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Zhongli doesn’t know how things feel like they’ve gone wrong, even though this was his ideal outcome. After all, he can step away from Liyue with the knowledge that it’s safe in the Qixing’s hands, and there were no casualties.
So why does it feel as though he’s suffocating beneath the heavy gaze of his lover?
“Childe,” he begins, imploring, but the Harbinger turns away. His expression is stormy, hurt and humiliation warring in dead blue eyes, and Zhongli aches with the knowledge that he is the cause.
“Well then, Morax,” La Signora says from behind him, sounding incredibly amused, as though she’s taking enjoyment from their pain. How schadenfreude, he thinks bitterly. “Let’s proceed, shall we?”
Right; he still has a contract to fulfil. Clearing his throat, Zhongli stands, carefully avoiding the incredulous stares of Paimon and Aether. Childe avoids his gaze in turn, jaw set.
“Of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must retrieve my Gnosis. I will be back within minutes.”
At this, La Signora’s eye narrows, and she laughs. It’s haughty and tinged with disgust; nobody finds this funny.
“And let you escape without fulfilling your part of the contract? I am no fool, Morax. Unlike Tartaglia, I intend to see this through to the end.”
A part of him bristles at the implication that he, of all people, would seek to undercut a contract. As it is, he barely resists showing his teeth in a snarl.
“I assure you, I have no such intentions,” he says, standing tall beneath her icy glare. “I set aside my Gnosis for safekeeping, in the event that I were to face trouble before I could send it to the Tsaritsa.”
Paimon makes a strange noise at that, and Aether shushes her. Their golden eyes are wide, and they haven’t looked away from La Signora ever since they arrived. It’s almost as if they’re keeping an eye on her, distrust evident in the tense lines of their body.
“Now, I simply don’t believe that,” La Signora says, waving a dismissive hand as she steps forward. Aether starts, only held back by Paimon’s wary grip, but his stare would be enough to kill a lesser mortal.
“That is not my problem.” It is, honestly, a bit of an insult to be accused of dishonesty twice in one hour. Zhongli considers writing a letter to the Tsaritsa about the conduct of her Harbingers.
“Hmm.” Now, La Signora is barely a hair’s breadth away. She’s very tall, he notices, meeting his eyes with no trouble. They’re curved upwards, amused, vindictive.
“I think you’ll find that it is.”
Cruel.
Within one heartbeat and the next, she’s rearing her fist back and plunging it straight into his chest cavity, right where his Gnosis would be. If he were lying, she would be able to grab it, victorious.
He was, however, not lying; there is no Gnosis there anymore. Without it, he is more mortal than he has ever been before.
Now, here are the objective facts:
One: he can feel her arm as it tears through skin and bone and muscle with unnerving ease;
Two: he no longer has his Gnosis, so this is as concerning for him as it would be for any mortal;
Three: her hand closes around nothing, and she wrenches it back out without any care for his new injuries;
Four: this is, perhaps, the first time he’s ever heard Childe sound genuinely distressed.
And then everything catches up, and the pain is unbearable, agony unlike anything he’s ever felt before. La Signora’s bruising grip on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him upright; his legs have gone numb.
She hums, surprised, as she looks at her glove in mild interest. Through his blurring vision, he can see red, stringy flesh stark against the black fabric: the Archons’ equivalent of heartstrings.
“I suppose you really were telling the truth,” she muses, still rotating her hand as though it’s something to analyse. “Oh well, I’ll simply send an Agent to retrieve the Gnosis.”
With that, she lets his body fall, stepping away without a second glance. He can’t support himself - can barely think past the fire racing through his veins - but, from his place on the floor, he watches her stop and mutter something to a frozen Childe.
As soon as she’s away from him, Paimon and Aether rush over, supporting his back as they desperately try to put pressure on the wound. It’s no use; such an injury would be immediately fatal for a mortal.
Luckily - or, in this case, unluckily - his status as a God and a dragon offers him a mortal’s resilience tenfold. This won’t necessarily kill him, but he will likely have to go into a deep sleep for centuries to recover.
For mortals, even as exceptional as Aether, that may as well be a death sentence.
“Zhongli!” Paimon is crying out, hovering frantically around him. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands if the twitching of her fingers indicates anything. Aether, meanwhile, is silent as stone, but his hands are shaking, too.
