed, Ekaterina comes back to inform him that Zhongli has left Northland Bank. He thanks her for her work and continues his letters. After another how-many-fucking-minutes, Ekaterina returns again to inform her the bank will be closing down for the night. Childe tells her to leave the keys in front of his door and head on out. She pauses, as if she wants to argue, then smartly thinks the better of it; complying with the order and shutting his door gently.  

During that time, and for a long time after that, all Childe does is write. 

First to the Traveler, first and easiest. He wishes him luck in everything — finding his sister, finding his powers again, and finding a way back to whatever world they wished to be in together. He gently requests that the Traveler visit his family back in Snezhnaya, adding that Paimon is a huge hit between his two younger siblings, especially Teucer. He then details a few noteworthy specifics of how his weapons work, not bothering to conceal just how proud he sounds. Those weapons were passed down from my master , he adds. Maybe you’ll meet her one day. I get a feeling that she’ll like you. The letter, signed off with ‘Your rival and dear friend, Childe ,’ is soon sealed alongside several pages of Fatui reports about Lumine — he can’t reveal too much, because half of this is highly classified intel as-is, but it’s enough to give the Traveler a start. 

Next, to Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. His Archon was never one for long-winded speeches, so he keeps this one as short as possible. He thanks her for her providings, for everything she has done for him. He expresses regret that he cannot serve her anymore, but also reassures that she’ll find someone as twice as capable to fill that role — alongside several recommendations for who might be a suitable next-in-line. He apologizes for the, being honest, fucking disaster caused in Liyue, and promises to never do it again; he knows she’ll get a laugh out of that line. He then, disguised as an “afterthought,” adds his case for why Aunt and Uncle should stay with his family — they’ve been excellent in their services, and Childe is willing to pay them out of his own pocket if necessary. The finishing line reads: Your former 11th, Tartaglia. After a moment, he adds P.S. I’ll send Rosalyne your regards in hell; the letter is then sealed alongside profiles of each of his recommendations. 

Two down, two to go.

He writes to Teucer in simpler terms. He explains that Childe will be going on a very, very long journey, that he will not be returning, and that Childe loves him very, very much. He encourages his little brother’s streak for experimenting and causing mayhem, though he does warn against upsetting Tonia too much. He pours every piece of advice he has for his baby brother down on the paper; by the time he looks up, the letter is five pages long front-and-back. 

Despite everything, Childe laughs to himself before completing the letters to his sister in a similar way. To this he adds a bit more financial advice, to find a legal advisor named Yanfei in Liyue if she were to ever be in trouble, and that he’s terribly sorry for leaving her with such a responsibility at her age. He recommends restaurants around Liyue Harbor and his favorite orders from each one; every beautiful spot to sightsee within a hundred mile distance; and where to find Ekaterina, in case she would ever want to. On the very last page of the letter, he discloses the secret around his death. 

Here’s a little secret . You can tell Mother and Father, but not anybody else, okay? 

I’m dying of a disease called hanahaki. You’ve probably read of it before — the one where you grow flowers in your lungs because of your crush? The one that sounds totally made up? I’m telling you this in writing, even though you’ll find out eventually, because I don’t want you to be afraid of loving someone. I don’t want you to become scared that you’re going to have to leave Teucer, or anybody else, because you’re loving someone. Hanahaki is rare. It’s not even genetic, and I’m the first patient that has existed in basically five decades. You’re not going to die because you love someone, Tonny. 

Brother has two important favors to ask you. The first one, and the big one: when Teucer grows up, and gets old enough to understand why I died, I want you to tell him exactly this too. Show him this letter if you can’t say it, but tell him it’s going to be okay. The second one: there’s going to be two more letters inside the envelope, for Mother and Father. Do me a favor and don’t read those. I know you want to snoop, but don’t! You can ask them when you’re older.

If the corners of his eyes are slowly growing wetter, nobody is around to see it; and by the time he finishes the letters to his parents, they dry entirely. He signs the ones to his siblings off with ‘ Brother is watching over you, Ajax ’ — just ‘ Ajax ’ for his parents — and seals everything shut before dropping them into the same drawer as before. 

Childe locks the drawer, slipping the key inside his pocket before getting up and stretching. He checks the clock — it’s five in the morning. He’s been up for more than twenty four hours straight. A minor miracle, how he managed to finish all the letters in the worst condition he has ever been in, but one he’s grateful for nonetheless. 

He doesn’t even remember how he gets to his apartment, only that he makes sure to lock the doors to Northland Bank once he exits. The last thought he has before he passes out is that he only needs to send his will to Yanfei before he’s finally, finally , done. 

Chapter Text

Childe wakes up screaming. 

The moment he comes to consciousness, though, he stops. The habit, one he had difficulty of kicking even in the Fatui training camps, is now more of an annoyance than anything — so he had a nightmare. Boo-hoo. He can barely even recall the contents of what made him so horrified, so panicked, only that cold sweat and the sensation of clothes clinging to his body are starkly unwelcome. 

With a sigh he pushes himself up from his couch. A check of the clock proves that, somehow, it’s only been a single hour since he fell asleep. 

Still, it’s a hopeless fight trying to return to sleep now. He sits up properly, swiveling his body to face the correct way instead of collapsing onto the couch as he wants to. When his feet hit the floor, a wet slap echoes through his apartment. He mentally groans — he must have thrown up blood in his sleep again — though when he looks to the floor to find the almost familiar flower petals, he instead makes eye contact with a dead body.

He very nearly screams again.

Blood pounds in his head as every sense in his entire fucking body bursts to life, ringing, screaming, indicating danger, danger, danger — the body is lifeless and weak but for some fucking reason alive , and it gurgles and spits in an attempt to preserve what little fight is left in it’s mangled form —

Then he recognizes the hairpin on the matted, bloody hair of the body, and his mind comes to a screeching stop altogether. 

Tonia . Tonia — she’s in his apartment — how? She’s dead — who? Why? Why Tonia ? 

Archons fucking above, he can’t breathe. He can’t think — hell, he can’t even fucking bring himself to do anything other than stare, wide-eyed, at the bloody corpse of his younger sister sprawled in his Liyue apartment floor. It’s that feeling again, the one he experienced when he was dragged into the Abyss, the one where his body won’t fucking listen to him to do something, save her, you’re her older brother, you’re big broth — do something. 

In a flash of insanity, Childe manages to flick a switchblade into the palms of his shaking right hand. With that same insanity, and clinical precision, he slashes a thin cut onto his left wrist. 

The pain brings every sensation back to his body as if they’re being slammed into him manually. He only vaguely registers the warmth of the blood, leaking from the cut onto to his palm, dripping down his fingertips; or the fact that he’s pressed so hard he possibly hit bone. What he is instead aware of is Tonia, who suddenly stops gurgling, and panic shoots through him like an arrow once again as he moves faster than he’s ever done before. 

He picks his baby sister up from the floor as gently as possible, holding her bridal-style in his arms, and gets out of his fucking apartment — not bothering to lock the door. There isn’t a single person in Liyue awake at this hour, especially not on a fucking Saturday morning, and everytime he turns a corner Childe is praying for someone to be there — anybody who could help — but no one comes. The streets are desolate, unforgiving, and Childe forces himself to keep running — as fast as his legs can carry him, ignoring the blooming pain screaming in his chest, his mind solely focused on keeping his sister alive . For once, he utterly regrets never learning how to heal using his Hydro vision, if only he wasn’t so fucking useless , if only he could get help , and Archons, he is the worst fucking brother to exist. 

He runs with the body — no, not the body , Tonia isn’t gone yet, she can’t be — through all the steps of Bubu Pharmacy. It’s only when he faces the very much closed door of the establishment that he understands that it’s five in the morning , meaning the Pharmacy isn’t fucking open , and meaning he’s fucked and Tonia is dead and it’s all his fault . He nearly feels his legs give out then and there, but no — he can’t give up, not when Tonia hasn’t given up, and he ignores how his sister suddenly feels so much lighter and how his sister suddenly stopped breathing and how he can’t feel the heartbeat that was very much there, just a few minutes ago; his mind moves a mile a minute to try to find a solution. Any solution. 

Then he remembers that Archons know when their names are being called, and he nearly sobs once again as he tries to open his mouth to call on someone, on anyone , but his mouth doesn’t move, and he just stands there dry heaving because of panic or shock or trauma or for some stupid fucking psychological reason that he doesn’t give enough of a damn to name at the moment. 

What a sight it must be. The 11th of the Fatui Harbingers, gasping for air and words at the doors of Bubu Pharmacy at a time where not even stars are awake, clutching desperately onto the body of his beloved younger sister. 

In his head, he is screaming. Screaming for his Archon, for Barbatos, for Zhongli , but nothing but choked breathing escapes his lips. He vaguely registers tears streaming down his face, and slowly takes a look downward to find Tonia completely lifeless and still in his arms. 

She’s dead. 

She’s dead .

She’s dead and she won’t ever come back and it’s entirely Childe’s fault. His fault for loving Zhongli, his fault for leaving her, his fault for joining the Harbingers, his fault for coming back from the Abyss — he should have stayed in Snezhnaya, he should have never taken this fucking job to Liyue, he should have been there for his baby sister . 

But he wasn’t, and now she’s gone. 

A sob finally escapes his lips. Just when he thinks he’s about to completely lose it, a hand settles firmly on his shoulders. The contact is warm and sudden and burns him, but it’s enough to snap him out of his self-pity spiral; instead, he turns around so fast his head might snap to the stranger who might be able to fucking help. 

When his vision stops swimming, he makes eye contact with the Traveler. Golden hair, and golden eyes — alive, brows furrowed in concern, such stark contrast to the dying light in his baby sister’s eyes just a few minutes earlier; but he swallows down either the sick or the bloody petals that threaten to escape.

He then proceeds to just fucking stand there, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to think. 

He needs to ask for help. No you don’t, stupid. She’s dead .

He needs to ask for help. She’s dead. What part of the fact that she’s a fucking corpse do you not get? Wake up. You still have things to do — there’s still Teucer, you have to take care of him — Childe, I swear to Tsaritsa — 

“Childe,” Aether begins, his voice overlapping with Childe’s stupid inner monologue. “Are you… okay?” 

Is he okay? 

Is he okay? 

Archons, how can Aether say that, when there’s a dead body in his arms? Surely Tonia needs more medical attention than he does, on the account of having been fucking stabbed , and Childe is seconds from summoning his sword again; then Paimon opens her mouth.

“Paimon doesn’t understand,” Aether shushes her blatantly, but Paimon rolls her eyes and continues. “Paimon doesn’t get why Childe is holding his clothes like that.” 

Childe is—

He’s what? 

He’s — no, that was Tonia. That was his sister. That is Tonia, god damn it, she’s not fucking dead yet, so he needs to ask for help and he needs to ask now, but unfortunately for everybody involved Childe still can’t bring himself to fucking speak. 

He briefly wonders if he’s under some kind of fucked up, ancient, karmic-cycle-esque Archon curse. Yesterday — he, Zhongli — and that train of thought turns out to have been a mistake. Even his determination to never let anybody ever see his disease can’t overpower the blood rising from his chest again. His throat scratches, burns , as if something sharp was scraping against it from the inside, and he chokes just in time to throw up blood all over the clothes that he is holding. 

The—

Clothes? 

No, that was — Tonia. 

“Tonia?” He whispers, his voice raspy. 

His vision blurs, everything seems smushed together, and the only thought running through his head is why, why he was holding a bloody, soaked pile of clothes instead of Tonia. He isn’t aware of Paimon gasping, nor Aether trying to prevent him from falling sideways and cracking his head open on the concrete steps, and he’s definitely not aware of the pharmacy back door swinging open to reveal the silhouette of a man. 

His last coherent thought is that he needs to tell them Tonia’s blood type. 

*** 

Childe opens his eyes, and the first thing he feels is that he’s about to fucking hurl again. He doesn’t know where he is, or what’s going on, but he nearly rips out the needle pumping fluid into his veins as he desperately tries to cough out the petals that seem to coat the inside of his damn throat. He hacks like a cat throwing up a hairball, except he’s throwing up blood instead of hairballs, and it also feels like he’s taking an ice bath while there’s burns all over his body. Short to say, he (appropriately) feels like he’s fucking dying . 

He wonders how many more times he’s going to have to wake up in excruciating pain. He had initially set the number to just four, since he only had four wake-ups to live through when he first discovered his condition, but if he keeps passing out then he’ll end up doing much higher numbers than that. He glances outside the window and grimaces — again, it’s fucking dark outside. He keeps time-skipping or something, too. 

Someone runs into the room he’s laying in. He distinctly recognizes the small, padded, bouncy footsteps as Qiqi, the zombie assistant of the Bubu Pharmacy. 

“Ah.” He grins. “Hey, Qiqi.” 

Qiqi just stares at him before running outside of the room, not bothering to close the door on the way out. Not that Childe minds; he had become very much used to the small child not being one for much words. Another set — two sets, actually — of footsteps dash into the room, and he’s finds that the little girl had brought the Traveler with her. Childe feels Aether’s worried eyes on him, makes eye contact with a silent Paimon, and he’s suddenly taken straight back to why he’s here to begin wtih — why he visited Bubu Pharmacy at the crackass of dawn. 

Tonia .

What little oxygen his lungs managed to capture is gone in an instant. He inhales sharply, desperately, receiving nothing in return, and Aether’s eyes widen as his posture suddenly goes rigid. 

Archons, is he dying? Have the flowers in his lungs won against him this fast, before he’s event sent his will to Yanfei? He can’t, he can’t , he has to stay alive but he can’t breathe , and surely the Glaze Lilies have spread all over his lungs to the point where they were finally suffocating him. His mouth opens and closes in an attempt to gasp for air, but there somehow isn’t enough around. 

“Paimon, get Baizhu.” Aether’s voice rings, and Childe focuses on it despite it not being directed at him because it’s uncharacteristically authoritative —as if he’s commanding Childe to listen to him, and so Childe does listen. He is distantly aware of Paimon floating out of the room, but his attention snaps to Aether once more at the Traveler arriving at his side. 

“Childe,” His name rings from Aether’s mouth, and it’s still firm, but it has a gentler — softer — sound to it. “You’re not dying, Childe.”  

That almost makes Childe laugh. Oh, if only Aether kn -

“The flowers don’t suffocate you.” He says, quietly — so quietly that Childe almost misses it, but of course he doesn’t, and it’s like a blow to the stomach. Aether… knows ? 

What the fuck? 

“Well, not completely anyway. Don’t focus on that.” He adds on hurriedly, somehow sensing Childe’s even further rising panic, and instead rummages into the pouch he’s carrying before producing a vial of — something . He feels the glass pressed against his hand — judging by the frost that’s formed, it must be cold, it has to be, but it isn’t. Childe must have developed some kind of Cryo immunity. Maybe because he was dying. “Can you feel that?” 

Childe waits for a second shaking his head, movements strained. 

“Okay,” Aether replies. “So this is called a panic attack.”  

Aether may as well have spoken Fontainian to him. Childe stares at him blankly as Aether visibly struggles not to throw his hands up in the air. 

“A panic attack,” he eventually repeats, making Childe wonder if Aether can actually read minds, “Is an episode of intense fear that triggers physical reactions. The most common one is making it feel like you can’t breathe — but you can. I know it’s hard, but try. Through your nose, not your mouth. Like this.” 

He exaggerates his breathing to make sound. Enough sound for Childe to latch onto. Following a movement — he can do that. Childe knows how to do that. It’s like training, if training is done by two guys breathing together in a room or something. 

After what feels like a small eternity, Childe feels the air return to his lungs slowly. Slowly, but definitely. A few more minutes pass, and suddenly Childe is very, very aware of the vial still pressed into his hands. 

Forget frozen, it’s burning cold. He drops it out of reflex, and Aether catches it with practiced ease before turning back to the Harbinger. “Better?” 

“Yeah.” Childe whispers out before realizing his voice was much too small. “Yeah, sorry. Is Tonia okay?” 

Aether looks to be at a loss of words at that, but before the Traveler can say anything, the door swings open once more — Qiqi enters, this time with Baizhu. 

“Thank you, Qiqi.” The pharmacist dismisses the girl, who only heads out after giving Childe a long, unreadable look. 

“Now, Mister Childe.” Baizhu’s gaze lands sharply on Childe. “How long has the development been going on for?” 

Childe avoids the question excellently. “A few days. Is Tonia okay?” 

His eyes narrow even further, if that was possible; and now it’s Childe’s turn to be perplexed. “I’m unsure who Tonia is.” 

“Tonia,” he repeats, then even says her name without the accent, as if that would help Baizhu understand. “My sister. The person I was holding.” 

“Childe,” Aether tries. “About that—” 

“Mister Childe, the only thing you were holding was a pile of bloody male clothes.” Baizhu pushes his glasses up the rim of his nose. “I assume they are yours? Qiqi retrieved them—I can show them to you if you would like.” 

Aether makes a face at Baizhu that goes clearly ignored. Childe, on the other hand, is rendered silent once again; though this time, to try and process as disbelief runs through his mind. He was only holding clothes? But Tonia was right there with him—

The obvious, obvious truth hits him in that moment.

“It—” He lets out a wheezing laugh. “It was a hallucination ?” 

Aether grimaces, and Childe keeps laughing, not caring how insane he sounds at that moment — because honestly, if he’s hallucinating his sister’s dead body , he is pretty sure he does actually count as insane. 

“Glaze Lilies,” Baizhu replies simply. “They have an effect that can cause mental delusion, hallucinations, or even death if a large quantity somehow finds itself in the bloodstream. I have to ask you this again, Mister Childe. How long have you been throwing up flowers ?” 

Can’t dodge forever. Oh well. Childe stops himself from laughing to glance back out the window. Lanterns are still lit in the streets — so it isn’t the dead of night yet. Ready, and… 

“I think I’m going to die in like… two-ish days?” 