Zhongli tries to open his mouth to reply, but all that results in is blood spilling from his lips and dripping down his chin. The sensation is unpleasant, especially when it begins to bubble with every weak breath he takes.
Aether’s face twists into something horrible, while Paimon’s tears spill down her cheeks in wretched, heaving sobs. He wants to reach his hand up to wipe them away, but his body feels as heavy as lead.
His ears are ringing; his vision is fading. Zhongli closes his eyes.
—
Childe is having, as some may put it, a hell of an afternoon.
First, his quest to retrieve Rex Lapis’ Gnosis is interrupted by the Traveller, who challenges him to a fight worthy of Foul Legacy. This, on its own, is actually quite a positive start.
Then Osial is taken down, and Signora swans in with an infuriatingly smug look, telling him to follow her to the very bank where he’s spent the entire mission working at. The gall!
And then he discovers that he’s been played by Liyue’s God, and Snezhnaya’s God, and probably Mondstadt’s too, just for the added kick. He’s left reeling, foundations shaken beneath him.
Which brings him to now: Signora’s hand is in Zhongli’s chest, and Childe can’t breathe at the awful, surprised expression on his face. He looks almost confused, distant; like he hasn’t realised what’s happening.
But Childe can see it clear as day, knows that if Signora had been a minute later that would’ve been him with his fist in his lover’s chest.
He tries to say something, but it comes out strangled, horrified; how could it not? Despite this new rift, he never wanted– could never want–
Aether cries out, but they’re yanked back by Paimon. She’s shaking, not all there - Childe wonders if it’s instinct to protect the Traveller from harm.
Signora says something, tone disappointed, and wrenches her hand from Zhongli’s torso. Her glove is dyed gold with his blood, flesh glistening under the warm lights of the bank, and she’s holding no Gnosis.
She drops Zhongli almost disdainfully, as if he isn’t a God worthy of her respect, and crosses over to him in slow, measured steps. She would’ve stepped on his tailcoat if it hadn’t been for Paimon pulling his limp, limp body away.
“That could’ve gone better,” she sighs, voice low. “I suppose now all we have to do is find that damned thing. Do you have any ideas?”
His mouth moves before he even processes that she’s spoken, eyes fixed on Zhongli. “I’m not letting you take all the credit that easily.”
“A pity. Well, no matter; I’m sure I can find it on my own. You’ve been an excellent help, Tartaglia,” Signora says, eyes glinting cooly. “I’ll be sure to commend your acting when I return to the Tsaritsa.”
With that, she’s gone, sweeping out of the bank with blood on the trails of her cloak. He almost wants to tear after her, to hurt her as she hurt Zhongli, but his legs instead take him to the man’s side.
Aether, upon seeing him drop to his knees, pulls Zhongli closer, defensive; Childe pretends it doesn’t hurt, but– it fucking hurts. Paimon floats in front of them, sobs still wracking her small body.
“I’m not-” It’s difficult to speak through the lump in his throat. “I won’t hurt him. Please. Just let me-”
Paimon still looks at him with burning hatred, but Aether reluctantly shifts Zhongli into his arms. Childe is stronger than him, even though they’ve been on their fair share of adventures in the past.
“Is there anything we can do?” Paimon asks tearfully, turning to Aether, who’s rifling through their bag with a determined expression. They pause, considering, before clicking his fingers.
“Baizhu’s place. Qiqi should be there, right?”
Childe has no idea who this Qiqi is, but Paimon’s face lights up with something like hope. She turns to him, hands on her hips; it would be intimidating, if not for the tremble of her voice.
“Can you carry him to Bubu Pharmacy?” She asks, though it’s more of a demand.
“Of course,” he says, breathless. “Anything– Anything I need to do.”
He wouldn’t dream of saying no, and it looks like that settles Paimon’s nerves, just a bit, because she floats up. Aether jumps to his feet, hovering like he wants to help Childe.
It’s sweet, but he hefts Zhongli up with surprising ease. The Archon - Ex-Archon? - lets out a little moan of pain, blood bubbling at the side of his mouth. Aether’s scarf is tightly wrapped around his chest wound, but it’s quickly staining with blood.
“Let’s just– go,” Childe snaps. Paimon nods quickly, and Aether leads the way out of the Bank. He tries not to dwell on the trail of blood they leave behind.
—
When they arrived at the pharmacy, Aether barely had time to get out a word before Zhongli was being whisked from Childe’s grasp. He jerks forward, trying to get him back, but Baizhu fixes him with a steely look.