Action. 

Paimon inhales sharply, and Aether’s expression hardens. Baizhu doesn’t say another word, instead nodding, marking something in his checklist, and leaving the room promptly. Aether pays no attention to the retreating pharmacist, instead leveling a look at Childe. “Two days ? You knew you had—” 

“Hanahaki?” Childe finishes. “I found out two days ago, too.” 

“Childe,” Paimon starts, breaking the solemn silence that has once again taken over the room. It’s very much unnerving to hear the always cheerful fairy’s voice low and serious, though not as much as the withering glare Aether is giving him. Seriously, he didn’t even look this pissed while Childe was sort of trying to kill him. “Childe has to tell Zhongli.” 

And, despite every promise Childe made to himself about how he will not be emotionally overtaken by anything before his death— not his fear, his hope, his desperation , the fact that he doesn’t want to die — not until his preparations were complete — he lets out a laugh that’s so harsh it even surprises him. 

“That obvious, huh?” He sounds so… bitter . For some reason. No, actually, the reason is pretty obvious: Childe loves ZHongli, Zhongli has played him, and it’s Zhongli’s fault that he’s dying. 

Childe loves Zhongli. True. As much as he’d like to deny this, the flowers growing in his lungs are evidence to the contrary. 

Zhongli played him. Also true. He knew of Childe’s real purpose from the start, knew that he would likely fail his mission, and chose to befriend him throughout anyway. 

It’s Zhongli’s fault that he’s dying. 

Is that true? 

Childe starts breathing, slowly, through his nose like Aether taught him, as he assesses just how badly he’s been treating Zhongli. 

He’s blamed Zhongli for a disease that the consultant did not directly cause, check. He’s assumed that the consultant had somehow intentionally hurt Childe with the intent of his death in mind , check. He’s taken that anger and been using Zhongli as a scapegoat for any emotional outbursts, check . 

Instead of dealing with his fear of death and every other god forsaken feeling that comes with a situation like his, he’s somehow processed all those feelings into anger for Zhongli .

Check . 

Maybe, just maybe — part of his brain is screaming for him to not think about this, that Zhongli is to blame, that he is but a victim in this situation (he now hears just how wrong that part is) — if Childe was thinking a bit more clearly, he wouldn’t have snapped the chopsticks. 

Maybe he would have expressed his anger and disappointment like a rational person . Maybe he could have — no, fuck that . 

The intensity in which Childe’s brain switches opinions is frankly dizzying. He’s practically arguing with himself at this point, really. 

Zhongli had betrayed Childe. The single person in Childe’s life that Childe knew wasn’t using him for some purpose or the other, was . And he didn’t even have the decency to be upfront with Childe about it; in fact, his entire plan hinged on Childe not knowing . If Zhongli knew Childe had to find out at the end, why pretend to be his friend? Why pretend to care? Why have Childe fall in love with him , and why would he ever — promise that the two were — would be—

For all of this, Childe is angry at Zhongli.

For all of this and more, Childe is—

He’s—

He’s not—

Shouldn’t he be? 

Something close to a sob threatens to break from his chest, and Childe reigns it in just in time for it to sound more like a cough. Aether is clearly not buying any of his shit, of course, but Paimon certainly seems to, and that offers him a small comfort. 

Every thought he’s shoved off to a corner of his mind over the past three days is resurfacing; that box, floating back up to the imaginary window and slamming directly into Childe’s chest, which won’t stop burning . Wave after wave of searing pain, for once in not his lungs, but in his heart. It’s all falling apart in his hands, his mind, and he suddenly recognizes that maybe, just maybe, he’s actually terrified .

Of dying. Of losing Zhongli. Of losing his family, his friends, his life . 

Who has he been kidding all this time? Acting like he’s fine, like he’s accepted this death instead of wanting to choke and cry and beg to anyone who might be able to fix it. 

Archons, he doesn’t want to die.  

He always knew he would go out at some point. He’s the fucking Vanguard, he wants his death to be brilliantly quick and twice as brutal. Not like this , though. Not in a pathetic and agonizingly slow way as he just waits for the world as he knows it to end, waits for him to do irrevocable damage to his family, waits for Ekaterina realize there are no chopsticks to return to Zhongli. Hell, he wishes he could have died back at the Golden House so he wouldn’t — so this — wouldn’t be his end .

He survives the god-damn Abyss and gets choked to death by a flower. Archons, can he just please catch a break?

He wasn’t upset at Zhongli. Not over this. In fact, he’s spent the past seventy two hours missing the man more than ever —a smooth, even voice washing over him, the smallest quirk of a smile at a joke Childe had made and the feeling of success, the way Childe had felt — wanted in his company. 

God, Childe is such a fucking idiot . 

He, in all his emotionally stunted glory, would only dare to love when it was given first — and it was given in abundance, wasn’t it? He’s never made the first move, only giving into what was offered, only reaching out when he was sure there was something there, and something was there, it has always been. All those lunches and dinners and small touches — Zhongli had loved him, even if it wasn’t the way Childe wanted him to. 

These are to signify an everlasting bond, he told him, just weeks before the Traveler ever set foot in Liyue Harbor. And to celebrate the two souls that make the bond what it is. The Mora — 

Don’t worry about it, xiansheng. I’ll get them for you.

No, Childe. A smile, amused, like there was some joke Childe wasn’t privy to. I want to gift these to you. 

Childe had ended up paying for it anyway, of course. Zhongli had looked just a bit disappointed that day, instead of the usual mildly embarrassed, at having forgotten his Mora. And Childe—

Zhongli had looked heartbroken, when Childe shattered the symbol of their relationship in front of him. 

When he shattered any indicator that Childe was willing to forgive him, like a normal fucking person would be, and talk — as they should have so long ago. Instead, he spent months moping over the “loss” of his only friend; but he hadn’t lost Zhongli, not until yesterday. 

Gods, was Zhongli waiting for him? Is that why he never showed up, took his time and bid his moment until Childe realized the glaringly obvious — the fact that Zhongli’s contract with the Tsaritsa was already set in stone before he met Childe? That he, the Geo Archon, never expected for a friendship to blossom when he signed his name onto the deal that would strip him of godhood, that perhaps Zhongli wanted nothing more than to tell Childe, but it was too late?

Human. Falliable. Childe had known this about the other before; yet somehow the discovery of Zhongli’s alter-identity as Rex Lapis had clouded a judgment Childe already made months in advance. 

Zhongli owed Childe an apology, fucking obviously , but Childe has done him worse: cast him out without a chance to even explain himself. He shows more mercy to actual traitors in the Fatui, and could not extend the same gesture for his only friend. There are certain things about Zhongli that Childe knows — that he’ll buy Dandelion Wine whenever a shipment comes through from Mondstat, but only ever drink when he’s missing somebody from years past; that he spends only one day a year, but the whole day, mourning a long-lost lover. Zhongli is not the confrontational type. He’s pretty sure whoever Zhongli misses in Mondstat is still fucking alive, and is also pretty sure it’s their fucking Archon; why would Zhongli break such a hard-set habit about his relationships when it came to Childe ? 

Celestia. Three months probably feel like minutes to someone who has lived for centuries. 

If Childe couldn’t talk to Zhongli before, he definitely can’t now. Not when he’s fucked up this badly. Strike maybe, this is definitely some karmic-cycle Archon curse, one he utterly deserved by running from his problems for too long or something. 

Not the whole flower-induced death part. The amount of guilt he’s feeling — enough to make his head spin — that comes along with being a shitty person. 

He lets out a laugh, but it’s strained and pathetic. Aether’s eyes narrow in worry, and Childe doesn’t bother trying to cover his disbelief at himself. 

“I — uh,” Childe smiles, but it feels so off on his face. “Okay, I think I fucked up.” 

Aether makes a grimace, but looks a little relieved that Childe finally spoke after a full two minutes of silence. “Is is that bad?” 

Is it that bad ? 

Well, he’s only shot his relationship with Zhongli in the foot while probably shattering both their hearts in the process. Not too fucked, really, just a minor inconvience. God — he needs to find the Archon, find him now , and get on his knees and beg or something because at this point he doesn’t give a fuck if Childe dies or something, he needs—

God. 

God, does he even deserve to talk to him? 

Childe slams that thought process down before it can fester. Wallowing in self-pity and not making decisions out of some fucked up right-or-wrong mental wrestling is exactly what got himself into this mess, he’s not about to let it happen again. 

Childe opens his mouth to respond to Aether, but the burning pain returns in his chest, and instead he merely feels the bits of blood pouring into his mouth. Aether quickly hands him a cup, and Childe spits in it—just blood, no petals. Good, he thinks. 

Paimon winces as Aether hands her the blood filled cup, which she flies out of the room with, probably to have Baizhu analyze or something. 

Childe feels the grip on his sanity loosen, probably from blood loss again, and Aether directs a gentle burst of Anemo energy to keep the ginger awake. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, then lets out a shaky exhale. “I wish I could talk to him.” 

“Okay, so go do that.” Aether replies instantly, looks relieved. “Confess, and-” 

“ No ,” Childe interrupts. The other’s expression falls. “I — Aether, I can’t .” 

“...Is that what you mean by you ‘fucked up’?” Aether asks, his voice careful, and Childe nods miserably. “What did you do?” 

“I…” He can’t say it. He has to say it. “Back when—we used to talk, god, where do I start. I ignored him for three months because I was pissed off and when he tried to talk to me, I—you know those chopsticks he gave me?” 

Aether nods, a horrified realization dawning on his face.

“I snapped them.” Childe continues, bitterly. “I didn’t even snap them. I electrocuted them into bits and had my secretary throw out the pieces while she walked him out the door. Traveler, I didn’t even… I didn’t give him a chance . Celestia knows he’s pissed off at me. But that’s not even the important part, I hurt him , and — ”

And now he’s going to die. Aether gracefully fills the silence instead of letting it stretch out for another two minutes. 

“What would you say to him, then?” 

Childe looks down, a bit ashamed. 

“I’d say sorry. For what I said, for assuming, for being too mad to — for never trying to understand him. So everything, basically.” 

“Okay. Childe,” Aether begins. “If you apologize to Zhongli, and then fucking die because you didn’t talk to him, that’s not going to make Zhongli happy. That’s not — going to make anyone happy. It would just be a shitty misunderstanding between friends, and then a tragic death. What kind of a fucking story would that be?”

“My story, probably,” Childe mutters without thinking, and silence descends in the room like thunder.

Man, why can’t just one of his jokes land. 

“Ajax,” Aether says next, and his voice has quieted down to a softer, fragile level. Childe stiffens at his name, his actual name, falling from Aether’s mouth — with surprisingly accurate pronunciation, albeit resembling one of the Northern dialects — and looks up at his friend. 

There are tears in his eyes. 

Aether is crying. 

Well, not crying, but he’s about to, which is almost worse.

“Ajax, I don’t want you to die.” 

It’s almost a whisper, yet it echoes clear as day in the room. And, Archons save him, Childe can’t argue otherwise when the Traveler is going to cry over his death. 

“I can’t promise,” Childe replies. His voice just as soft, but at least he’s trying to sound reassuring. “I’ll give it a shot.” 

“Promise that instead, then.” Aether wipes his tears off with the back of his hand, rolling his eyes instead. “I can’t trust you Harbingers with my life.” 

“Or his own, apparently,” Childe tries again — and miracle of all miracles, Aether gives an undignified snort in response. 

“Promise?” 

“Promise,” Childe replies.  

Just then, the door shoots open with a bang, and Baizhu enters, looking — well — pissed. His hair is a mess, as if he’d just woken up, and upon seeing Childe still awake, he heads directly to the Harbinger to offer him a glass of mystery liquid. 

“Drink.” 

The liquid in question is really, really green. “Finally trying to posion me, Mister Baizhu?” Childe’s response is met with a gaze that indicates Baizhu does want him dead, which isn’t doing great things for his case, actually — 

“ Drink .” 

Childe drinks.

It tastes suspiciously like fire-water, and he swallows down the liquid in just a few gulps. Baizhu snatches the cup from him, checks that Childe finished it, and turns on him with a frightening glint. 

“Mister Childe?” 

Childe meets the furious glare of the pharmacist with a slightly nervous one. “Uh, yes?” 

“If your body wasn’t magically enhanced by whatever hell-program the Fatui puts their Harbingers through, you’d be in a coffin by now.” 

“Oh.” He replies, not sure what else to say. “Thanks?” 

This, clearly, only serves to piss the pharmacist off. 

“So pray tell, sir.” His eyes are glowing in a way Childe’s pretty sure isn’t possible. “Why didn’t you come see me sooner ?” 

“The books… didn’t tell me there was a cure?” 

Baizhu looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm. 

“Sir. Just because there isn’t a cure , doesn’t mean there isn’t treatment .” 

He enounces each syllable slowly, through grit teeth, if he’s explaining the most basic of facts to a five year old. Which does more than enough to make Childe feel like an idiot, but to be fair to Baizhu, Childe uh. 

Hadn’t thought of that at all, actually. 

“Uh,” he mutters back. 

Baizhu clearly holds back from delivering the rest of his rant, and mutters something suspiciously like “self-preservation skills” before handing Childe a small bag. 

“ Luckily for you , I have something that will at least help on hand. Take these before breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day. If you throw up petals, take an additional one. When was the last time you ate?”

Childe blinks. 

Baizhu lets out a long, suffering sigh.

“So you’ve been throwing up blood, several times a day, on an empty stomach .” He almost sounds like he doesn’t believe it, and Childe makes a face. 

“Well. When you put it like that,” 

“The ability of a Harbinger’s body to sustain itself is miraculous . From now on, don’t miss any meal — hell, take frequent snacks too with whatever you can stomach while you’re at it. At least seven cups of water per day, doctor’s orders. The medicine contains the necessary ingredients for you to recover the lost blood and potentially start rebuilding parts of your insanely damaged internal organs.” He sighs again before lowering his checkerboard to meet Childe’s gaze. “Your condition was made about twice as worse on the account that you aren’t taking care of yourself, sir.” 

“Wait,” Childe pauses. “Seriously?” 

“Yes, seriously . You aren’t supposed to start throwing up flowers with your blood until the third day at the earliest. Popular media will have you believe that it’s all five days, or even during the incubation period, but that’s complete utter bullshit that I wish I could correct myself. However .” He levels a serious look at Childe. “I strongly encourage you to seek the traditional and known cure for this method. The medicine I gave you will prevent you from hallucinating like you did earlier, and from passing out as much, but it won’t stop you from dying.” 

Childe chuckles. “So blunt, doctor.” 

“It’s what I’m paid for. Now, regardless of whatever you intend to do next, I will be keeping you here until you’ve at the very least recovered the lost blood.” 

Aether begins in protest, and Baizhu cuts him off with a murderous look. “Traveler. If Mister Childe gets out there before being cleared by me, I can guarantee you that he will be passing away much, much sooner than in two days.” 

Aether quiets at that before an idea comes to his head. “Ah, then, Mister Baizhu. Would you allow Childe’s — uh, partner — ” 

“Can you please not fucking call him that,” Childe murmurs faintly. He goes completely ignored. 

“To visit him here at your Pharmacy for the talk to happen? I can bring him here, you know.” 

“An excellent idea, Traveler.” Baizhu nods. “I give you full clearance to bring said partner into the wards. If I am not present, Qiqi will allow you in.” 

Childe raises his hand, as if he’s a schoolboy, and Baizhu turns to him. “Yes, sir?” 

“Do I get a choice in this?” 

“Absolutely not.” Baizhu replies brightly. “The Traveler will bring the object of your affections — ”  

“Okay, don’t call him that either — ” 

“To you, and in the meantime, you will get rest .” 

“Yeah.” Paimon chimes in, and the playfulness in her voice is thankfully back. “Paimon doesn’t think Childe can talk to Zhongli if Childe is passed out again, actually.” 

“It’s three against one,” Aether grins, and Baizhu helpfully adds on:  

“It could be one against three for all I care. You are not leaving this bed, Childe.” 

Childe grimaces. He really, really doesn’t want to die in a hospital bed. “And if I… escape?” 

“You won’t.” Baizhu replies, scoffing. “A sleeping draught was mixed into the liquid you just consumed.” 

Childe stares at the man in full incredulity before the draught hits him, and hard. His eyes close on their own, and he falls back into the mattress.

Chapter Text

Aether thinks that Childe is going to be added to his nightmare fuel material for the rest of his lifespan, however long that is. 

To see Ajax — Tartaglia, a Fatui Harbinger , someone who laughed while Aether slashed him to bits in the Golden House — standing in front of the Bubu Pharmacy at the break of dawn, looking the most distraught he’d ever seen the man was, simply put, terrifying. 

No, distraught isn’t the word. The correct word would be broken. Or break ing . 

Childe — clutching onto the pile of clothes soaked in blood as if his life depended on it, eyes blown a mile wide and red splattered across his lips and wrist — looked as if someone had taken a hammer and blown through everything that meant anything to the man, then some. And that had scared Aether, because the Traveler was more than aware of Childe’s personality. 

Physical wounds meant nothing to Childe. Scars, slashes, even lost limbs or organs would only serve as a medal of honor to the fighter. Aether had once considered him indestructible for this reason — in the strangest fit of irony, those who gave little to no fucks about their own self preservation tended to survive the longest in a war, living out the rest of their lives to completion far after it was over. 

Aether was not unfamiliar to the wonderful world of dwindling mental health. He was a Traveler destined to move between worlds for the rest of eternity, after all. To think that his introductory psychology classes taken at some unknown university light years away would finally come in handy, and on the topic of Childe . Looking back, everything about him was textbook suicidal — refusing help, refusing to ask for help, making his condition worse, not taking care of himself — for Archon’s sake, he hadn’t eaten in days — and that shaken, empty look in his eyes. 