“If you want him to live,” they say, snake baring her fangs, “then I suggest you allow my assistant to do her job.”
With that, they disappear behind a door leading into the surgery, and the timid-looking young man behind the counter freezes.
“U-Um, please, follow me to the waiting room,” he says, voice trembling. Aether sends him a smile, but Childe storms past the clerk and collapses heavily onto a chair.
He shuts his eyes, leaning back, and attempts to calm his racing heart. All he can think about - all he can focus on - is the look of shock on his lover’s face in the moments before realisation struck.
Would Childe have done the same, had he known that his goal was so close? Would he have hesitated before succumbing to the rush of success?
Or would Zhongli have simply given him the Gnosis, that achingly warm look in his eyes? Would he have fought for it, or would he have let Childe do as he pleased?
Why does the idea make him feel so fucking sick, even though an hour ago he would’ve been thrilled?
“Where is he?!”
Childe jumps, instantly on edge at the intrusion, but Paimon’s face does something funny as she flies forwards. She looked, for a brief moment, relieved, then horrified, than anticipatory; whoever this was, they must be impressive.
In the doorway, clad head to toe in green, stands a boy about Aether’s age. His hair is braided and he looks far too short to be of any concern.
But his eyes…
His eyes are wild, flashing in the low light of the Pharmacy’s care room. They’re impossibly deep, promising destruction to any foolish enough to get caught up in them. They promise power.
“Venti!” Paimon cries, collapsing into his arms. He pulls her close, squeezing tight, and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears once more. “We– We tried, Paimon swears, but Signora–”
His face drops at the mention of her name. Childe wonders who this is, to have such history with the mere mention of her.
“Where is he?” He asks, directing the question at Childe, this time; he looks him dead in the eyes, and his stare is every bit as terrifying as Childe had guessed.
“Zhongli’s undergoing surgery right now,” he says, and the boy - Venti - tugs a hand through his unruly hair. He looks exhausted, aeons old yet young all at once.
“So Zhongli’s what he’s going by, now,” he mutters, almost to himself, then sighs. “I guess there’s no chance of me getting in there?”
“Not unless you want Zhongli’s scary Yaksha on your tail for the rest of your life.”
Venti blinks, like it takes a moment to register, before a small smile spreads across his face. It’s weak and watery. “Xiao’s not that bad.”
Seriously, who the hell is this, Childe wonders, to be on such good terms with Adepti?
Venti suddenly goes completely still. Childe is about to ask what’s wrong, when he sees his gaze trail up, up, up.
Wide eyes settle on his mask, and he’s suddenly being held at arrow-point, arrowhead digging into his neck.
“Why are you here, Fatui scum,” Venti hisses, tone venomous. “If you’re thinking about finishing the job, then I’ll tell you now: you’ll die before you take your next breath.”
From the sheer vitriolic hatred dripping from his words, Childe is inclined to believe him.
But, overriding his will to live, anger bubbles in his gut. “I’m not here to finish the job, you brat! I’m worried about my fiance.”
For a long, tense moment, Venti doesn’t reply. His face is void of all emotion, and he regards Childe in the same way one might a dead fish. Finally, he lowers his bow, letting it disappear into gold flecks.
Paimon, sensing the danger is over, floats over to them. She’s looking between them with apprehension, but frustration evidently wins out as she’s frowning.
“You guys! Zhongli might be dying! This is not the time to be arguing!” She snaps, stomping her foot in mid-air. Childe looks away, chastised, while Venti chuckles. It sounds forced.
“Ah… my apologies, Paimon,” he says, affecting an airy tone and failing miserably. “I suppose it hasn’t really set in yet. Who would’ve thought the old blockhead would go down so easily?”
Here, he sends Childe a significant glance, discerning and sharper than his appearance suggests. “He’s been through much more than that and come out intact, after all.”
“I know he’s Rex Lapis,” Childe says bluntly. Paimon sucks in a sharp breath, but Venti doesn’t appear shocked in the slightest. He just closes his eyes. “Am I right in assuming you’re another Archon?”
Venti doesn’t reply to him, and instead turns a wry grin onto Paimon. “I thought you said he was dense?”