Childe was not supposed to look like that. Childe was supposed to be full of life and fire and energy, and Aether had been ready to strike down whatever entity that had put out that passion before he learned that it was fucking hanahaki . 

And hanahaki could never be solved by others, could never be helped in any way other than begging and pleading for the victim to finally see some amount of sense. Aether knows all too well that a hanahaki patient cannot be saved by him; he can only hope for the will of their loved ones, at least those of the other ones, to get through. Hope to convince them, somehow, that life was worth living, that they were worth living, either with or without so-and-so’s love. 

Hanahaki, too often, tends to be a convoluted manifestation of some, frankly, disturbingly complicated beliefs about oneself. Aether of all people would fucking understand this. And, first-hand experience of the disease or not, he is rightfully terrified for Childe; even if Childe doesn’t seem terrified for himself, the idiot. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why, or how. Aether realized approximately three minutes into seeing Zhongli and Childe interact for the first time; from what he’s heard around the harbor, everyone else knows too. 

Everyone but the two in question, apparently. 

There is an ongoing betting pool between the merchants of Liyue (rumored to be headed by the Tianqing herself) on when the two would officially be together, and how it would occur. The working theory was that Zhongli would ask the Harbinger out first, casually and carefully, just as he’s always approached Childe — and that fiery, blazing Tartaglia himself would say yes in a heartbeat, his Majesty the Tsaritsa be damned, and the two would passionately make out or something. Aether didn’t stick around for the tail end of that sentence.  

The much unpopular, perhaps even impossible scenario was that Childe would die before Zhongli ended up doing anything. Only Hu Tao had nearly a thousand mora bet on this perspective. Aether internally winces — for such a young girl, she has almost animalistic instincts, especially when it comes to the dead. 

No, he shakes his head quickly. Not dead. Dying, but not dead — Aether has too big of a savior complex to let that happen, thank you. He was able to stop ancient gods and bring back dragons from the brink of insanity, he will not allow the single fucking friend he’s made in this world to perish from the most stereotypically angsty disease that the Gods have ever had the displeasure of casting upon the mortal race. Fuck that. 

He contemplates his next step in the little seat right outside Bubu Pharmacy, just when Paimon floats into his line of sight. He turns, waving hello, and is greeted with a serious look. 

“You have to help him.” Paimon mutters, almost quietly, and Aether somehow understands that whatever Paimon is — he’s never questioned it, frankly, and Paiment is all too happy to never broach the subject — she, too, has experience. A slow nod. They both understand the stakes at hand. Paimon studies him carefully, looking perhaps the most anxious Aether has ever seen the fairy, and eventually just sighs. “Go talk to Xiao. He should know where Zhongli is.” 

Aether nods again, before this time raising a question. “What will you do?” 

Paimon looks surprised for a very brief second before schooling her expression into a playful smile. “What I should be doing, duh.” 

“That’s cryptic.” 

That gets her grin to widen. In many, many ways, this little creature resembles Lumine, and for that reason Aether can’t bring himself not to care about her. He wonders if it’s his fate to only befriend bubbly, beautiful people in the world, then realizes that Childe — however much affection he holds for the Harbinger — is hardly bubbly. 

Beautiful, though. Definitely.

Anyway. 

“Paimon thinks you should go,” she reminds him, gently nudging at his shoulder. Her smile looks so much better than whatever look she was wearing seconds ago (good), and Aether gets to his feet at the dismissal. “And that you should talk—” 

“To Xiao,” he finishes for her, then nods. “I agree, he has to know. I’ll get it out of him.” 

“I’m sure you will,” the fairy replies brightly. She flies around him one last time, doing a little twirl mid-air, and finally disappears into the sky; Aether takes that as his sign to make his way to his room in Wangshu Inn. 

***

The trip there is short. Teleport Waypoints, a privilege open only to himself and kept secret from everyone aside from Paimon, are blessings that Aether clearly does not deserve. Yet he was granted it anyway, so suspicious origins be-damned, Aether is going to use the fuck out of it. 

He often questions if he should simply find a way to fly all the way up to Celestia just so he can strangle every deity there, if that would fix what went wrong. But then again, he also questions whether he is capable of surviving purely off water and flowers, so he supposes questioning is sort of meaningless at this point.  

He makes his way up to the highest room in the entire Inn, waving hellos and how are yous to the locals — many of whom he has helped out before, or plan on helping out in the future. They are friendly to him, as are so many others, and they see him as helpful, as so many others do. 

So many others except one, probably. 

He takes the final stairstep necessary for his destination, and quietly mutters an ancient phrase under his breath for strength before entering his room. 

The room is not decorated at all, despite this technically being Aether’s permanent residence in Tevyat. He thinks that the idea of a permanent residence is ridiculous — surely everyone knows he’ll be a Traveler ‘til the end. If she were here, Lumine would probably nod her head sagely and say something along the lines of the only permanence is the lack of it ; Aether would punch her on that shoulder and tell her to let that damn philosophy degree go. The only real decoration is a single vase in the corner — made very crudely, as if someone with zero capability or knowledge of pottery had created it — and inside it, a flower. 

He does not know how the flower got there, or why it appeared one day, though he has his suspicions. Any other day, he would have brushed his fingers against the delicate pale blue petals and deliberated over useless things, but not today — today he has a purpose. He heads to their balcony, shutting the door behind him, and takes a seat on the table set for two. 

A breeze tickles his neck, and he smiles privately to himself as he senses Xiao land behind him, as silent as a cat. The only indication that the Adeptus has arrived at all is the fresh burst of Anemo energy that fills the room — though, Xiao could probably suppress even that, if he really wanted to. 

Aether waits patiently, as Xiao takes the seat besides him, his movements laced with a familiarity that does funny things to his heart. The adeptus has his hair up today, in a little bun that Aether himself once advised he try out, and his weaponry is nowhere to be found. 

Guard down. Great. Aether’s about to get it right back up. 

There is curiosity in Xiao’s expression, but that soon fades as something works out in his mind. Aether only watches, doing his absolute best to keep his head from spinning as the adeptus’ expression hardens with fury — not quite directed at him, but almost. Aether makes eye contact with the other, keeping quiet until Xiao breaks the silence. 

“I see you have chosen to help him , of all people.” 

He could have called Childe a slur with less venom, really. 

Choose your words carefully , Aether thinks to himself. That’s what you’re good at . 

“You are.” Xiao’s lips curl into a sneer. Aether still keeps quiet, mutely impressed at how haughty and offended Xiao looks; though he has been hailed as a prince in plenty of worlds, he could probably never manage that. Perseverance is a virtue, Aether. This guy is like a deer with battle capabilities of a small army . 

“Xiao,” he begins, and doesn’t get more than that out before Xiao snaps back. 

“No.” Loyal as always. Jesus Christ. Though, to be fair, that’s what Aether likes about him. “I will not.” 

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” he retorts, his voice even. “Just hear me out. Please.” 

The plea does the trick.

Something shifts in Xiao’s eyes, and he uncrosses his legs before leaning back in his seat. Aether is reminded all too well of their very first meeting there — one guarded and closed off, the other, well, himself. If there is one thing Aether can attest to, it’s that he doesn’t beg easy. He can count on his two hands the number of times he has ever said please to someone and meant it. 

Xiao, in all of his watchful, borderline-paranoid glory, is more than aware of this, and Aether is all too happy to capitalize on it.  

There is silence. Then, a quiet reply. 

“He hurts Morax.” 

And the way Xiao emphasizes hurt , the hint of reverence in his voice, the bitterness underneath, communicates so much more than Xiao expects it to. That Xiao — through some unheavenly relation that Aether gladly knows nothing about — has also, somehow, gotten hurt in this idiotic relay chain of non-communication.

Aether allows his face to go soft, just enough to be noticeable, but firmly represses the urges that arises with that particular line of thinking — most notably to simply scream all of his problems to the adeptus and let things flow as it goes. Just because Xiao has opened up doesn’t mean Aether can. Not yet. Maybe in a few days, or weeks, when he’s sure that Childe won’t be dying in Bubu fucking Pharmacy. 

“Loving someone lets them to do,” he pauses, considering his next line. “Funny things to you.” 

Xiao makes a face. “Funny is not the word I would use, Traveler.” 

“It’s from experience,” he replies, his tone deceptively and deliberately light. Aether is not an idiot, and neither is Xiao. They are both aware of their… relation, to each other. If Aether had to find a reason behind their continued friendship , despite the mutual instinctive understanding, he would cite fear as the sole contender. 

Just because they aren’t idiots doesn’t mean they can’t indulge once in a while. 

There is silence, again. Though at this point, Aether is familiar with Xiao’s silence, understands the time he takes between replies to be care rather than indifference. Yet this time, Aether is the one who breaks it first; Aether ( Childe ) is running out of time. 

“Xiao, help me find Zhongli.” 

Xiao shakes his head again. “I will not aid you. I can not aid you. You didn’t see how he was, after him .” 

Aether can only imagine, really. From the details he strung along during confession, even with all things considered, it was harsh. 

“I’m not saying Childe—” Xiao’s eyes flash. Right. He who must not be named. Aether fights the urge to smile, correcting himself instead. “That he did anything right, or that Zhongli is in the wrong, or anything like that. What I am saying, though, is that if Zhongli doesn’t go and talk to him right now , he will end up regretting it for the rest of his life.” 

At this, Xiao grits his teeth. 

“You ask me to aid you in causing Morax pain, again . Is it not mercy enough that I’m refraining from putting a spear through his chest?” 

And in that moment, Aether sees the correct route to take, the way he can get Xiao to cooperate. He’s never been all-that above manipulation to get his way, for one thing, but he also trusts Xiao. If the adeptus truly has Zhongli’s best interests at heart, he’ll listen. 

Probably.

Aether inhales before telling Xiao, flat-out: “Something else might beat you to the chase on that one.” 

Aether can practically see the mental gears in Xiao’s head turning — some thing , not some one — before it all works out. Xiao pauses, looks Aether in the eyes (probably trying to assess whether Aether was bullshitting him or not), and stands up abruptly. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

A defeated tone, but Aether will take what he can get. He gives Xiao a smile, a tired one reserved especially for the other, and opens his mouth — just to be cut off, again, immediately. 

“Don’t thank me. I will assist him in… whatever this is, and then I will put a spear through his neck and hang him from the Jade Chamber.” 

“He might take that as a challenge, honestly.” Aether flashes him a grin. “Can I come watch?” 

Xiao ignores him completely and leaps onto the balcony railing, his movements feather-light, and for a moment Aether stares in wonder. Xiao’s back turned to him, the rising daylight serves to illuminate someone who is just as warm — bright — familiar; to Aether, if not the entire rest of Liyue. 

Xiao senses Aether’s gaze and glances back to him, a question in his eyes that Aether avoids answering. Without a word, he elects to get up onto the thin plank of wood as well, braving the seconds that Xiao spends simply staring at him until he finally turns away. Xiao reaches into the air, and pulls a small piece of paper from nothing — a permission slip, Aether recognizes. The paper is returned to the early-morning sky, and rather than floating slowly down to the still-asleep balconies of Wangshu Inn, it simply disappears. The world halts for just a second, and in the next moment, a brilliant gold surrounds the two of them.

Aether squeezes his eyes shut to avoid blinding himself. When he opens them again, Xiao is no longer with him. Instead, Zhongli is in front of him — more specifically, Zhongli cased within some kind of glowing glass coffin is in front of him, the only object in an endless void of golden nothing. Aether brushes his fingers against the glass and thinks: Well, somebody took inspiration from Ei.

He decides to circle the other, observing the man through the see-through panes. Despite its evident quality, the coffin is slowly cracking at the edges — shards of glass, though small enough to be called a speck at best, fall steadily to the floor below. Some kind of symbolic representation that Zhongli’s psyche was going to shit, maybe? 

Morbidly, he wonders how quickly the coffin would disintegrate were he the one laying inside, but he quickly decides he’ll address that in a world where licensed therapists exist. He’s not here to mope about himself. He’s here to save his friend, and his friend’s definitely-not-lover’s, lives. 

He knocks twice on the glass and waits. 

The knocks echo and spread out, like ripples on a lake from a thrown stone, making bell-like noises with each new ripple. After the last ring softens back into its seat, Zhongli stirs. Aether takes a step back and waits for the man to rise, in which he does, after a surprisingly short amount of time. 

When he opens the glass door and sits up within it, Zhongli’s eyes are still closed. Aether clears his throat,  prompting them to snap open with a look of genuine surprise. 

Aether will always marvel at the way the Archon allows his emotions to overtake his expression so freely. Well — how he seems to allow it. You can never really tell if someone is faking it or not, especially not with immortals. 

“Traveler?” He speaks, and his voice is hoarse, as if from disuse. Which makes no sense — it’s only been days — but God knows how time works in the crevices between dimensions. The thought disorients Aether, but only for a moment. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

That gets him to pause. 

Aether knows how to seem sincere, that is for sure, and Zhongli is the type to value sincerity. He can give away an “important” information about himself, break character in certain ways, or pull any other trick out of his hat to get his way, here. But it’s not as if Childe and Zhongli weren’t sincere with each other. Honest, no, but each had invested just as much emotion in this as the other. The problem at hand isn’t a lack of sincerity — it’s an inability to communicate that sincerity, even when their actual lives are at stake, both preferring to isolate themselves and mope in increasingly creative ways. 

It is at this point Aether remembers to ask himself, WWLDTAWN. What Would Lumine Do That Aether Would Not?

Lumine is, and has always been, the better speaker of the two. Relying on enthusiasm and love and compassion, traits that somehow spoke to everyone who spoke with her ; his twin sister is no idiot, but in fact, the kindest and smartest person anyone has ever known. 

Compared to that, it’s only natural he’d come across as… cold. Though he used to prefer the term analytical. He’d barely partake in conversation, never giving more than a clipped, clinical sentence in response, until he was forced to shatter that habit via The Incident. As Aether slowly learned more and more of how to appear like a normal, decently regulated, sociable human being, he asked himself over and over again — what would Lumine do here? How would she address the problem? 

Then he glances up at Zhongli, doubt and just a hint of fear in his eyes, and remembers: With more heart than mind, for one.

Aether promptly stops fucking thinking, cutting straight to the point instead. 

“You hurt him.” He begins simply, speaking in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and he watches the not-expression on Zhongli’s face drop. Before the man can say a word, though, he interrupts — taking a page out of Xiao’s book to anticipate the self-pity fest. “But he hurt you too. Both of you did awful things to each other, I know, but that’s exactly why you need to talk about it.” 

Zhongli hesitates, falling quiet. That is one trait he shares with Xiao — they would prefer to stay silent than to give the wrong answer. After some time, Zhongli continues, visibly struggling to choose his words. “He… does not wish to speak to me.” 

Despite his uncertainty, his voice is calm. Level. As if Zhongli has already accepted this; hell, he probably has. In some distant timeline, both Childe and Zhongli are capable of assessing a situation without jumping to conclusions and having an irrationally severe response to whatever “fact” they just made up in their head — but this is clearly not that fucking timeline. Aether raises an eyebrow, loading his expression with disbelief. 

“Actually, the only thing he wants is for you to talk to him.” 

The Archon only looks confused. And it’s such a perfect parallel to the look of bewilderment on Childe’s face earlier that Aether can’t help but laugh, his expression softening. “Zhongli. You indirectly confessed that you’d been lying to him for the entirety of your friendship by making good on a deal he knew nothing about in his office, in front of his coworker . He was running around on a mission you knew would fail while also having daily lunch dates — yes, they were dates, I don’t want to hear about it — on the side for two years . On top of that, you then went radio silent on him for three months after. Did you apologize, for any of that, at any point?”

A look of horror dawns on Zhongli’s face, but just as quickly, it’s replaced with one of hope. Aether grins, then lightly punches Zhongli’s shoulder. “Swear on my sword, he does want to talk to you. He’s missed you a lot.” 

“I doubt that,” Zhongli mutters, and Aether makes a respectful hand sign indicating for Zhongli to zip it, earning a startled laugh from him. “I need… time. Just a moment to think.” 

Right, except Childe doesn’t have time, so if Zhongli could hurry it the fuck up, that’d be great. Aether decides he’s not going to say any of that, though, and just nods; looking into the vast emptiness that stretches around them for miles on end.

Tick-tock. If Childe kicks it during all this, well. That’s just their luck. 

***

When Madame Ping offered him the Glass Coffin, he accepted it without second thought. A break, she had proposed, from the mortal lifespan, and from your — she looked careful, gentle, and he internally despised himself for it — situation. Undoubtedly, it was Ganyu who filled the lady in on his condition (always so much more aware than anybody had given her credit for) and it was her who requested Xiao to seek him out. 

He was always able to hide away from the rest of the world, and waste his time as the heavens pleased, but not from Xiao, never from Xiao — how could he, when he was fully aware of what he meant to the adeptus? And so he allowed the smallest flaw in his sigil. When Xiao inevitably struck through (three hours earlier than he had expected, only reinforcing how quickly his adeptus was improving under the diligent advising of the Traveler), Zhongli permitted his entry.

After asking Zhongli if this is what he wished to do, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, Xiao promptly left Zhongli to his devices. 

The Coffin's primary function, the one discovered first, was to trap dangerous, rogue gods, forcing their godhood to fester within the walls. The Coffin would drain the energy from the mortal form, eventually reducing the individual within it to mere specks of dust, never able to reform a consciousness. About a thousand years later, an Archon attempted suicide using this very method, and failed; the Coffin refused to kill her off for good. Rather than sapping her lifeforce, the Archon simply remained encased in glass until she was “ready” once more, whatever that meant, as the Coffin dictated.

Why? Nobody knew. Not back then, and still not now. Zhongli had entered the space with reasonable certainty that his fate would resemble the latter rather than the former, and prepared himself for rest. 

In complete honesty, he had not expected the Traveler to arrive here, to be able to convince Xiao of all people. The boy who was always so empathetic, so aware of the world around him, sometimes even more aware of Zhongli than Zhongli himself — who used the skills honed from decades of abuse under his previous contractor to their fullest degree, all in the name of service — had yielded his loyalty to Rex Lapis to do the Traveler a favor. Zhongli was hardly surprised when a different energy burst into the golden plains, though (knowing what the Traveler was here for), he was not keen on addressing anything. 

Childe had been an enigma to him from the start. 

What first drew him in was the fact that Childe had a Hydro vision. Was it not amusing: a member of the Fatui, proudly displaying a blessing from the Goddess of Justice herself? The man he had only known from files and documents could hardly be described as just , yet there the approval was, clear as day: what about him was so worthy, so upholding of her values, that the Hydro Archon would take him under her stage? 

Those questions had faded away the moment he saw Childe for the first time. Not at a restaurant or a tea house like Childe may recall, no; he first witnessed Childe speaking to a small child, perhaps about the age of four, while disguised away from mortal eyes. He had watched the Harbinger take a knee, meeting the young one’s eyes with a fond look of his own. A genuine happiness at bringing joy to the youth. Zhongli could not imagine that this was the same individual who had a reputation best described as cruel. The child asked a question, and Childe had responded with something amusing, as the little girl giggled before asking another. The performance had been perfect — not a single move was made that could’ve hinted at the Harbinger’s violent records — and when the little girl waved as she ran back to her house for dinner, Childe smiled and gave a wave back. 

The moment the girl disappeared from view, Childe spun on the spot — flinging a dagger directly at Zhongli’s direction. Zhongli had dodged, naturally, and the dagger embedded harmlessly into the bark of a pine tree; Childe gave a searching glance around the area before walking over to retrieve the weapon. 

His expression had been utterly neutral.

Every drop of warmth had vanished, as if it’d never been there to begin with. And Zhongli had, somehow, understood immediately. Justice manifested herself differently for every person; perhaps Childe’s justice was not quite the rules and laws of Liyue, but something new. Something unfamiliar. Something Zhongli wanted to become familiar with. 

From then, it was easy to become… fond , of Childe. Childe was earnest and charming at first, then playful and affectionate before settling into something — for a lack of a better term — comfortable. Lunch once a week became every weekend, then every day, and the very first incident in which Childe offered to buy him things led to a routine walk through the entirety of Liyue’s night markets, where a ridiculous amount of Fatui Mora would be spent overnight. He was Childe and Tartaglia and Ajax, much like Zhongli was Rex Lapis and Morax and Celestia-knows-what-else — the epithets somehow, together, made up the person Childe was in beautiful, breathtaking ways. A glimpse of one during the first time he saw Childe in strife, blue eyes gone battle-crazed as he slashed through Abyss Mages like they were made of water. A flash of hurt whenever Zhongli had treaded on the topic of family. He had enjoyed the process of seeing Childe open up to him, for the smiles to remain after the laughter, for some sort of trust to tentatively but surely begin creeping its way in.

All so Zhongli could take that trust and crush it between his hands.

He had been a fool to believe that Childe would take his betrayal well. He had been a fool to believe that Childe simply needed time to heal — he had thought, despite everything, like an Archon . To adepti, time is not a scarce resource. All conflicts are bound to be resolved within eternity. To Childe, however, who quite literally lived his days as if he’d die in the next, time was the worst damage Zhongli could have done. 

The Traveler’s argument was a tempting one — and the oath he had sworn (either knowingly or unknowingly) was of ancient tongue. Only more reasons why Zhongli should simply trust the Knight, waltz back into Liyue Harbor, and attempt an actual conversation with the harbinger. 

And yet, yet. If Aether is wrong, if Zhongli is wrong again, one of the two would shatter, would they not? If Childe finally broke, would Zhongli not be at fault? Betrayal is a dish best not served at all, for it is a stabbing rather than a service, and he had delivered it in the worst manner to someone whom he cared for.

Still does.  

He should have run after Childe the moment Osial was banished and begged for his forgiveness. He did not. A rock does not put itself back together after being broken. 

This gets a snort out of the Traveler.ell. 

“If you want the rock to put itself back together, absolutely not.” Aether replies, sounding nearly indignant. It’s such a strange break from his usual self — careful, diligent, sparing his words if he can — that Zhongli can only guess it’s some kind of attempt at imitating his twin flame, burning away at the edge of the Abyss. Inauthentic, yes, but only the more genuine for it. And to Aether’s credit, he’s playing the part fantastically.“If you want to put the rock back together after taking a hammer to it, then in that case, it can be repaired again.” 

He pauses. He is aware of the limits to an analogy, yes. 

“Besides, the two of you aren’t rocks. You’re people . Stupid people, who really should talk with each other more, because Christ this is getting hard to watch — but you’re just people.” 

He is aware of that as well. He is staying away for his sake. 

“Are you actually, though?” 

Elaborate? 

“I already told you that he wants to speak with you again. You have my word for this, as well as my status. And yet you’re deciding, by yourself, that he is somehow wrong about his own desires, and then also deciding, by yourself, to deny him something that the two of you mutually want, again based entirely on your own perception.” 

Ah.

That is a fair point.

“I’m aware,” the Traveler quotes, sounding sly — and for a second he can practically see the two twins overlap with each other in their smirk. Something in his chest tightens at the fact that he will never be able to inform Aether of this, but that is to be addressed another time. “So, what will it be?” 

What will it be? 

He cannot hurt Childe again. He cannot do wrong again. He will not hurt Childe ever again, nor ever, ever treat him anything other than what he wholeheartedly deserves. Zhongli can not mess up, and he must not mess up. The logical way of preventing mistakes is by refusing to engage, but the logical choice isn’t always the one that should be made. 

This decision is strange, almost impulsive, but Zhongli knows and admires someone who lives every day in that manner. 

Zhongli floats out of the prison, and slowly to the ground. Behind him, the Coffin disappears, as if approving of his decision. 

“Take me to him.” 

Aether grins. Though only for a moment, for the first time in a very long time, Rex Lapis—no, Morax—wrong; Zhongli feels certain of his next steps. 

Chapter Text

When Childe wakes again, he is completely unsure of — well, anything. The room is empty, and from the light he can see peeking out of the window, the sun is about to set.

He has always hated sunsets. As Ajax, nights were only spent cold and alone; that little time Tartaglia spent entirely in the ruthless Fatui training camps certainly hadn’t helped Childe’s opinion.

What had helped were the night markets. But that, too, is a thing of the past now. 

His head is strangely clear, as if the Glaze Lilies clouding his judgment (or deluding him, even) have been wiped clean from his mind. And so, sitting alone in the wards of Bubu Pharmacy, a million miles away from anything resembling home, Childe does what he had been unable to do for the better part of several days and thinks .

What will he say to Zhongli? Does he open with a grin, make that one joke he always makes about flying Zhongli to Snezhnaya after his mission? Does he allow the morbid thoughts to get to him? Is morbidity even an option? 

For a man who lives off battle, he is equally tactical when it comes to people. He has always been tactical, he thinks, though the skills admittedly shone much more as Tartaglia than any other form. Tartagalia is when he learned — well, was forced to learn — people as fast as he could, and as well as he could. The Fatui camp made him wish several times that he had simply died in the Abyss, because at least the poisonous air and his severely detached master didn’t force him to engage in politics. It was just fight and win or fucking die trying, not any of this rank and position and vision stuff. 

Still, he loves the Fatui, despite the organization being chock full of internal contradictions. 

An organization meant to overthrow Tevyat’s stars for their tyranny and hypocrisy , while His Lady herself ruled as a tyrant and hypocrite. Even back then, Childe knew what the Fatui was for — a revenge plan, served ice cold , masked under layers and layers of justification as a revolution . And yet he joined anyway, having had no other choice. Trying to integrate back into his family, begging for scraps of warmth at the table while his Father stared at the Abyssal scars across his back with a faraway look in his eyes, seemed to him a worse fate than dying. At least the Fatui would be familiar ground: he would either climb ranks until the very top or fucking die trying. Either seemed like a wonderful option to a thirteen year old Ajax, freshly spat out of the Abyss, whose spirit was broken worse than his body. The mindset carried right over and later formed Tartagalia. 

He was once told, by one of his dearest coworkers, that he fought like his life depended on it — every single battle, every single time.

Funny enough, the Balladeer had no idea why, and even asked Childe as much. Why was he so fucking obssessed with the fight? Why would he choose to win at the expense of a blow to his arm or leg, when he could have lost those? When he could have lost his life? Even funnier, Childe still doesn’t really have an answer. A part of him wonders just how far he can go, for how long he can live at his fullest before finally burning out, but idle curiosity is probably not answer enough. 

Archons, why the fuck not? Maybe he had started doing some mild to severe dissociating at some point in the Abyss. Maybe he did view himself as some sort of puppet-made-human, a vessel to fulfill a role as part of a larger plan, as if his entire life was a story. Who cares? Sue him. Whatever was so fucked up about him, Childe survived the Abyss — and much more — because of it. He was useful. He was helpful. He would do anything, even if it meant usefully and helpfully killing a whole bunch of people just for one other person who wanted it to happen. 

Aether called it things like trauma and eldest child syndrome . Childe had asked him what the hell that even meant. 

He was born into his role as a son and older brother, Ajax, and when he failed the former for events out of his control, then as a fighter, as Tartagalia. He’s not sure what role this body plays anymore, if it can play at all. He compromised Tartagalia’s role, to serve and pledge his loyalty to the Tsaritsa, when he fucking fell in love with Zhongli . He was holding onto Ajax’s role by a thread — the pride and joy inside him that, if nothing else, he was a good older brother to his siblings — but, truth is, he had been lying to himself. 

What kind of a good older brother fucks off halfway across the ocean for years on end? Sending toys and writing letters doesn’t count. He’s not there , and so long as his parents are alive, never can be. So that’s a role gone six feet under. 

Yes, even before the rest of Childe decided to catch up. 

He snorts weakly. 

Weirdly enough, he’s content with dying. The most pathetic escape to the inevitable shitshow that would fall under him is to die, yeah, but it’s not exactly his fault. He would have to return to Snezhnaya, be publicly flamed by the Harbingers under his Archon’s careful eye, deal with a whole fuck ton of emotions regarding Zhongli. There is a vague sense of unease, an inkling that letting himself die here is the wrong thing to do , but he isn’t sure why. Because it would hurt his loved ones? Isn’t hurt inevitable in love? Isn’t the whole point of love that it overpowers hurt? It wouldn’t kill anybody who cares about him now — wounds close, scars fade, and life goes on. So do people, so would Tonia and Teucer and Aether and Zhongli and the other people who somehow give more than two shits about him. 

There was a time once before, where he was aware of right and wrong — or at least a time in which he didn’t think about it, where he just knew and acted . Childe thinks that back then, he was a bit more trusting of himself, his own emotions. Since then, he’s learned; yet he’s not sure that was a good thing. He learned not to trust himself as much, sure, but at the price of not trusting himself at all . At least not with things like relationships and moral good . 

He misses being Ajax. Things were simpler when he was Ajax — but the world doesn’t work that way. Ajax would have had to grow up anyway. He just simply grew up a lot faster and a lot harsher than he should ever have. 

He bites back a slightly manic laugh. Understatement of, well, a lifetime . 

He reigns his mind back onto the topic at hand; Zhongli. Maybe he should be serious about this whole thing. He should be honest, he should apologize, admit blaming the other. 

But if he knows anything about the man, it’s that he’s likely blaming himself at this exact second, taking Childe’s rejection at face value. Living for a couple thousand years as one of the sole individuals keeping thousands of people safe takes a toll , whether the adepti can admit it to themselves or not. He’s seen four of them so far, and none of them are even remotely capable of not blaming themselves whenever something goes wrong, so beautifully capable of readily accepting scorn and then fixing it. 

Zhongli, in particular, was never good at overthinking things — despite all he has seen and felt, he believes in those who are near him, both emotionally and physically. He can’t calculate or believe in the what if scenario, i.e. that the other party was simply being a massive fucking dick for no reason — i.e., that Childe doesn’t really blame him. 

Even if it’s true. Childe doesn’t really blame him. But Childe still doesn’t know if he should apologize. 

He told Aether that he would, and he is sorry for yelling, but he’s — unsure. He’s not sure if anything is even deserving in this situation. He’s sorry for yelling but he’s not sorry for yelling, he’d love to beg for forgiveness for the incident at Zhongli’s knees but there is a bitter, hard side of him insisting that he can’t. The right thing, in his gut, is to apologize, but not really , and well fuck , it doesn’t make any fucking sense, does it? He laughs, bitter, and the sound feels sharp in his mouth. He raises a hand and impulsively unwraps the bandages on his wrist to reveal the wound. It’s deeper than he had noticed when he made it, and he briefly considers prying it open (watching the blood flow, flow ) before slapping that impulsive thought behind himself. 

Yikes. 

…

Was he always this messed up? 

Was the Abyss really to blame for how he turned out? Had fate simply delivered him to be the person he was always meant to be, trauma or not? Simply put, was Childe fucked from the start? 

He can count on two fingers people who he makes happy. Tonia, and Zhongli. That’s it — that’s the grand total of people whose lives are made better by his existence — and he just successfully shattered one based on assumption and bullshit projections ( rightful anger ). Despite Childe telling himself time and time again to try harder, to keep things afloat , to try his best , it seems that he’s failed again — no, not seems , he did fail. He hurt Zhongli. Xiao, really, has every right to be upset of their friendship and more — Xiao has seen Zhongli at his worst, there must be a reason why the adeptus is so hell-bent on keeping him away, and god damn if Childe is stupid enough to go against the judgement of someone who’s better at keeping Zhongli safe . He’ll hurt Zhongli again, he’s nearly certain of it because he’s flawed or whatever Aether used to describe humans that one time. Zhongli is going to agree to the talk because he’s in love , and a contract made under duress is probably invalid anyway. Doesn’t Childe know enough that love can and will, time and time again, fuck you up ? 

It wasn’t really the Abyss that killed Ajax. It was the fear in his mother’s eyes upon his return. 

He’s going to hurt Zhongli again. And Zhongli is going to accept it in good grace, maybe even apologize , because he’s an adeptus and he’s kind and caring and wonderful , just like he’s probably on his way to do right now. Childe is going to hurt that Zhongli. 

Again, again , and who knows how many times after.

What the fuck could Zhongli have possibly done during the Archon War that makes him deserving of that? Hurt at the hands of some fucking mortal who can’t even keep his act together, much less be useful to the other? He doesn’t deserve to hurt Zhongli. He doesn’t deserve to have Zhongli be in love with him. Childe doesn’t deserve, want, or need that much power over anyone, much less someone as good as Zhongli. 

Zhongli, who is breathtaking. Who, for all his flaws and occasional stupidity, never means harm — who was somehow able to leave the battle and bloodshed behind himself. Something Childe knows he won’t ever be able to do, at least until the Tsaritsa is finished with her work. And holy shit, the work involves the overthrowing of Celestia . 

Zhongli is undeniably, and will undeniably be, a part of that — Archon or not. Celestia will call him, because he is more powerful and wise than anybody above there, Childe just knows it. And Aether — the Traveler would join the side of the gods, meaning Childe would be going against him again ; yet this time no longer as Childe, but as Tartaglia. And for all the training and sparring and one actual battle Childe has indulged in around Liyue, he’s never needed Tartaglia for any of his fights here. Childe was allowed so much liberty in fraternizing with Zhongli because, regardless of how much Childe loves Zhongli, Tartagalia belongs to his Lady , and come time for war, Tartagalia will overpower Childe. The trumpets will call, and Tartagalia will answer — no longer the charming young man who bought out entire stalls of food and antiques with a smile on his face, but the Vanguard. Destined to die, and to take as much of the enemy with him. 

Would he still smile as he drives a spear into their hearts? Would he laugh, the way he has often been told he does; will recognize them through the blood staining his visor? His Archon told him that he made a formidable weapon, and that he would do well by her side as hers . She had given him when the two first met — when Ajax collapsed, having climbed once more to the exact location the Abyss had taken him so many years ago, and begged a god, any god, to come and kill him there. 

The snow was cold to the point of being scorching; then the freeze turned to warmth as his Lady showed herself. She glanced him up and down once — empathy like shards of ice — before offering him a hand and a name. Tartaglia. The fool. 

He is lying to everybody, really. He lies to Aether about his sister, calls himself a dear friend but refuses to give the Traveler the one thing he wants, the one thing he needs . He would tear himself and the world to shreds if Tonia were taken from him, and undoubtedly Aether’s lack of doing so is only a matter of exhaustion or efficiency. Yet Childe plasters a smile and lies, as if the Fatui isn’t sitting on a mountain of information about the Abyssal twin. With Zhongli — well, he already knows the ins and outs of that one too well.

If Childe lives, he will do it while lying. And he lies well , but lies are anything but grounded. Every I don’t know and I can’t say rises like a dagger with a timer, positioning itself to stab his loved ones in the back when they least expect it. Wounds from betrayals don’t heal . 

He lowers his eyes to his vision, clipped onto his pants, and snorts again.

A Hydro Vision. The Goddess of Justice.

Childe has murdered more people than he can remember. He has undoubtedly slaughtered them in cold blood, with his signature childlike smile the entire time. He has stepped over cadavers and dying bodies in his attempt to become a Harbinger, all because the Tsaritsa said so long ago, all because he doesn’t want to live. He’s killed hundreds of nameless people who wanted to live because he didn’t. People with lives and families and nerves and pain —  real people, and he’s slaughtered them without so much as blinking. He has been cruel and abusive; so at this point, isn’t recovery just another insult to the people he’s taken advantage of? Hey, turns out the guy who killed you for virtually no reason at all actually was capable of not doing that the entire time, you just got really unlucky.