Over Childe’s splutters, she replies, “Well, he didn’t realise he and Zhongli were dating for months, so…”
“Yeesh. And I thought Morax was dumb…” Venti’s expression turns wistful, nostalgic, before pain crosses his face and he turns back to Childe. “To answer your question, yes. I am Mondstadt’s Archon, Barbatos.”
He pauses, then. “Ex-Archon, I suppose. Signora certainly made sure of that, heh.”
“Venti…”
“No need to worry, Paimon,” he laughs, waving off her concern flippantly, as though his hands aren’t shaking. “This way, Morax and I have even more to bond over! Good times indeed.”
And–
Even though he knows he had little fault in Zhongli’s current state, Childe can’t help but feel a foreign twinge in his chest, something similar to guilt. A dumb idea, of course, considering his emotions have been in disarray since the Abyss, but still.
“I feel like I need to apologise for Signora’s behaviour,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck when he’s pinned by their stares. “She’s never been one for subtleties, I’m afraid.”
“And you are?” Paimon’s dry tone, combined with her raised eyebrow and crossed arms, almost feels familiar, like none of the events of the past twenty-four hours have occurred. “I seem to remember you releasing an old god…?”
Venti’s eyes go wide. “That was you? I felt the shockwaves all the way over in Mond! Osial, right?”
Childe nods, almost sheepish, while Paimon fixes him with a deadpan stare. “Yep. Massive sea snake. It almost killed Aether, but Xiao saved him. And we had to crash the Jade Chamber! It was a mess!”
“Oh, man, Morax probably flipped when he saw Osial! I swear, he complained about that guy more than me, and that’s saying something! He hasn’t been able to look at seafood ever since, it’s incredible.”
The guilt is suffocating.
“Ah, Lord Barbatos,” a new, feminine voice says; Childe recognises it distantly as Secretary Ganyu, “I’m afraid to say that my Lord found Osial more bearable than you, even if only slightly.”
For a moment, he’s lost - how come the Qixing’s secretary knows Mond’s Absentee Archon? - before he catches sight of her curling horns. Oh, he’s so stupid.
Venti, meanwhile, gasps as though he’s been grievously insulted. “Ganyu! How could you say such things?! You’re my favourite adeptus, and yet you treat me so cruelly…!”
She giggles, but her eyes remain teary. “I thought Xiao was your favourite adeptus.”
“I– Well, um…” Venti’s face goes bright red, while Paimon watches in awe, shocked that someone actually managed to shut up his ramblings.
They’re saved from his excuses when the door to the surgery opens, Baizhu stepping out. They brush off any dust on their clothes - unnecessary; he’s pristine - and raises his eyebrow at their antics.
“Ganyu,” he says, and she straightens when she’s addressed, “did you bring the qingxins I requested?”
“I did, yes.” She hands over a small wooden box which, when Baizhu opens it, is stuffed full to the brim of expensive-looking qingxin flowers. “These are all imbued with the adeptal energy of Mount Aocang where I picked them. I hope they’re sufficient.”
“They will be, thank you.” Turning back, Baizhu doesn’t bother to look at the rest of them as he heads back inside. “All going well, you should be able to see Mr Zhongli very soon.”
With that, they’re gone, muttering something under their breath. Childe can only imagine the sight they make: a Mondstadtian bard; the famous Traveller and their companion; the infamous Eleventh Harbinger; and the Qixing’s renowned Secretary.
Zhongli is clearly more than he appeared, even to an outsider. The thought would be amusing if he didn’t feel so ill.
Paimon is the one to break the somber silence. “What were those flowers, Ganyu?”
“Oh, um,” Ganyu begins, looking flustered at having everyone’s attention, “Doctor Baizhu said that the qingxins they have in stock may not be potent enough for the medicine they need, given my Lord’s constitution.”
“Did you go all the way to Mount Aocang just now?!” Venti’s incredulous, and Paimon sends him an unimpressed look.
“No! I just, ah…” Ganyu looks away, “...happened to have them on me. It was fortunate, too; the adeptal energy they contain should also help Qiqi replenish her own energy. I’m also here in case she needs further support.”
Qiqi again - Childe vaguely remembers a child covered in talismans. “Is Qiqi in charge of surgery? Isn’t she a child?”
Paimon scoffs - not appreciated - while Ganyu covers her mouth with a dainty hand. When she speaks, she’s clearly trying not to smile. “Qiqi was imbued with the power of many adepti, and as such is very effective when healing us.”