Sorry! 

No — worse — Childe can’t recover, ever, because he is only useful to the Tsaritsa as a weapon. Attempting to be better means he would lose his edge, and thus his position. There is no ethics in war, and he is in war, has been in a war, regardless of the fact that the rest of the Tevyat can’t see it just yet. So, if there were ever something just , it would not be Childe, and it would not be Childe being happy.

Would Zhongli watch Childe wash the blood out of his clothes, remove the pieces of flesh from his weapons, and dismiss every life he has just taken as numbers in a report to be filed? Would he simply tell him to be careful , to be safe, as if Childe — Tartaglia — isn’t the most dangerous thing in a battlefield? 

Would there be fondness or contempt? 

He was able to live with the violence, the dissocation and the disconnect, before Liyue. He was able to exist and simply exist, never meaning anything more, able to improve as a cold blooded killer — no longer, not while there are such bright and good and real people involved. 

He looks at the window again, and feels the breeze brush up against his wound. He is awfully, horribly certain of one thing. 

He does not want to live. 

And in that exact second, the door bursts open, and he turns around (relatively calmly, by the way, he’s still got it, thanks) to see — Qiqi.

The small child is carrying a lunch box filled with food, despite it nearly being night, and she brings it to him in small, bouncy steps. Despite everything, Childe has to grin — right until she places the food on his bedside table and glances up at him, waiting for him to take a bite. 

He can’t. He’s going to be sick. Or he is sick. 

Literally, probably. 

“Can’t, Qiqi,” he replies with an easy grin. “Sort of nauseous. Sorry.” 

She doesn’t say anything, but instead meets his eyes. Childe, for the first time, recognizes that this is a Celestia-knows-how-old zombie , who died as a young child in a fire and was resurrected to work at a fucking pharmacy . A girl who was given life, again, by the adepti — a girl who probably had to do all sorts of ridiculous shit as ‘payment.’ Somehow, the realization hits him like a blow to the head.

Or a flower to the lung. 

Damn it. That one doesn’t even make sense. 

She opens her mouth, then closes it, then takes out her notebook — except it’s not her usual notebook. It’s green instead of purple, and it is much, much more worn out. She looks at it, then begins quickly flipping through the pages with one hand. Paper bristles for a long, long time — long enough for the rice in the lunch box to stop steaming — before she finally arrives at her page.  

Childe, who was raising his neck just slightly out of curiosity, sees his name on it.

Before he can ask, Qiqi skims the contents fully, and shuts the book close with a snap before putting it away. She faces Childe, looking resolute. Childe stares back, slightly nervous.

She opens her little mouth, hands at her side, and asks: “Leaving?” 

She may as well as have slapped Childe, actually. He quickly reviews his options, but no persona he can play has a hat’s chance of working against this kid . So instead — against his gut telling him to push her to the side and just run for it — he just nods. Quiet. He’s not really sure if he can push her anyway. 

She, for a complete lack of a better word, studies him. Intensely. Then she tilts her head sideways, a cartoonishly curious move, one that’s so stereotypical that it almost makes Childe laugh. 

“Why?” 

Well, isn’t that a loaded question. Childe doesn’t answer, instead giving her a light grin. 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

That is the single worst lie he has ever told. Not in the sense of it being bad , but in the sense of it just being transparently false. He clears his throat and attempts a recovery. 

“You should head back in. I’ll be okay.” 

At this, Qiqi tilts her head even further. It is now at a 90 degree angle. At the very obvious and universal sign of I’m not buying your shit , Childe suddenly feels the tugging need to explain himself. So carefully, he opens the can of worms, deliberate to pick and choose only the ones at the absolute fucking top. 

“I shouldn’t talk to Zhongli.” He explains, as if talking to a child, because yeah. Part of it’s for his own sake. A simple, surface level explanation is much easier to verbalize than ‘ I think I want to die, and if there’s a disease that’s going to take me out relatively quickly, I’ll welcome it with open fucking arms ’. “I’m not good for him.” 

Qiqi snaps her head back to position, and blinks at him. Childe watches as something begins swimming in her eyes, an emotion grounded in something so alive . In that moment, just for a moment, Qiqi is more alive than he is. Maybe she always had been. Childe wishes he got to talk with the girl more, actually, but it’s too late for that now. 

“Where?” She asks again, a fierceness to her tone.

The realization that somebody understands , that somebody somehow is making sense of all the insanity inside of him, brings a sudden burst of affection towards the little girl. Childe lets the grin come to him, much easier this time,  and he gently reaches out in order to pick off a packaged rice ball from the lunch box and pocket it. Just to show he appreciates her, despite this appreciation only really beginning three seconds ago. 

“Can’t tell you. It’s a secret, y’know?” 

Qiqi frowns at this, seeming to want to argue for just a second, but ultimately doesn’t say. Just one firm nod, and one final question. “Requests?” 

Childe’s brain goes screeching to a halt, and he immediately kicks himself for the way his grin drops. As he gets up from the bed, he very much does not avoid the question. He stretches, flexes his limbs — feels the life vibrant in his veins, feels the stars stretching at his fingertips. Whatever magic Baizhu worked, worked. He feels like Childe again, not just a dying husk of a body. 

Not for long, obviously. The medication would surpress the blood and the flowers, but it wouldn’t stop the disease — he’s still dying today, sure, but now he can die with grace. He’s going to die being himself, and that’ll be the end of the story entirely; Childe is going to relish this feeling for all he’s got. 

Qiqi, perhaps sensing that Childe is about to jump out of the window, grabs his arm firmly and tugs it.

“Childe. Requests? ” 

Okay, maybe she’s a little too alive , he jokes to himself. She’s clearly not going to let him go without answering, so… maybe asking her to keep everything quiet? But Childe has a feeling that she would keep quiet until somebody asked her anyway. 

So, requests. 

He heaves a sigh, then reaches to ruffle Qiqi’s hair — she doesn’t shy away from the contact, instead leaning into it. Maybe there’s a faint smile on her lips, or maybe Childe is imagining it. All he knows is that Qiqi understands death better than most, having experienced it firsthand. Her indulgence in this kind of last wishes shit is to be expected. 

“Can you tell them to check my office?” He asks, quietly. “I left them all presents.”  

She nods, then steps back, finally letting his arm go. “Okay.” 

It sounds more like goodbye , but Childe ignores it. 

He turns back, shaking his head to clear it of whatever-the-fuck that just was, and jumps easily over and out the window — into Liyue Harbor one last time. 

*** 

If Paimon were not fully aware and deathly afraid of the consequences of doing so, she would enchant Childe’s room to physically restrain him from being such a dumb motherfucker . 

Unfortunately the world has limitations, much like she does. Stupid, idiotic limitations that make no sense, yes, but limitations nonetheless. She does an impatient flip in the air as she watches Childe race across the harbor — absolutely silently, she notes, somehow he’s retained his ridiculous athletic abilities — and sneak into his office building by climbing up the fucking wall. She’s been keeping a close eye on him because she just knew he’d escape at one point, that’s just how Childe is, but she didn’t think he would go for it immediately after waking up . Has he even had food? Stupid, stupid. 

She floats, incognito mode, as she continues stalking over the boy, though he exits the office room just minutes after he entered it — through the window, again, because he has apparently never heard of a door before. He lands on the grass with all the agility of a cat, though Paimon considers him much more of a smug little kitten than an adult cat. His steps are laced with mischief and whimsy, even as he is literally dying .  

When she first made the decision to… begin, for a lack of a better term, she did not imagine by any means that she’d get attached to anyone. Hence why the Fated parts of her contract were okay by her — her being okay is what allows her to be here right now — Paimon so rarely regrets anything she does. And yet, watching Childe pick out which mountain he wants to scale for fun, she curses her past self for agreeing without negotiating; because by the gods does she want to talk to Childe at this exact second, tell him what he clearly needs to hear, attempt to convince the idiot. 

Not my place. She reminds herself, with a small breath. Not my circus . 

Except it is her circus. She cares so absurdly much about these little people that sometimes she thinks herself insane for it. 

Childe makes a small noise, drawing her out of her thoughts, and she finds him staring directly into her eyes . 

What ? How — how does he do this? How does he know ? 

She makes a show of appearing from behind a nearby tree, trying to show herself and talk to him — Fate isn’t affected by a single casual conversation most of the time, and she needs to do something — but it really is fruitless. In that moment, with a wink and a smile , Childe activates some machine in his hand and goes completely invisible .

Paimon, although equipped with a ton of things, is not equipped for a dying Harbinger who is sneaking away from her, invisibly. 

Celestia, she hates Dottore. 

She waits for a few moments, trying to sense Childe out, but she was never really good at sensing people anyway — and after a minute or three, she guesses that Childe is gone. 

Paimon doesn’t panic. She simply doesn’t. Panicking? Over this ? Over a stupid mortal deciding to do stupid mortal acts? No, this is just another inconvenience, and she totally does not care whatsoever for its outcome. Suppressing an urge to pinch between her eyes, she reveals her form and slides into his office through the still-open window. The room is perfectly organized except for one little detail: a bottle of glue and a paintbrush has been left carelessly on the desk, the brush dripping sticky residue onto some clearly expensive wood. 

It’s not difficult to use Elemental Sight and figure out what Childe was doing. She sees footprints across the floor that linger for a short while at the desk, and — there, a splattering of Hydro on the bottom right drawer. She looks around for a key to fit in the keyhole, but when she can’t find one, elects to just yank at it with her hands. 

It slides right open.

Inside are a pile of miscellaneous trinkets, neatly organized by some unknown rule into four corners. Each wall has a brightly colored envelope taped to it, with names written on the top left and little doodles peppering the rest of the page… 

Oh, for Celestia’s fucking sake. 

Paimon has a strange feeling that she knows exactly what those letters are, and this time does pinch the area between her eyes before she begins rummaging around, laying out the items. 

Earring to one sibling, the Art of War to another sibling (maybe Tonia? From what Paimon knows, she studies something related to that), a pocket filled with legal paperwork to most likely Ekaterina, and —

She misses the throwing knife by a single inch , having flown as fast as she could to the left. Her expression guarded, she readies herself for escape, before her eyes widen at the sight of her attacker. 

“ Paimon ?” 

Ekaterina, Childe’s secretary, hurries to retrieve her dagger — clearly confused. 

“Ekaterina?” Paimon asks, putting on an innocent voice. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I happen to work here.” The Fatui replies with a hint of amusement in her voice, before her eyes land onto the desk and the pile of stuff on it. “Why are you in Master Childe’s office?” 

“Um,” she pauses, mostly for effect. She may not be able to interfere directly , but Aether has shown her the beautiful art of subtle and definitely-not-intentful stupidity. “Paimon was just worried about him. He escaped from Bubu Pharmacy, so Paimon thought he might come here instead.” 

Ekaterina’s gaze sharpens. Paimon feels a strange, strange sense of pride as she bears witness to the Fatuus’ worker persona slip away entirely, quickly replaced by — undoubtedly — one of the most skilled Fatui members to ever serve the Tsaritsa. 

Always a delight to see a weapon at the ready. 

She walks towards the desk, and Paimon floats back to let her observe the contents on top of it. Her eyes fall upon the envelope with her name, and with a determined look she opens up her letter. 

It takes her about three seconds to read enough to understand what’s going on. She nearly drops the paper, but instead steadies herself and puts the letter back on the desk.

Paimon can see tiny bits of wrinkles in the paper. Tear marks . 

The idea that Childe cries is unsettling to her. Undoubtedly much more so to Ekaterina — who looks like she might have collapsed if she wasn’t so determined not to.

“We need to find him — is the Traveler with you?” Her voice comes out even, to her credit, so Paimon shakes her head truthfully. 

“Paimon can go get Aether, but Paimon has no idea where Childe is.”

“I can change that,” she mutters under her breath before addressing Paimon again. “Then, please contact the Traveler immediately. I will attempt to search for him , he most likely would not leave Liyue.” 

That, Paimon is in agreement with. Liyue was as much of a home to Childe as Snezhnaya was — is , is, he’s not dead yet, but he is dying. So she does a twirl in the air to indicate understanding, and Ekaterina pockets the letter carefully before rushing out an actual door after a brief nod to Paimon. 

Paimon waits for her footsteps to disappear before opening the pocket dimension and slipping the letter addressed to Aether into it, then leaves the office, not bothering to close the drawer again. 

If Aether isn’t at the Inn, Paimon is going to scream. 

***

While Aether was busy returning Zhongli from some hyperrealistic fever dream, a young girl sneezed in the dorm room of her institution. She stopped reading from the book that she had opened hours prior, glancing outside of her window with her brows furrowed in sudden concern. 

Something was very, very wrong. And she could sense it. A shiver ran down her spine that she had only experienced twice before in her life — the day Ajax had fallen into the Abyss, and the day he had joined the Fatui. 

Her brother was in danger. Ajax was in danger. 

She immediately got out of her seat — her chair tilting back, back, then clattering against the floor with a harsh sound she could barely hear — and ran as fast as she could to the Office to schedule an emergency leave from her studies. 

***

Childe knew exactly where he needed to go the second he decided to leave — and he’s got just enough energy to leap up, landing onto a little rock cliff: the last step to his destination. 

Before him stretches the entrance to a cave in the middle of a fuck-all-nowhere mountain. A mountain Childe has only been to once before, but one engraved into his memory forever. He heaves an inhale before placing a hand on the wall and taking a careful step inside, then another, then another — as the walls of the cave close tightly around him, he relishes the cool rock against his fingertips, each wet piece of moss he brushes against, cherishing his last moments like a hero sacrificing himself for a noble cause.

Except he’s not a hero, and he’s committing suicide for fun. Two minor discrepancies. Whatever.  

The cave is empty, and his footsteps ring through, each bristle of his clothes reverberating tenfold. It’s cool inside, exactly how it was last time he visited, though he doesn’t let the memories of that visit flow in just yet. There is no bullshit symbolic meaning behind this decision. Childe just knows that, that out of all the places Zhongli would most likely check in time, this is not one of them. 

The walk is much shorter (or longer?) than he remembers it being, making it clear that he’s halfway out of his mind right now. Go figure. He took absolutely none of Baizhu’s advice and walked out on his assistant; at any moment, the flowers will start working their magic again, he just knows it. All he can hope for is that he reaches the field in time.

He trudges along the path silently, listening to the drip of water and his own footsteps. Everything is too real , he’s too aware of everything around him, as if all his senses are coming alive on last time to burn themselves away. He read somewhere that stars burn rather than shine, and wonders which one he is doing, though the thought process is cut short by him finally arriving at his destination. 

The tunnel opens up to what Childe calls the field , and a field it most definitely is. An empty, open space with a ridiculously high ceiling meets his eyes, where — a bit away from the entrance — begins a flower field unlike any he has ever seen before. Hundreds of Glaze Lilies fill every inch of floorspace, growing and thriving despite the fact that the cave is made of, well, rock, all glowing a pale, soft, brilliantly bioluminescent blue. He glances around for a bit, breathing in the sweetness lingering in the air, the beauty of it all, and settle his eyes on a rock wall (“rock wall”) shortly nearby. 

He takes a tentative step forward, then another, then pauses right before the flower field begins. Back then, Zhongli had paid their respects before entering, and Childe isn’t about to stop taking such wise advice now; he tidies himself, then lowers his torso to make a 90 degree angle, and asks Guizhong for permission to die within her field. 

He waits, eyes closed, focusing entirely on the woman he had no chance to meet but somehow feels as if he knows. The woman who was described as golden, who must have looked beautiful with the sun and sky in her eyes, with a smile on her face to rival light itself. 

He feels a breeze tickle his chin and looks up. Some unknown emotion fills the entirety of his heart, slow and strong and warm, as he sees that the flowers have moved to make a path for him to walk through, for him to get to that little spot he’d been eyeing from the start.  

One last conversation. His last conversation. He wonders if he would get to meet Guizhong after his inevitable death, if she would blame him or smile knowingly and welcome him to Celestia, or hell, or wherever Childe would go. The flowers tickle his shin as he makes his way to his resting place, and when he sits down to lean against the rock wall, everything almost seems normal. The flowers return to position, skittering back over to deny the area to anybody else. 

At the end of it all, utterly alone, Childe suddenly feels a terrifying calmness take over his senses. Like the world itself has been blanketed over, standing a distance away from him, waiting for him to leave. 

His Master once said that the stars are always listening. Here, in the field, where bits of crystal on the ceiling sparkle from the glow of the flowers, Childe decides to listen to her.

( Hmph. For once in your life.) 

“Hey,” he murmurs out. He is speaking to the stars, he is speaking to Guizhong, as if either are alive and with him — as if she’s right there and listening, and not the dust that coats this cavern floor. “So, I’m kinda kicking it.

“Zhongli said — I had a fight with him, by the way, it’s a long story and I’m sure you’d punch both of us in the face if you heard it, but — yeah, I got mad at him, I’m not… mad, anymore, but I’m also dying. Sort of hard to be mad when your life ends in a few hours. Anyways. He said that back then, during the war, you knew where every Glaze Lily grew. That you could sense it, somehow. I think that’s sort of bullshit, since you were the goddess of dust and not fucking flowers, but I dunno. Maybe you can. Maybe you know what’s happening to me.” 

The words come stumbling out, one by one, and leave a bitter aftertaste: like he’s just swallowed poison, or herbal medicine, or both. Each character is strung together into a sentence, a dagger, one with the sole purpose of stabbing Childe over and over again — except he is the dagger and he is the stabber, so who can he even blame? He can’t breathe. His chest aches. He doesn’t stop talking.

“I’m not too sure where it all started going wrong.” He mutters a quick comment under his breath — since the fucking Abyss, probably — then continues. “I guess it was, maybe, never really meant-to-be. Maybe it’s all Fate, or none of it is — I don’t know. I’m trying to say that I can’t really see us working out. He’s just so, always, collected and calm and stoic and he seems to know everything, y’know? Suit perfectly ironed. Hair in that stupid ponytail, swishing around as he walks. ”

Childe recognizes, distantly, that he is scared . Scared that when he finally stops talking, it will be for good. That his last words will go unknown. 

Well, not unknown . Yanfei received his will in her mailbox just thirty minutes ago. So at least — 

“I mean, I am taking the easy way out. I won’t deny that. Turns out you can run from your problems forever, if you eventually die without addressing any of it.” He laughs. “Still. When I die, I take my problems with me, so that’s basically a draw. No complete losses. I’ll take a tie.”

At least they’ll have the letters. Childe at his best. Or him, barely sane enough to write without sounding completely deranged. Whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

He imagines Guizhong tutting at him in disapproval. Maybe even raising her eyebrows in mild annoyance and disbelief, the way Ningguang so frequently does when something ridiculous is presented before her, like when Childe decided to introduce her to Signora.

A joke comes to him. He decides to voice it, because fuck it , the world is ending. Or at least his. 

“This one time, uh,” he tries and fails to stop snickering. “This one time, I was completely fucking shitfaced, and I said that I’d — rather die , than talk to Zhongli about it?” 

He pauses for dramatic effect, then bursts into laughter. It’s just so funny to him, because he was right , he was right all along, and he laughs and laughs and laughs until he coughs violently from it. When he finally stops, he’s completely, utterly, exhausted. 

He looks up at the ceiling above and heaves a small, content sigh. 

Soon. Whether it was meant to be or not meant to be, whether Childe is running away from his problems or not, everything will end soon. He will end soon. It’s almost over. 

Bathed in starlight, Childe lets his eyes fall shut and relaxes against Guizhong’s gravestone. 

*** 

When Aether comes to in the Inn, a brilliant sunset is splattered across the windows (indicating that he’d been in the domain for a long time); his entire body aches, as if protesting his decision to get involved in this much bullshit so shortly after Inazuma; and both Xiao and Zhongli are beside him. Xiao blinks a few times at the sight of his Archon, as if he hadn’t expected Zhongli to actually agree to leave, but is halfway to bowing anyway when Zhongli extends a hand out. 

“No need, old friend,” he assures, voice as warm as ever. “You have done so much for me, and yet you continue to provide more, both at and beyond my request. Thank you, both for your patience and your care. I cannot overstate my gratitude.” 

Xiao stiffens in his almost-bow, then just fucking nods. Aether can see just the slightest flush creeping onto the Yaksha’s face; on any other day he would have started teasing Xiao, but right now (tragically), there are bigger issues to deal with.

Just then, something crashes through the window. That something quickly turns out to be Paimon , and she looks absolutely furious : hair disheveled, brows furrowed, and out of breath. Which means one of two things. She was either robbed of her food, or Childe is dead. Aether’s heart sinks entirely in his chest until Paimon flies right up to him and shoves a piece of paper under his nose. 

“What — Paimon? What ?” 

“ Read . Quickly!” Paimon demands, and Aether obliges, aware of the curious glances that the adepti are throwing him. When Zhongli opens his mouth to ask of the contents, Paimon flashes him a very prominent glare. “It’s private.” 

Okay. So she’s back-talking Archons now. Great. 

Aether skims the contents as fast as he can. Enclosed alongside with what suspiciously looks like reports about Lumine (he very much ignores those files, just for now) is a near delusional apology-slash-suicide-note, filled with rambling sorry s and I’ll miss you s and my bad, there was nothing I could do.  

Aether’s eyes stop at the edge of the paper, where Childe has signed off with “Your rival and dear friend ” — stupid, stupid — as he realizes something that he was desperately trying to ignore the entire letter. 

“This asshole is killing himself ?” 

That stops Zhongli dead in his tracks, and Xiao’s gaze hits the floor. Before either of them can spiral too hard, Paimon stomps her foot in mid-air, taking a lap around them both so she can clap her hands in their faces. “Zhongli! Xiao! Snap out of it! He isn’t dead yet , okay? The nice lady at the bank is looking for him, but she said that she needed help.”  

Pointedly, Aether does not ask how Paimon is so sure that Childe hasn’t died yet. “The nice lady at the bank,” he says instead. “Do you mean Ekaterina?” 

Paimon nods as she approaches Zhongli, who still seems to be in moderate shock. Though, through the shock, Zhongli seems to be studying Xiao carefully, though Aether is not entirely sure why. 

“Oi!” She raises her two hands and shoves Zhongli, just slightly enough so that he has to take an instinctive step backward. She looks him dead in the eyes, and for a moment, Aether can see a flicker of her actual personality shine through the cutesy high-pitched voice and third-person self-references. “Listen! He’s not dead yet. But if you two stand here doing nothing, he is absolutely going to die! Wake up!” 

That works, thank God , though on the wrong target. Xiao readies a spear, one Aether has never seen Xiao don before, and jumps onto the windowsill; pausing just before he exits to murmur out something in ancient tongue. Aether can only assume it’s Zhongli’s name, because the other’s gaze shifts, landing on the spear with a completely foreign look — mixed with grief, pity, and empathy. Xiao ignores this, only giving Aether a resolute nod. “Paimon is right. I will begin searching. If I find him, I will inform you and Lord L — Zhongli of such, then bring him back here. Is that suitable?” 

Zhongli does not reply. 

“Zhongli,” Aether sighs, out of empathy rather than exasperation, and places a hand on the other’s shoulder; thankfully, this breaks Zhongli out of his trance. He shakes his head a few times, blinking himself back into reality, then a hard look of determination settles on his face. 

“My apologies. That will not happen again,” he replies firmly. “I am present. Please continue.” 

Aether searches Zhongli’s eyes for a hint of lying — though there is no trace of it. He’s undoubtedly fucked up, but he’s repressing temporarily (“temporarily”) for Childe’s sake — much like Aether has been doing for Lumine’s sake, all this time.  

“Right. How should we go about this?” 

Zhongli hums under his breath, like Aether just asked how to tell the quality of jade and not how to stop his lover from killing himself. 

“It seems that searching individually is our only option, however inefficient. We could seek the aid of a larger group, but I doubt we will rally enough participants before he — we, run out of time. There is also the matter of…” 

Zhongli pauses, a name stuck in his throat. He swallows it down before continuing as if he never stopped to begin with. 

“To put it gently, his reputation in Liyue is not at its best.” 

“Right.” Aether, though unsure how to proceed, knows that is the only thing they can do; so he keeps talking, keeps thinking. “So we should think of places he would go, then search those first.”

Zhongli says nothing. 

“Which would be sentimental spots,” Aether continues, careful, searching for a hint in Zhongli’s expression out of the corner of his eyes. “Do you know of any?” 

Zhongli shakes his head, and Aether tilts his head in confusion — surely Childe and Zhongli had more than a few special spots together — until the other continues. “There are too many.” 

Oh.

Right. 

That makes much, much more sense. Aether mutters as much, aware of how pained Zhongli looks, before another thought lights up in his head. 

“Are there any spots you think he wouldn’t go to?” When Zhongli returns a puzzled look, Aether elaborates. “He’s smart. He’d probably guess that we would check the most memorable spots first, and work against that.”

“Possible,” Zhongli replies. “Though those spots could either be unsentimental entirely, a location so random that it would not even occur to us to begin with, or a place of negative sentiment.” 

“You’re right.” Once again, too much ground to cover with not enough time. Then, a really good idea lights up in Aether’s mind, and he lets out a little noise — which gets Zhongli to look over at him. “Can you still use adepti-related powers without your gnosis?” 

“Well, yes, though I am no longer an Archon, I am still an adept-” He pauses, a few pieces of the puzzle clicking click in his mind. “A dream visit.” 

“ Yes . Can you appear in them even if Childe isn’t asleep?”

“Only for a short while,” he replies, suddenly seeming impatient of all things, but looks at Aether with real hope . Not something that’s barely hanging on by a thread, but a dangerous, rushing storm that overtakes your entire body, the kind of hope Aether feels every single time there’s a new part of Lumine’s whereabouts revealed to him. “But I would wager good money that he is asleep. The flowers were often used as sleeping aids during the war, especially in high dosages.” 

“So you can reach him,” Aether concludes, and Zhongli nods slowly. Affirmative.  

“If I expend enough power, I most definitely can , and I will do as much. In the meantime, please — all three of you, continue the search for him. Even if I manage to do something , he will be too physically weak to contact us. It would be a miracle if he were to stand-” 

“Zhongli,” Aether interrupts, giving the other a curt nod. “I will. Hurry, okay?” 

“I shall,” he replies. His voice is shaky, but determined. “If you find him, and he seems to be unconscious, please do not wake him — summon Xiao to the location instead. Xiao will know if and whether to wake him by force. If you come across her, extend the message to Miss Ekaterina as well.” 

“Roger,” Aether mutters, picking up his bag and sheathes his sword before gesturing to Paimon; on cue, the fairy enters her Pocket Dimension. They’re ready. 

Ready to beat the shit out of Childe when Aether finds the motherfucker, that is. 

With a silent gesture to Xiao, Aether exits the room — leaving Zhongli alone to make the impossible happen. 

***

Zhongli lets out the breath he knows he’s been holding, going to close the door the Traveler hadn’t as he left. He has entered countless dreams belonging to countless mortals, yet never before has it felt this significant . Though he has visited dreams with lives at stake, this life has never been that of someone he — cares for. Deeply, truly cares for.

Loves, even.  

Had he been maybe two or three thousand years younger, he would have laughed at the notion of loving a mortal , caring for someone who will only be a short blink in his lifespan, someone who rushes through their own. Zhongli is not young anymore, and he might finally understand why Childe moves through existence with such haste. 

Frenzied or not, there is absolutely nothing about Childe worthy of dismissal. And there is absolutely nothing Zhongli wouldn’t do to ensure Childe lives long enough to hear so. 

With a graceful pat down of his outfit — habitual gestures, a ritual meant to soothe himself more than anything — the Prime of Adepti tugs upon his abilities, closes his eyes, and searches . 

He begins by limiting his search to Liyue, then by recalling Childe — physical features first. Ginger hair, perpetually in shambles, as if he never bothers to comb it. A sharp and angled jawline, typical of a Snezhnayan; a light, teasing grin on his lips, a flexibility to his lithe body. And navy blue eyes that seem so empty at times, but are capable of lighting up like the stars themselves descending onto Tevyat. 

He finds his target rather quickly — a warm, tugging feeling in his gut not unlike the ones Childe gives him when Zhongli is actually around him — and opens his eyes to find himself in dragon form, successfully in front of the entrance. A small door, with sigils carved into every square inch, floats in the middle of a golden void — an entrance befitting Childe, he thinks. Zhongli carefully traces the lines of the sigils with his fingers, attempting to decipher their purpose. He was aware that the Abyss visit had taken a toll on Childe, but it seems he has underestimated just how much , or how much work has been done to keep Childe sane afterwards.

Through practiced motions, he begins unweaving the barriers piece by piece — a burst of Geo here, a quick entrance fee there, all while he continues to think . Some of these have been created by Childe himself. The fact that a mortal so young managed to carve working sigils into himself , however elementary, is a testament to how much studying Childe has done to keep himself free from Abyssal taint. Had Zhongli known earlier, he —

A spark suddenly flies from the entrance, and Zhongli glances down to it. He is capable of entering dreams of mortals and adepti alike — the only instances where he is denied is if he is specifically warded against. He takes a closer look at the sigils carved around and understands immediately. 

Childe’s dreams are under the protection of the Cryo Archon. Naturally. He could undo the wards, if he so wished, but doing so would alert the Tsartisa. More importantly, it would take time that he does not currently have. 

There is still one other way.

He can enter the consciousness directly, though if he wishes to do so without risking permanent collapse of Childe’s mind entirely — perfectly plausible, considering that Childe is weak, and forced entry takes a toll not even adepti are able to withstand unscathed — he requires permission .

And he is nearly confident he is not going to receive it. The permission in question is very rarely a negotiable thing, considering the fact that the conscious itself is inactive a majority of the time, smothered by the sheer energy exerted over them. In more cases than most, it is the subconscious who will answer the “door”, and the subconscious does not change its viewpoints. Considering Childe’s final — not final , Celestia help him — last actions towards Zhongli, it is safe to assume Childe does not want to see him. Though Zhongli may be able to bank on the hopes that Childe’s subconscious disagrees with his conscious self, that is such a rare possibility that he feels much safer expecting to resort to Plan B and abandon this entirely. 

Though he supposes he has to try anything and everything, even if the odds are abysmal. 

He is able to find the entry gate with a bit more difficulty this time—another wooden door, though this time slightly larger. It looks, most interestingly, as if it was rebuilt multiple times—though the foundation made of stone has remained through the years, the door itself looks relatively new and much too recent for a mortal within his twenties. The other side hums with energy, though he can physically feel it fading away by the minute. Zhongli quickly pulls upon his human form—though this is slightly less efficient, it is more familiar to Childe, assuming he would even respond—and knocks with a hushed breath. 

The other side goes dead silent . That quiet, though steady hum of life disappears almost entirely, and for a brief second Zhongli panics—he sounds lifeless —before there is a crash on the other side. Which strikes him as odd, because the subconscious isn’t prone to causing ruckuses; he has to scoff in disbelief when he hears voices coming from behind the door. 

“Oh, fuck you! He’s going to die !” A child, barely in his teenage years if that, sounding indignant. Annoyed. Very, very worried. 

“Good. Let him. I’d rather he die than let that son of a bitch in.” A much more collected voice, though cruel and full of spite. 

Son of a bitch, which is a title Zhongli has not heard in some time, seems to be directed at himself. He, on the other hand, can only be Childe, based on the mention of near death. 

Zhongli is both extremely concerned, even more so than before, and confused . After some time, he does the only thing he can and knocks again, interrupting the bickering. 

“Hello?” 

The other side, once again, goes silent before erupting in noise, this time in the voice of the child. “Whoa — ” 

“This is getting ridiculous — ” 

“You can hear us ? That’s crazy. Is that what being an Archon does to you?” 

There is the sound of scruffling, then the child yells as he is presumably dragged away from the door. Zhongli all but bangs upon the wood in thinly veiled desperation; thank Celestia, the footstops stop. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I must speak with him.” 

“Him? Who’s that? There’s no ‘him’ here. Either man up, or get the hell out of here before I make you.” The older voice replies, clearly mocking him. “He doesn’t want to talk to you. He made that abundantly clear when he ran away while suffocating—” 

“Just for the record, a stupid decision, and I would strangle him if I could-” 

“Shut up. While suffocating, just so he can avoid talking to you. He chose to die. You expect us to reverse that? What, so you can get your closure?” 

Zhongli staggers back just slightly, as if being stabbed, at the sheer venom in the voice, at the genuine contempt laced within every word. At the same time, there is something else making the words all too worse, the fact that they—

“Archons, be nicer .” The child interrupts, and Zhongli can practically see them rolling their eyes. 

“To the guy who’s killing him? Fat chance, kid.” The emphasis, the way he inflects certain words for sarcasm, the painfully blunt way of putting things—

“First of all, I’m older than you.” The child responds, a pout in his voice, and it’s in a manner finally so similar to Childe that it all clicks in Zhongli’s head. 

“You are — Childe. No. Tartaglia. Ajax.” He finally calls out, and the voices — no, they go silent. Ajax is the first to break the tension by laughing , uproariously, and Zhongli can almost see the ear-to-ear grin he’s wearing. The boy laughs and laughs, until Zhongli hears a weak slap coming from the door — Ajax presumably hit Tartaglia for… some reason. 

“I told you! There’s something new about him—I told you !” he wheezes out.

“He’s the goddamned Geo Archon, he should have figured it out months ago.” Tartagalia bites back — and Zhongli can hear it now, just how similar they sound to each other. 

“But isn’t the certainty just awesome?” Ajax giggles back. “Not Are you Ajax, not Are you Childe, but you are. It’s fantastic. By the way, you’re saying our name totally wrong. It’s closer to —”

“Why in the Tsaritsa’s name is this important to you again?”

“Oh come on, you know why.”   

Zhongli is unsure about all of this, of everything, and speaks out once again. “I am not sure why you seem impressed, it is not a difficult observation.” 

“Oh, really?” Ajax replies, playful but sounding infinitely more amiable. “How come?” 

“The three of you speak in a much similar way. Your voice is clearly of Snezhanayan origin and upbringing, Ajax, and while Childe-” He makes sure to use his name, his real name, this time, no matter how much of a reminder it is that Childe is dying . “-has adopted Liyuean inflections during his stay here, he had sounded nearly identical to Tartagalia in terms of speech habits when he had first arrived about two years ago.” 

“You’re so smart.” Ajax comments, sounding delighted, and then whispers something to Tartagalia—something Zhongli can’t quite make out—before turning his attention back to the door. “Alright, Mister Zhongli, you get one question. If Tartagalia over here approves of your answer, you get one whole shot at stopping the idiot from killing the body!” 

He sounds oddly cheerful while discussing the idea of Childe’s suicide, which if Zhongli is interpreting the situation right would also be Ajax’s death — but he ignores that in favor of nodding. “Understood. What is the question?” 

“And the question is…” He speaks, and Zhongli can almost hear a metaphorical drumroll in the distance. “There is no question!” 

Zhongli bites back a sigh at the almost pranklike nature of that statement, then nods. “I suppose that is fair.” 

And the other side goes silent. If he listens very carefully, he can almost hear Ajax holding his breath in joyous anticipation, the skeptical way Tartagalia is listening to his next words. He considers picking and choosing his words carefully, constructing a masterfully put together sentence that will melt the hearts of all those listening, to treat this as if he is speaking with the adepti during a meeting. 