“She has a vision,” she adds, seeing his nonplussed look. “It was granted to her moments before her… passing. The energy she received afterwards revived her, so she is also more compatible with adepti than most.”
“...I see.” Part of him, the part that’s still Ajax, churns at the idea of a child’s death being so close to the adepti that they feel responsible for it.
Ganyu is called away, and Venti’s smile drops into something pensive as he perches himself on a table on the other side of the room.
Childe leans his head back against the wall and waits.
—
When he regains consciousness, the first thing Zhongli is aware of is a significant lack of pain, when he distinctly remembers that not being the case before. In fact, he feels healthy, despite his fatigue.
Glancing over to the side breaks the illusion, though; his head immediately begins pounding, his vision blurring over with black. He squeezes his eyes shut, but can’t hold back a slight grunt of pain.
Light taps get his attention, shortly followed by two small, cool hands pressing against his temples. Relief comes quickly, and he opens his eyes again.
Before him stands Qiqi, unchanged by time, brows drawn together in concentration. On her hat, her vision glows an icy blue as she works.
“Good evening, Qiqi,” he greets, despite his throat feeling like sandpaper. She blinks, not surprised but something close, and withdraws her hands after a second.
“Good… evening,” she repeats. “You’re… Rex Lapis? I think.”
Despite himself, Zhongli chuckles softly. “Not anymore, but close enough. Please, call me Zhongli. No need for formalities.”
“Zhongli…” she repeats, then hops off her stool at his bedside to grab a notebook. She flips through pages covered in shaky, childish characters, coming to a stop at blank paper.
There, she painstakingly writes out his name, adding a few annotations - and, he notices with a fond tug in his chest, a small sketch of his face.
“There,” she announces, closing it and carefully putting the notebook back in its place. “Now Qiqi won’t forget you again.”
Seemingly satisfied that he’s no longer on the edge of death, she brings him a glass of water, hands covered in thin wisps of cold air as she chills it. In her other hand, she holds a small porcelain bowl of pills.
“Have these,” she says, holding them up to him. He takes them, though his hands shake almost violently enough to spill the water as he brings it to his lips.
Qiqi watches him carefully as he swallows the pills and washes them down with water, then nods. “I will go get Doctor Baizhu. Stay here.”
There’s nowhere he can go, really, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.
She leaves, and he’s alone with his racing thoughts. First, in an instinct ingrained by Guizhong, comes curiosity.
He peels back his patient’s robes, then slips a few fingers beneath his bandages to nudge them aside, allowing him a view of his chest.
The skin there, while being marked by scars from ages long past, used to be rather smooth. Guizhong and Azhdaha alike had complained, nursing their own scarred skin, at the unfairness of it all.
Now, however, there is a visible groove in his chest, right over where his Gnosis once sat. Flesh and muscle were torn out, so it’s not surprising, but he feels abruptly humiliated by it.
To carry a sign of such a grievous oversight on this body forever, unable to change it without his Gnosis’ power, is an insult of greater magnitude than many could comprehend.
Forcing himself to box those thoughts for later (two emotions down, specifically), he gingerly prods at the scar tissue that scabs over his wound.
And, naturally, recoils, because the skin is tender and still healing, oversensitive to even the lightest touch. He’s sure, if his companions could see him, they’d be exasperated.
Thus begins the second emotion: regret. It is an old friend, a constant companion; an eternal what if that holds a vice on his heart.
It is not often that he questions his actions - he’s learned the hard way that it will only bring madness - but, sitting alone and powerless, he feels like he’s earned the right to be a little contemplative.
Had he not stored his Gnosis in the Exuvia, safely guarded by the Milelith, this situation could’ve been avoided. Signora’s hand would’ve closed around the Gnosis rather than tender flesh, and he would have walked away from it feeling equally as hollow.
A twinge of pain, followed by agony so intense he could scream, tears him from his thoughts. He hunches over, clutching desperately at his chest as he gasps for air.
He doesn’t know how long he’s frozen like that, only that he’s abruptly soothed by a wash of cryo energy. His breathing, though ragged, begins to even out, and the pain recedes.
Baizhu clicks their tongue, looking down at him with something bordering concern. It quickly shifts to exasperation. “Did you need to undo all my hard work just to see your new scar?”
The reprimand is justified; he bows his head slightly, Qiqi’s hands following all the while. “My apologies. I’m not used to injuries carrying such consequences.”