Then he realizes that formality and business is the least Childe-ish thing in the world. Childe did not speak as if each sentence he would spit out would be written down and analyzed for hundreds of years to come, no, he spoke with honesty . And it is that honesty, the vague mental image of a young adult flailing his way around anything remotely related with emotional conflicts that made him so charming, so easy to speak to. Vice versa—Childe never found formal, long written letters of apology to be sincere. Years in the Fatui reading nothing but formal, long written letters of apology molded his tastes to gear towards the exact opposite. 

As Guizhong once said, quite wisely, people do not want apologies. They want confessions. 

And though Zhongli has never seen proof of that notion, there is no time to sit around and plan for a better alternative; no time to waste, when every minute counts. A gamble. Hardly his favorite form of strategy, but isn’t that the point? So he does simply what he does best, and begins rambling , praying to Celestia that this indeed is the correct approach. 

“The Traveler, upon coming to me in order to wake me, informed me that he was there for a singular reason, that reason being the Childe wished to speak with me.” 

“Wait, you were asleep?” Ajax interrupts, and Zhongli nods, despite the fact that neither of them can see each other past the door. 

“I was indeed, for the reason you are most likely assuming of. The Traveler may lie through omission of detail or truth, but does not do so outright. He summoned me telling me that I needed to speak with Childe. Not that I should, or that it would be necessary, but that I needed to, and I needed to do so now, which implies Childe is on some sort of a time-limit. When I heard, again, from the Traveler, that Childe was to harm himself, I initially thought that was the time limit in question. After all, the Traveler is infamously and particularly familiar with guilt—he could not risk the possibility I would rush to Childe’s side for the sole reason that I wished not to have his death on my conscious.”

To his surprise, it is Tartagalia who replies. “But not anymore?” 

“No.” Zhongli says, evenly. “Aether was the one to reach out to me. Though there is a possibility this was because of Aether’s relationship with Xiao, Childe would not have asked anybody to carry out this mission had he had a choice. We both know he would rather suffer alone than ask for help, especially when it is related directly to a mental weakness—which he is aware can be exploited and used much, much easier than anything physical ever could. This, combined with the fact that Aether carries a firm belief that interpersonal conflicts are to be resolved individually yet aided Childe anyway, informs me that Childe is currently in a physical state unable to contact me, and was forced to send the Traveler. The reason why Aether did not disclose this to me is not because he wishes me to take on unfair guilt, but because I would take on fair guilt, and he did not wish guilt to be my motivator. 

“Childe has fallen ill in response to my actions, and the way I treated him. There is only one physical illness manifesting from emotional ailment that acts as a lethal poison to the body.” 

There is silence.

Zhongli attempts not to think about the implications of Childe developing Hanahaki over him, what that means , because there are more important things to take care of first before he— they can tackle that mountain together. 

“I must speak with him. I must apologize, for failing to apologize the first time in a timely manner, if nothing else. If death is truly what he desires, I will-” 

He inhales shakily, every nerve in his mind screaming to stop talking , that promises as such should not be made—he can’t , he’s too confident of his success. And yet his gut argues otherwise, that this is the promise that must be made, that Zhongli will not forcefully drag Childe away from something, anything he wishes to do under the pretense of suicide is not the answer and self-closure. 

“I will grant him that myself. But at the very least, he deserves to know just how much he means to so many others.” 

And, not as an afterthought, but as the exact opposite, he adds. 

“And to myself.” 

He finishes, then holds his breath as he looks at the door. Once again, there is silence on the other side — and he finds this silence to be more like Childe than anything, the way the Harbringer would sometimes simply go quiet when making a particularly difficult decision, the way he would furrow his brows and shut himself off until he’d come to a satisfactory conclusion. A stark contrast to his usually lively and bubbly manner; the first time Zhongli had witnessed it, it had unsettled him deeply. He can still recall the moment, as clear as day — Childe had received an urgent letter during a shared dinner. Upon reading it, silently formed what Hu Tao gladly labeled as a resting bitch face , staying that way for an entire minute until he began chatting about its contents in a much more cheerful manner. A letter from his siblings, supposedly.  

Like a switch had been flipped inside his head. And though the moment had disturbed Zhongli, he later understood that he had been permitted to see Childe’s mind at work. 

What he wouldn’t give to see it happen again. He would rather sit through another hundred hours of Childe’s silence than have to bury him in the earth. 

He is just about knock on the door once again, when it swings open. It is pitch black inside, surprisingly, and the two people he spoke to just a minute ago are nowhere to be found. The sight is eerie, strange, and all-in-all seems to clearly indicate a resistance against his entry, and yet he has never been more relieved in his life. 

Zhongli quickly thanks both Ajax and Tartagalia; faraway, a faint giggle echos through the darkness. After another brief thanks to everyone who guided him through basic emotional intelligence , he steps into the darkness. 

***

Sometimes, Zhongli hears of a movie , a new invention in Fontaine. Through travelers and merchants come the news of other lands, and a movie–at least according to Barbatos–is a genius invention, one Zhongli would have surely enjoyed. His old friend speaks of pictures flying in front of your very eyes, of movement in what should not be possible to move. And though Zhongli has never seen such a thing, he fully believes that if he were to ever see one, it would look exactly like this. 

Thoughts and memories fly by him, one by one, although curiously they are completely dark, barely distinguishable around the even darker “sky”. He is only able to sense them through the warmth they carry with themselves, and of the occasional glimpses of familiar voices, including his own. He does his very best not to look into any of them, for invasion of privacy has never ended well, and instead focuses himself on figuring out where in Childe’s mind he would be located in. He had only taken a mere step into the blackness before the ground itself melted away, and he was forced to begin flight in order to keep himself afloat. He chalks it more up to Childe being unstable than Childe attempting to kill him–if Ajax and Tartagalia intended on Zhongli’s destruction, they wouldn’t have granted him entry. 

No, they would have denied it. 

He senses that Childe is somewhat near, except in no way does he have any idea how near, as if he’s playing that one game that Hu Tao had taught him about– hot and cold, she called it. If you were getting nearer, it was hotter, and if you were further, it was cooler. Though he doubts she has an answer for what dimension he resides in if he feels hot and cold at the same time with every step he takes, he nonetheless takes her very solid advice during the duration of the game. As she put it, “fuck around and find out”, however crude that was. 

With nothing more than his own mind to keep him company, he begins to think . If his hand was forced into making a metaphor about Childe, he’d compare the Harbinger to a constellation. Tied together by identity after identity, mask after mask, with one persona at a time glowing the brightest and most prominent– and yet, at the end of the day, altogether the same person. Still, at his core, that over caring, imposter-syndrome-laced man whose fatal flaw is to care too much about everything–an exact contradiction to Zhongli in his youth. He would say he is unable to understand Childe, but that would be a lie; he has had the chance to intimately speak with another who behaved much like him, after all. It would be a lie to say he was incapable of connecting the dots, for he simply chose not to. In that sense Childe is accurate. Zhongli had masked the convenience of his choice as under the notion of correctness, of experience, and–for the first time in his life– ran . He, who could once confidently claim he has never avoided a problem, avoided Childe twice in the span of a moon. All for what?

He already knows the answer to the question. It’s practically pointless to be asking, if he were to discounts tradition behind it all. The pining, the desperation, the fire in his metaphorical heart revives itself like it never has. He already knows, has known for months at this point, and yet the fact that he does know makes his sins all the more worse. Self-blame never got him far as adeptus nor human, but it’s still a habit he finds hard to quit, especially when it is his fault. He should have noticed more, he should have spoken to the Snezhnayan, considered how short and bright humanity tends to burn. He was now, after all, part of them, and yet it seemed more and more so as the days went on that being immortal was more of a mindset than anything. 

He owes Childe an apology, or three dozen.

With a sigh, he focuses the remainder of his energy into actually finding Childe first. Overthinking could cause him to be much, much more closed when he finally does find the Harbinger. And two overthinkers in one emotionally charged conversation does not, historically–his mind flickers fondly to a certain two Yakshas and their arguments–bode well. 

After a moment or two (or three, four, much longer than he’s comfortable with, for time passes strangely in yet stranger realms) of concentration, he feels a tug coming from a vague direction. It’s guiding, gentle, and barely noticeable amidst the anxious buzzing in his skin, but he catches it just before it dissipates, and follows.

Straight to a familiar field of Glaze Lilies, stretching out for miles on end; and Zhongli can feel his heart breaking in two. 

*** 

As soon as Zhongli leaves the room, Aether murmurs Xiao’s name. He feels a very vague tug towards a direction — Liyue Harbor, at a dock of some kind? — and teleports himself to the nearest Waypoint before breaking into sprint. He scours the Harbor for any signs, Elemental Sight activated, until he comes across the Yaksha. 

He looks… okay. Which is surprising, but Aether can (somehow) tell that is not because of repression of the highest order. He looks determined. He feels determined, and it makes Aether relax just a small amount, if to counteract the rigidity in the other’s form. 

He isn’t sure why he is so hyper-tuned to the Yaksha’s emotions, specifically. Perhaps it’s all those times he’s noticed (and taught himself how to notice) the Yaksha’s presence at Wangshu Inn, back when Xiao was too… awkward to approach. Back when they were both too terrified of approaching.Though, in that sense, they haven’t made much progress about that at all.

Though when Xiao turns directly to face Aether, locating the blond in an instant, and his apathetic facade seems to relax and wear down into something beautifully low , Aether internally chides himself for the quip. If he hasn’t made much progress, then Xiao surely has, for the Yaksha now approaches him first. 

“Hey,” Aether replies, verbally, once the distance has been reasonably closed. Xiao dignifies that non-opener with nothing but the single nod it deserves, and a moment of silence falls. Aether dimly wonders what’s going through the other’s mind, what experiences his past must’ve had if he’s so grief-stricken. ​

Xiao considers himself stone (for all who are devoted to Zhongli end up resembling their Lord in one way or another), and Aether may have agreed if he was only a few hundred years younger. He has seen stone, he has seen steel , he has seen what he arguably considers true death, and he sees that Xiao is not it. He’s more clay, if anything. Hardened by circumstance, but ever-malleable under caring hands and water. Admittedly, by that logic, almost anyone can be clay, but Xiao is exceptionally fitting for this metaphor, because he absolutely melts when Aether raises a hand to his shoulder. It’s not a pat, something much more intimate than that (if they’d been closer, emotionally or otherwise, Aether may have even held him), because Aether’s hand stays there. His palm can feel the tension in the other’s muscles bleeding away, and the implications are nearly enough for Aether to get lost in. But he doesn’t, because there is work to be done. 

Xiao opens his mouth, closes it, re-opens it, and imperceptibly shudders. “Your implications. Hanahaki , is it not?” 

The Yaksha says the word like it’s personally wronged him, and it probably has; Christ, how it is possible that a group of people can be so plagued by grief, yet continue on? Aether can bear it because it was what he was born to do—he’s been pre-destined to carry nothing but this track on his life until the stars, his star, collapsed—but even after so many centuries the world tempts him. With food and rest and shelter and a misguided, temporary, delirious sense of belonging. 

With Xiao , he thinks, then nods before he can dwell. “Yeah, it is.” 

The confirmation, although it’s evidently been expected by Xiao, still has the other jolting nearly imperceptibly: the tension returns momentarily before it’s eased away, by Aether slowly rubbing his fingers over the spot. If he’s indulging his delusions (or trusting his instincts), the sigh that comes from Xiao sounds relieving. 

“And, the flowers?” 

And for a single second Aether hesitates, because in the last world it’d have been rude to disclose that information, because he wouldn’t have ever wanted his flowers to be revealed, but he isn’t sure whether that custom remains the same in Tevyat. Either way, Childe’s flowers are of obvious significance, and Aether isn’t actually ready to disclose that he isn’t of this world, so compliance seems to be the only option here. 

“Glaze Lilies,” he says, but before the word Glaze is out of his mouth Xiao’s gone rigid again. If it were any other time Aether would’ve loved to focus on the way the muscles contract (the Yaksha was so fascinatingly built , all that form compacted in such a lithe body), but right now his attention is occupied in getting them to loosen back down. He prompts pliancy with a bit more pressure to a spot on the other’s neck, as if reminding Xiao that he’s here with Aether, and thank his lucky stars that Xiao is so goddamn good at listening. 

A moment of quiet, then: “You’re certain.” 

“He threw up a petal on me earlier, if you’d like to see it.” 

“No need. I believe you.” There’s silence again, but it’s of palpable anticipation rather than discomfort. Aether waits for Xiao to continue. 

“Perhaps a bard may find the situation poetic. Rex Lapis, once, loved their lover dearly.” Xiao pauses, then adds. “As did I, though not in the same way my lord did. She was special like no other to him. We all admired the other for his strength and brutality, as the war stretched for longer and longer, but she had loved him. Both for and despite it. When she dusted in battle, I thought for certain that he’d...”

“Kick it?”

For that, Aether earns a look of patent disgust, and has to suppress the coy grin threatening to surface in return.  

“The mortal’s linguistic habits are rubbing off on you. Stop.” 

“Sorry,” Aether replies in a heartbeat, not meaning it in the slightest. “But Zhongli lived.”

“At a great expense,” Xiao mutters. “He never took a lover again. Celestia, I’ll never understand what he sees in the Snezhnayan.” 

“I have some ideas,” he says, and this time it’s not just to get a reaction. Aether truly, genuinely sees what Zhongli too might in Childe — the easy-going, devil-may-care charm with passion running through every second of it. “Don’t look so horrified. He has a nice smile.” 

“That is precisely my point. You are all so… charmed , by him.” Xiao looks away, down at the harbor. As the evening sun sets, the night market has begun setting up shop; lanterns and candles illuminate each storefront, the crowd chattering warmly as they browse through the goods. 

Aether wants, desperately, to invite the Yaksha down to join the “mortals.” For the two of them to walk among them, talking about nothing as they shop for mere trinkets. But what Xiao says next blows that possibility clean out of the water, because — 

“He considers himself a weapon. He would kill whoever and whatever his holder aimed him at. He is dangerous.” 

— Xiao’s statement so obviously applies to himself.

Not to say that he’s wrong, necessarily. Aether trusts the other’s judgment, the razor-sharp instinct that has helped him survive wars, then some after. But the distrust laid in his tone, the way he is pointedly avoiding Aether’s gaze; Childe’s existence, and probably this entire situation to begin with, is proof to the other that he — too — would hurt somebody the same way. 

What Aether wants to do about that, which involves violently shaking Xiao on this rooftop for hours, is unacceptable. Instead he sighs, leaning back on his hands and offering Xiao a very insightful shrug.

“Probably. He is the Vanguard and all. But you’ll be surprised at how much people can change, with the right attention.”

Again, Xiao falls silent. Again, Aether waits.

“Is that why you travel? To see people change?” The other asks abruptly, and for once it’s Aether’s turn to go quiet — the question catches him by surprise. Few dare to ask about his background, even those who suspect enough to vaguely know the truth. The only indication that Xiao belongs to this group is that he has, not once, referred to Aether as mortal. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually replies. “But my sister once said it’s because she loves life. All things people can and cannot be, whether they want to or not, and the years you spend experiencing that. She called it beautiful, like stars making up a night sky.”

A cop-out answer, but one that Xiao permits. “She sounds like a lovely person.” 

“She is,” Aether smiles at him, warmly, aware that Xiao is still refusing to look at Aether. “You’ll meet her someday. I think she’ll like you.”

Instead of replying, Xiao stands, then — miracle of all miracles — reaches out a hand to help Aether up. 

“Rex Lapis has found his location,” he says flatly. “I will take you to him.” 

Aether takes his hand, and keeps hold of it as he’s dragged through the darkness — the soft leather of his gloves keeping him company across dimensions. 

*** 

When Aether lands, directly in front of the mouth of the cave, Xiao is nowhere to be found. 

Zhongli appears only moments later, a strange golden glow attached to his fingertips — a string, of some kind, that leads him deeper into the cave. Without so much as a word, the other begins the descent, easily stepping over jagged rock and steep slopes. They tread in silence for what feels like years, until the terrain finally levels out; until Zhongli comes to a sudden, dead stop; Aether looks up at the sight before them, relieved to catch his breath. 

Only to have it promptly stolen away.

Dozens — no, hundreds of Glaze Lilies are in full bloom across the cavern floor, emitting soft, lilac light that illuminates everything as far as the eye can see. Somewhere, a small stream trickles through, the ambient sound of water filling every gap that the light cannot. He searches across the room for Childe's presence, but finds nothing — not even the sickening scent of blood that he was bathed in earlier. His footsteps end where the flower field begins; he seems to have disappeared into it, plain and simple.  For a moment, Aether is convinced that something has gone wrong. That they've rushed to the wrong location — or worse, that Childe is already dead, and his body has collapsed somewhere here to be buried amidst petals for good. He glances at Zhongli, opening his mouth to suggest they move on, when he sees the look on the other's face.

Despite the fact that, technically speaking, it is always Aether who leaves in the end, it often feels like the other way around. Like Aether is rooted into place while his loved ones come and go, doomed to be permanent; living his life while constantly lacking, constantly losing. There are no exceptions. When he and Lumine step out of the world for good, hand-in-hand, even other immortals Aether befriends along his journey will bereave themselves. He understands, to his core, the fear that must have possessed Ei when she chose to lock herself away for good, for he lives with it daily. Better isolate against the world than find yourself always distant, miles or centuries too far from the ones you loved with all your heart.

The look on Zhongli's face is that of someone who knows they are being left; and Aether can't say a word of comfort.

The archon, slowly, takes a step into the field. The flowers part before him, opening a path forward, but he doesn't continue — only staring at the Glaze Lilies as if the end of the world is nigh. It is Aether who ushers him, step by step, through the cave, their footsteps echoing through the space, until the two have reached a small clearing; a tall rock; and Childe, resting against it, his head hanging and eyes cast low.

Thank God, or Christ, or whatever the fuck Celestia is — upon noticing their presence, Childe looks up. Flashes them both a grin. Before he can say a word, he gags, his body twisting painfully as he spits on the ground beside him.

"I hate this," he mutters, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "I come all this way to make sure nobody sees me die in the most embarrassing way possible, and you bring me a fucking audience? Traveler, I thought we were friends."

"We are friends," Aether reminds him, scoffing. "Fuck you, by the way, for making us climb up here."

"Hey, it could have been worse. Jumping off Qingyun Peak was one of my options. Figured I'd probably kick it halfway through and just lie on top of some rock forever, though."

"I'll make sure Yae Publishing House includes that detail in the lightnovel they'll write about you."

Childe laughs, the sound ricocheting off the walls of the cave. The flowers sway, as if laughing at Aether's joke with him, the field and Childe moving as one. His eyes finally leave Aether's face, landing behind him; somehow, his smile widens.

"Oh come on. Lighten up a little. Bet you're regretting showing me this spot now. I'm literally spitting on her grave." He pauses, right as several things click in Aether's mind all at once — the Glaze Lilies — dust — Guizhong. This must have been her deathplace, where she dusted. "Tell her sorry. I don't need to incur the wrath of ancient gods just as I'm about to kick it, y'know."

Zhongli remains silent.

"Am I doing the talking?" Childe asks, apparently rhetorically; he rolls his eyes, the gesture ever-so-cocky, and with his head gestures to the spot next to him. "Come here then, xiansheng. I'll do the talking."

Aether glances at Zhongli, who remains stubbornly rooted in place.

"C'mon. Entertain me, I have shit to say."

Somehow, that is what finally gets Zhongli to move: approaching Childe in slow, measured steps, and pointedly sitting where the earth has been soaked with the other's blood. Childe furrows his eyebrows, then laughs again, as if understanding something funny about the gesture. His gaze, though now vaguely facing Aether again, is blank; he isn't looking at all, only muttering, so soft that Aether can barely hear the contents. Some part of him thinks he shouldn't be privy to this, and he attempts to turn away, only to be tsked at by Childe.

He still has his attitude on his deathbed. Go fucking figure.

"Sorry about the chopsticks too. I didn't — well, I did mean it, but it was a stupid thing to mean. Assuming you're not pissed at me, do me a favor and rebuy them. With your money this time."

"I kept them," Zhongli replies, just as quiet. "Ekaterina handed me the box shortly before I left Northland Bank."

"Seriously?" Childe bristles, faking genuine offense — or actually, genuinely being offended, Aether honestly can't tell — with a scoff. "Going against direct orders? She should get sacked for that. Too bad I already promoted her, though."

"Did you really?"

"Yep. I think she likes it at Northland. Good fighter, I know that for sure, but she looks... better, now, than when she first came around. More relaxed. Way funnier."

"A liking to administrative work tends to be a rare trait, but a fulfilling one. From what I've heard, at least."

"From Ganyu, you mean?" Slowly, with each quip thrown his way, the smile on Zhongli's lips grows wider and wider. There is a lilt in Childe's tone that Aether has never heard before — playful, affectionate. "How is that fair, by the way? The poor youngins of Liyue looking to make a career off secretary work are supposed to compete with half-qilin hand-picked by the Morax for the position?"

"They aren't. Regrettably, I must inform you I was talking about Keqing."

"Pretty sure she hates you, by the way."

"Oh, certainly. The Qixing could not have a better Yuheng to guide them forth. I have left Liyue in capable hands."

"At my expense, huh?"

Zhongli suddenly looks extraordinarily guilty, his smile gone in an instant. Childe lets the silence continue for barely two beats before breaking out in laughter again, leaning his head onto the other's shoulder. "Kidding. Kidding. I'm not mad about that anymore."

Aether takes a seat near the edge of the clearing, simply watching the two converse. He heard whispers about the two of them, sure, but those were only whispers — he'd never seen the two of them talk until now. And the sight before him is one for sore eyes: both laughing, joking, making one smug comment after another, the banter flowing between them like water. The tension has gone out of their shoulders, and when Childe tilts his head up so he can meet Zhongli's eyes, he looks utterly at peace. Zhongli holds the gaze as he continues, his tone far more serious — but just as even — as before. 

All the prose in the world could not describe their intimacy. So Aether listens from afar, quietly drinking in every word. 

"You should be. As the Traveler... kindly reminded me earlier," he continues, earning a snort from Childe. "I never apologized for deceiving you. I wished to tell you for some time, but I could not. I had sworn against it."

"Well, Rosa was pretty good at what she did. I'd say not as good as me, but the score's one-zero for now. We're gonna have rematches in the afterlife."

"In the afterlife," Zhongli repeats, amused.

"Yes, in the afterlife. I don't subscribe to a denomination, and Celestia knows who my soul belongs to. The Hydro Archon would probably kill me herself. My Lady would just banish me to nothingness, if she got the choice. So the vague, unspecified but definitely-real afterlife it is. Though..." 

"Though?"

"Thought 'bout going back to the Abyss. Pay Master a visit and all that. Fighting her eternally while periodically being resurrected every time I die would kind of be awesome." 

"Oh, is this the part where you try?"

"Yes," he replies. "This is the part where I try. I would be grateful if you could at least feign interest." 

"Whatever you want, xiansheng. I'm listening." 

***

"For Celestia's sake, I love you."

"Without reason. Whoever you were, are, or will be, I love you. I do not expect you to understand — I do not understand it myself, but I swear on all that I know that it's true, and I will repeat it as many times as needed for you to get it through your head."

"I would never ask you for eternity. Just... a fraction of your time, Childe. Another hour to eat and speak in your presence. Surely you do not — despise me, so much, to deny just one more meal together."

***

The blows come, one by one, like rain pattering onto stone. Kisses peppered across his cheek, a phantom sensation Childe has long dreamt of, but will never be able to feel. Childe closes his eyes and allows Zhongli's voice to wash over him, warm him, bathe him in the golden light of gentle, patient love, one last time.

The thing is, someday, Childe would have to make his choice. A choice that should not and cannot be Zhongli, no matter how desperately he wishes otherwise; a choice that would have killed him to make. He would go through the Abyss again, scared and alone as a child, another thousand times than ever find himself fighting against the Millelith for good; he could never put a spear through the Tianquan's chest without losing a piece of his mind, for she shares his love for Liyue. His Lady wishes, probably, for all to be destroyed — for Tevyat itself to be uprooted, for the powers-that-be above to be brought down to their knees, but hundreds will die in the process.

Ridiculous, really, that Childe would decide to start caring about that now. He breezed through the Fatui training camps in a matter of months, outdoing every master he was assigned threefold until he re-captured the attention of the Her Majesty herself. She had brought him to her palace of ice and marble, knelt him on one knee, and given him his rank. She told him to fight until he no longer could, until every inch of his soul was left battered beyond repair: only when his mind, body, and will had collapsed would she dismiss his service. And, to Tartaglia's credit, he had. Yet on his deathbed, he can finally admit that the years he's spent in Liyue has humanized him.  The warm autumn leaves have taken what was left of his child-self and cared for it, with warm soup and the chatter of aunties as they dragged him into the store, offering him a necklace or an earring to try, commenting on how charming he looked...

Zhongli, Morax, Rex Lapis. Whoever he was, is, or will be, he had been there every step of the way. He had successfully aided — no, abetted this transformation, from a silver-tongued, sleek-masked diplomat to just Childe, said with a distinct Liyuean accent. So he is useless as a Vanguard now. In some sense, this disease has done Childe a favor — by letting him tap out of that future early, it's allowed him to remain as a worthy soldier to His Lady, and as someone worth loving to Zhongli.

Remembered as lovely evermore. In a memory so pristine, so clear, that you could look through it like glass. Cor Lapis, that warm, crystal-clear center found beneath the rocks, gleaming in the light to greet its visitor. It may not be the glory of a bloody, wrathful death, but it's certainly something close.

Maybe something better.

He reaches for Zhongli's hand.

The other takes it.

He always thought it strange. Though by all means, Zhongli's human form looks like the young nobleman of some well-off family Childe would read about in books — prim and proper, clever, long hair kept in a neat tie flowing behind him with every step —  his hands are full of scars and callouses. He must have chosen to have them, but why? As trophies? Memorabilia? Will Childe be one of those scars, now?

The thought brings him relief. Archons, he would have made a horrible lover.

Childe slowly brings the hand up to his lips.

Zhongli's grip tightens, holding onto him like a lifeline, but he lets Childe do as he pleases. Always so indulgent. Indulging him just a little longer as Childe presses a kiss to the back of his hand, whispering his response against it as the flower claims the last empty space inside his throat —

Love you too, xiansheng.

Chapter Text

All things considered, the funeral is strangely tiny, Tonia thinks.

She was the only one brave enough to accept the tragedy in time and agree to sail to Liyue for the occasion, all with the help of someone named Aether. He felt like a star to Tonia, which only made his expression at her reaction even more strange. 

Guilt. Heart-breaking, earth shaking guilt. The kind that haunts you each night for the rest of your life, the kind that creeps up upon you when you least expect it, knocking the wind out of your lungs and the joy out of your life. The kind of guilt she likes to think Mother went through when Ajax returned from the Abyss, the kind of guilt that drove her to do what she did. 

Though, this “Aether”’s guilt doesn’t hold a damn candle to the man standing in front of her right now. 

The very first thing Tonia had noticed was the fact that he was absolutely beautiful. The second thing she noticed (or, is noticing) is that fact that he is undoubtedly the person behind Ajax’s death. She knows the way she knows Aether was Ajax’s friend, and she knows the way a sister knows a brother, even if they hadn’t seen each other for months. 

She knows the way Ajax knew she’d be terrified of loving ever again after learning of just how he ended up falling in the end. 

Neither of them talk. The man’s eyes are devoid of anything but that devastation that he first carried as soon as he set eyes on Tonia, and Tonia briefly wonders if Ajax had anticipated that the pretty man would end up leading his funeral. 

She wonders what she should say to him. She wonders what can possibly make this situation any better, and she wonders if yelling, kicking, screaming at this person for taking her brother away would change anything. 

She, of course, already knows the answer. So instead of doing everything and anything she wants to do in the moment, she smiles at the Funeral Consultant. Weary, sad, pathetic, but not cold. Not blaming.  

The boy standing behind said Funeral Consultant tenses. Tonia doesn’t need to be a Vision user to know that the boy is special, that he’s not exactly human , but that doesn’t make him any less of a person. Ajax wasn’t exactly human, but he was very much a person too, after all. 

She opens her mouth, closes it—her voice threatens to betray her, to break , and she refuses to let it—then speaks.

“I look like him.” The words echo within the room like she has just launched a bomb. The room goes dead silent, which is funny to Tonia—as if it wasn’t deadly silent before.

And Tonia already knows the answer—she is the single child most alike Ajax in every way shape and form, she was the only one who was able to even try to understand Ajax, the only one who sent him pieces of chocolate that he used to like from Snezhnaya, the one he left a god damn letter to. She carries his legacy in the way she learns, the way she speaks, stemming from the late-night conversations they had about identity, life, the Abyss (sometimes, very much only sometimes ). She resembles him, not in physical features—no, Ajax was built like a lovely glass doll while Tonia carries a hardness within her—but in the way she looks at others, in the way she speaks emotion within her eyes. She looks like him. 

She watches the man closely, the way Ajax had taught her years ago when she first began her higher education, and observes his face. 

Eyes are the window to a soul, they say . A small grin, a habitual flip of a coin. But I think souls are bullshit. Eyes are more of a permanently installed emotion detector—that’s why looking is so important. 

If Tonia indulges her delusion (...heh) for a little longer, she can almost hear Ajax asking her what she thinks he thinks.

She thinks he is guilty. She thinks of sorrow. She thinks of a mix of grief and misery and what if what if what if , festering within the man’s heart and refusing to let go. 

She thinks that Ajax would not have wanted such a thing to continue. Occur, yes, that much would have been inevitable, but her stupid Big Brother would have wished for the man to move on. Not forget , but to bury him within his heart and continue. 

Aether is the one to reply to her non-reply accusation. “You do.” 

She hums softly. It occurs to her, to some level, that at one point she will have to stop focusing on everybody else’s grief but her own. She will have to perform the very same acts she is so desperate to aid everybody else through, and that Ajax would have wished her to heal as much as he wished everybody else. 

This is not the point. Not when she is so hell-bent on maintaining a persona, not when the man in front of her is clearly moments away from breaking. 

Killing your lover takes enough of a toll without having the sister of said lover yell at you during the funeral. 

And yes, she probably should break down. She should address the shake in her hands and the emptiness in her heart, the rage and sorrow, the way she wishes simply to scream and kick at this actual fucking God that took her brother from her so young. But there are things she must not do, and she must not hurt her brother beyond his grave. Not when she knows the rage she feels is simply an outlet for the devastation itself. 

So she thinks about what to do, how to react, what Ajax would have—no, not what Ajax would have done, what Ajax advised her to do, and she inhales softly before a new determination is lit in her eyes. So she takes long, confident strides towards the coffin, and places her bouquet on top of the closed lid. 

Many aspects of this are, strictly speaking, against tradition. For one thing, the coffin usually remains open, and she usually places the flowers in the hands of the body. For another, among the delicately crafted ( hand made by all of them ) artificial flowers is a singular real one, sent by the Tsaritsa and preserved using ice. She initially made two in order to keep the numbers even, but one was abandoned in favor of the gift. They will reside in the coffin with Ajax, for eternity and beyond. All against tradition, all against norms.

But then again, so is having the funeral itself in an entirely foreign land. 

She then turns arounds, heads straight to a table set to the side, takes a seat, and offers a polite smile. More than a few shocked looks are thrown at her, but she pays them no mind as she gestures to the other seats. 

“So? Tell me about him.” 

***

Despite her promotion, Ekaterina still prefers to work at the front desk.

Old habits die hard, she supposes. 

There is a snap-crackle of electricity from the entrance, and wooden doors blow open. She immediately rushes to her feet, knives poised at the ready to strike down whoever the intruder may be through the cloud of dust — yes, despite the fact that familiarity of Electro makes a part of her heart ache, she still has a job to do — 

A low drawl comes from the doorway, piercing through.  

“Would you like to lose that arm?”

And Archons forbid, she actually recognizes the voice. She’s only heard it once or twice during her training, but the memory of it is still clear: the cold, sardonic tone, an idle threat of violence laced through every word. 

The way he says every sentence with a sneer, like a bi— 

“I’m here to pick up Tartaglia’s blood,” he graciously clarifies, saving Ekaterina from having to continue that train of thought. 

“His…” One of the many, many rules that follow around this Harbinger like epithets: don’t repeat yourself. “Blood, sir?” 

“The order went through seven days before the idiot even found out about his shitty flower disease. He should have drawn immediately. Now get the fuck upstairs and find the vial, otherwise I’m exuming his corpse and drawing from there. Scram.” 

Ah, how she has missed working under a harbinger. Ekaterina complies immediately, rushing upstairs to Childe’s old office after a quick Yes, sir . 

The space is exactly how the former manager left it, except for two minor details.

Firstly, several books from the shelf are missing. A month or so ago, Childe’s younger sister had written to her, asking if she could borrow some books from her brother’s collection, and Ekaterina had gladly fulfilled the request — picking out several known favorites from the bookshelves to send along to Snezhnaya. Since then, she has made a habit of returning the parcel with notes of her own attached inside each cover; Ekaterina will admit she is slowly growing fond of her. An infectious energy. 

Those working at Northland Bank agree: she really does take after him. 

Secondly, the bottom drawer of the desk has been aptly emptied out. She had found the letters sealed in them shortly after his death was announced, when a lawyer named Yanfei personally visited to inform her of her potential next steps. The letter addressed to her is still carefully tucked away in her desk out front, under piles of paperwork and pens, where it will remain safe from prying eyes. The world, and much less the rest of the Fatui, deserve to know what her Harbinger felt about her in life. 

She enters the space, and for a moment hesitates. She vaguely recalls the order to back a vial of blood to Snezhnaya, issued shortly after the Traveler’s conflict in Inazuma had washed over — shortly after The Fair Lady was proclaimed dead, struck down in a single wave of the Archon’s blade — but is unsure whether Childe ever actually bothered doing it. He hadn’t ever mentioned the task to Ekaterina again, much less made a note of it in the will. 

If he ignored the orders, she would probably be paying with her life instead. With that encouraging thought, she begins searching through the office, largely to no avail; every passing moment fills her more and more with dread, until… 

She steps onto a floorboard that promptly proves itself loose. Breathing a sigh of relief, she reaches in, and from a Cryo-laid chamber retrieves a vial of blood nearly the size of her hand: brings it immediately to the harbinger downstairs, lest he become impatient.

“Finally,” the Balladeer mocks, tucking the vial into his pockets. “I was beginning to think you’d run for your life.” 

He tucks the vial into his pockets, and stares expectantly at Ekaterina. When she hesitates, he spits out: “Get the fuck out of my sight.” 

Naturally.

Ekaterina is only too delighted to remove herself from his presence. When she returns, however, she searches through every inch of the building to ensure nothing is out of place — only to find that Childe’s letter to her has gone missing from her desk. 

***

One year later.

HARBINGER INJURED IN FONTANIAN COURT SCANDAL.

This morning, Agent Tartagalia — also known as Childe, the Vanguard, and the 11th of the Fatui Harbingers — has been reported as critically injured following a three-day-long battle. The strife took place at an unknown location against an unknown enemy, but the Vanguard’s efforts are believed to have been critical in stopping the disaster that struck Fontaine. He is currently being escorted to Snezhnaya for recovery… More on page 3.