“Right.” Baizhu closes his eyes for a brief second. “Well, if Qiqi deems you stable, I see nothing wrong with letting in visitors. Qiqi?”
She blinks, slowly comprehending the words, then fixes Zhongli with the closest she can get to a glare. Her face barely shifts from its regular blank look. “Don’t… touch the wound,” she orders, and he inclines his head to her, too.
“I truly am sorry for my actions,” he says, and Baizhu sighs.
“Whatever. Qiqi, let’s go. I need yours and Ganyu’s input with his new medicine.”
With that, they leave, and he’s alone again. Before he can let the third emotion - humiliation - seep in once more, the door slams open.
“MORAX!”
He’s tackled by a blur of green and rush of wind, knocked back against the headboard of his bed. Paimon, not to be outdone, shoots at him a millisecond later, burying her face into his neck as she sobs.
Barbatos is wailing something that he doesn’t care to understand, and Paimon’s tears are soaking into his clothes, but Zhongli only has eyes for Childe.
He’s standing in the doorway, shifting his weight. On anyone else, Zhongli might have said he looked uncomfortable. As it was, when he catches Childe’s eye, he offers him a gentle smile.
Childe’s eyes glint, suspiciously watery, and he collapses by his bedside, clasping Zhongli’s hand in both of his own.
He presses desperate, feverish kisses to the skin there, clutching his hand tightly, and Zhongli tries to squeeze back. When he does, Childe looks at him like he hung the stars in the sky.
“Zhongli,” he breathes, a thousand emotions flitting across his face before settling into a familiar one, yet foreign on his face: fear. “Zhongli, I thought-”
“Morax!” Barbatos interrupts, shooting Childe a poisonous glare before grabbing his face in both of his hands, turning him to face his fellow god. “What were you thinking? Were you thinking?!”
“Barbatos,” he says weakly, ears ringing at the loud noise, “please. I had a plan-”
“One that involved getting punched through the chest?” Then, to his horror, Barbatos begins to sniffle. “You can’t– You can’t do that to me, you big blockhead! You’re not meant to be someone I lose, too!”
Seeing his oldest friend cry, no matter their exasperations, makes his chest ache. Careful not to aggravate his wound, he leans his forehead down, resting it atop Barbatos’ messy hair.
“I’m sorry.” Maybe, to others, it wouldn’t be enough, but from Zhongli - from Morax - it’s everything, a promise and an apology and an oath in one. Barbatos recognises this, if the way he desperately wipes at his tears is an indication.
He levels a glare at Zhongli, mouth twisted up into a watery smile, and adds, “By the way, it’s Venti now, remember? You get a pass just this once, but next time I won’t let you off so easily.”
Paimon squawks, shocked at the disrespect, but Zhongli can’t help the warm chuckle that escapes. “Of course, old friend. I thank you for your mercy.”
“Hmph, you better.” Then Venti’s eyes begin to water again, and he uses Zhongli’s sleeve - ew - to wipe his tears before they fall.
His grin this time is wry. He says, “I suppose now we have something else in common, huh?” and unbuttons his shirt slightly, pulling it aside to reveal a matching mess of bruised skin and red scar tissue.
From his side, Childe hisses lowly while Paimon squeaks, and Zhongli gently taps him on the head. “I, for one, believe my scar will heal with much more grace than yours. After all, I doubt you stopped drinking to take the time to heal yourself.”
Under his scrutiny, Venti withers. “I, uh- oh! Is that the time! Well, I best be off, you know, Archon duties and everything, hehe. Goodbye, Fatui scum! Goodbye, Paimon! Goodbye, you old blockhead!”
With that, he races from the room, Paimon following with shouts of ”Absentee Archon!” and ”Stop running from Paimon!”
Childe watches them leave, and turns back to Zhongli, looking exhausted. “How do you handle him?”
He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “He grows on you like moss,” he says, knowing the sentiment would reach Venti.
They lapse back into silence, Childe avoiding his gaze, and the ache he feels is entirely different to the healing injury in his chest.
“Childe,” he begins, though his lover doesn’t look at him. “Ajax.” This garners a twitch of the fingers; good enough.
“I am truly sorry for how this has ended,” Zhongli continues. “I never meant to make you feel as though you were being used or that our relationship was fake. Every moment spent in your presence is enjoyable, and brought me great peace.”
Silence.
“Though I understand if you would like to leave our relationship behind you, I… I admit that the thought brings me great pain. You have done more for me than you could ever know, but I would like to try and help you know just how deeply I love you.”
“...Stop.” At Childe’s voice, strained and muffled beneath his hands, Zhongli stops. The space once filled by his Gnosis is teeming with butterflies.
Does Childe want to leave him? Zhongli can’t blame him - understands intimately the pain of feeling used - but he doesn’t know how well he can take the idea.
Maybe he would fade into obscurity, hiding from the outside world for centuries; maybe he would claim illness, and let himself drift into slumber for as long as it took to forget the pain of losing another of his loves.
But then Childe shifts his hands, peeking out at him, and Zhongli sees that his face is bright red. “You can’t just spring that kinda stuff on me, xiansheng,” he says, embarrassed.
“Ah,” Zhongli breathes, “but it is true. I do adore you, and I do regret hurting you, no matter how indirectly. You are more important to me than my godhood; I would happily give up my Gnosis for you.”
“Zhongli,” Childe groans, dragging his hands down his scarlet face. “Seriously, I can’t take it. I’m meant to be the one spilling bedside confessions, not you.”
When he opens his mouth to reply, Childe cuts him off. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t– I didn’t realise I would be hurting you when I did all that shit. That bard brat was quite vehement that I understand everything I did to hurt you.”
Hearing Barbatos, one of the two remaining Original Archons, referred to as that bard brat is refreshing.
“And…” Childe presses a kiss to the inside of his palm, right above his wrist. “I love you, too. I don’t think I could ever stop, no matter how bad things got.”
Something in his chest flutters, and he shuffles over as best he can. When Childe tilts his head, questioning, he pats the side of the bed.
“Stay with me for a little while?” He asks. Weariness is already creeping up on him, and he can’t help but be apprehensive. The idea of being alone after such an event is… unpleasant, to say the least.
(aether had told him about the nightmares venti had for weeks after his gnosis was taken, violent and terrifying to witness. he’d convulse, as though he was shielding his chest with his own body, tears streaming down his cheeks.
aether looked haunted, and even paimon hadn’t interrupted with a snide comment, betraying her worry. zhongli himself had felt the disturbances in the wind; had he not been so busy planning his demise, he would’ve visited.)
Childe’s face splits into a smile, but the lingering fear doesn’t abate. He’s careful as he climbs in, and Zhongli rests his head on his collarbone. An arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders, safe, secure.
“You can sleep, xiansheng,” Childe murmurs, low voice soothing. “I’ll keep watch over you, I promise.”
He doesn’t reply, just shifts closer into the warmth of his fiance. When he closes his eyes, he’s calm.
—
Childe feels like the shittiest fiance alive. Even with his heart still racing after seeing Zhongli, lifeless, on the floor of the Bank, his mind strays to the Gnosis.
He has his suspicions of its whereabouts, and if he retrieves it then he can secure both his Tsaritsa’s favour and throw Signora under the bus in one.
The thought doesn’t bring the satisfaction it might’ve, once, and he turns his head absentmindedly to press a kiss to Zhongli’s hair. It’s soft, even now; he begins to comb through it with his fingers.
In his mind, the most repulsive part of this entire ordeal is the knowledge that, had he known Zhongli’s true identity from the start, things would’ve played out entirely differently. He’s under no illusions about that.
From the moment he arrived on shore, he would’ve begged to fight, and taken his Gnosis the moment he let his guard down. It would’ve been exhilarating, for sure, but right now even the thought of sparring makes him feel ill.
In his sleep, Zhongli mutters something, brows pinched. Without thinking, Childe reaches over and soothes the crease with his thumb, and watches as his lover’s face relaxes once more.
This is the person he’d dreamed of fighting, who he’d fantasised about killing, even while taking Zhongli out for dinner dates. It feels impossible, now, to even consider the possibility of remotely disliking the man.
At some point, he’s going to have to return to Snezhnaya, Gnosis in hand. He doesn’t know when he’ll return; hell, he barely knows if he’ll return.
But here, now, he has Zhongli in his arms, and he knows he’ll do anything to keep him safe. Signora be damned, he’ll fight the rest of the Harbingers if he has to.
He presses another kiss to Zhongli’s head, and settles back against the headboard, readying himself to keep vigil over the man he’s sworn his love to.