Archive of Our Own

"So that's it?" Childe says at his back. 

The bank is filling with a quiet fury. Unlike earlier, it is heavy, too thick to cut without causing collapse.

Zhongli does not answer.

It does not entirely surprise him when Childe appears knocking at his window, a shadow against the moonlight. 

He lets him in. 

"Thanks." Childe says, "you know, this place is harder to break into then I expected."

"It would reflect poorly on the parlor if it was easy." Zhongli answers, keeping steady.

Childe smiles a cold smile. 

“I guess that’s true.” He says, looking around, though his true attention never flickers. His eyes trail across the room, thin blue slivers of moonlight lacing over the floorboards.

“For what reason have you come?” Zhongli asks, already knowing the answer.

Childe shakes his head, sighing. He shrugs, palms up.

“What, I can’t come say hello? After all I did for you, Zhongli…How cold.”

His vision glows bright, a flicker of deep blue across the floorboards. His eyes catch the light and seem to glow as water begins to gather in his hands, the shape wavering as though it cannot decide what to be.

Zhongli simply watches, memories passing through his head.

Many times over has he seen those who hunger for battle and glory. Thousands of years of war have led him to know these types like he knows Liyue — while each he knew was unique in certain ways, blood and battlelust do not change much. Those who carry those traits tend to do so with pride, with a reckless degree of it that leads to their deaths, and in this aspect, Childe is not unique. 

The room grows colder, the air, dry. 

So rash, Zhongli thinks. So young. It seems a miracle that he has survived this long, if this is the way he conducts himself around those he knows are millennia old.

"You owe me a fight." Childe says, "so how about it? For being the scapegoat to you and Signora's plan."

Such an odd one, to throw himself into a fight like this. Signora's description of him runs through his head, a fresh memory from some months ago. 

"Oh, I should warn you of my associate. He’ll be coming to do as you asked; feel free to use him as you like. He's a silly boy, obsessed with battle...All he ever does is seek out chaos to cause more of it. Really, he's the perfect piece for your little game. I'm sure you'll agree once you meet him yourself. He does love the spotlight."

He sighs.

If he denies him now, then Childe will find a way to get the fight he wants, and it will likely be messy. The proud never take to being denied what they feel they have earned.

In the back of his mind, he supposes that Childe has earned this “prize”. A sacrificed piece on a board, unaware of his double role, playing the villain and playing the fool.

"Not here." Zhongli says, setting the terms.

The tension in the room shifts into pleasure, thrill. It's strange how alive Childe can be, despite the way his eyes stay dark, the slight glint of grinning white teeth. 

Those eyes of his...

His eyes are...Unusual. They can bore into others in a way humans should not be able to, see far beyond what he should for his years. Even those with difficult upbringings fail to carry such a heavy darkness; the shadows in Childe’s eyes are deep.

It is all familiar. That is what unsettles him.

“Excellent. Don’t hold back on my account.”

As he walks out of his small apartment above the parlor, Childe follows like a shadow, slinking through the dark. They walk to the cliffside near Liyue in silence, a place close but not too close to the harbor — at the least, it is far away enough that, should he need to exercise his powers, the harbor will be fine.

“May we agree on something?” He asks, feeling his gaze on his back.

“Depends. What is it?”

“Your delusion.” He turns to face him, a spear materializing in hand. “Don’t use it.” 

He shakes his head. “Of course you know about that. But why not? Scared?”

Such audacity. It almost makes him smile.

“I was informed that it may cause you harm.” He readies his stance. “I would rather not see that.”

Twin daggers. Fitting. “We’re about to hurt each other a lot worse.”

Where does that confidence of his come from? Even if his martial prowess is double what it is rumored to be, it will not be enough. Zhongli knows his own strength is not what it was in the days when battle was ever present, but one does not forget, even when one wishes to. Even in this form, even after the loss of his gnosis, he still holds the earth in his hands and veins. Gold and stone rest in his very being. It is core to what he is.

Goading, then. “So you think you cannot beat me without it?”

Childe throws his head back and laughs. 

“Well, I think it would help! But fine, fine. No extras this time. Enough chatter — let’s get to it, shall we?” 

He’s fast, Zhongli notes, as expected. The shift from dagger to bow is an interesting choice, pushing back when one would assume he would press forward. He moves in a way that reminds him of a storm.

Chaos is complex, Zhongli muses, waving a hand and drawing a shield, a pillar of stone angled to push Childe further away. Shapeless, uncontainable. It can be purposeful, but by its nature it has no purpose, a force of action and nothing else. 

Similarly, the way Childe fights could be considered that way at a glance. Arrows rain from above, javelins of water strike his shield with a surprising amount of force, and a fierce swing from a halberd has his shield shatter as he jumps away from the blade. Surely other humans would find this difficult to handle. His reputation is far from unearned.

Still, he thinks, curling a hand and raising pillars of stone under Childe’s feet, thrusting his lance and sending waves of them his direction, it won’t be enough.

A searing pain crosses over his chest.

What? He doesn’t break posture entirely, but it’s enough to stagger him momentarily, the pain pulsing through his body. 

From across his sea of stone, Childe looks alight, grinning wide.

“You’re not the only one with a few tricks!” He says and fires again, volleys of arrows imbued with energy. There is a strong instinct that he cannot allow those arrows to touch him, not even the slightest graze, and he dashes to the side to avoid them, the pain gradually subsiding.

A minor miscalculation. Childe is faster than he expected, catching him from the side as he leaps off a pillar, blades glimmering in the night.

Zhongli parries him, beat for beat. From daggers to swords to a double-headed spear, each handled differently, each a shift that requires him to react, no room for mistakes.

As he parries each blow, thoughts whirl steady in the back of his head, noting the ease with which Childe shifts from weapon to weapon, too skillful for a man of his age. To acquire this sort of battle expertise is usually the work of at least a decade of practice with a single tool — that he does so now with such precision brings curiosity to the forefront of his thoughts. Even prodigies would need time to adjust to so many variants. To hide this skill as if it were pure madness is another degree of capability entirely. 

That is something he likes about this one, he admits to himself as he thrusts his spear at a weak spot in Childe’s form. The way he fights betrays his rigor. There is a sense of a man that both knows his own strength and knows that it is fleeting — despite how wild he seems, there are only a few times when his form falters, most motions tight, meaningful. He reacts appropriately to every swing, every thrust, ever aware of his surroundings in the midst of his barrage. 

Another pulse of pain surges through him, and he grunts, annoyed at the thin damp patch, the prick of a needle. This time he catches the flash of light, digs within his body and feels the touch of elemental energy not his own.

Ah, he notes, impressed as the mark makes itself clear. To infect another like this is not an easy feat, and to have it controlled to this degree is yet another sign of his expertise.

Childe strikes hard and his polearm rattles from the impact. Had it been a normal weapon, it probably would have broken. 

“Pay attention, would you? It’s no fun if you’re not trying!”

“My apologies.” He says, and pushes forward with the force that earned him one of his many names, another shield made and pulsing out with energy.

The force of it throws Childe in the air. He cries out and lands roughly on the dirt, rolling until his back hits one of the pillars with a harsh thud. It’s mildly concerning until a massive wave hurdles towards him, taking shape as it rushes his way, a pointed horn aiming to impale.

Childe rides his wave as if it were a chariot. His grin is wide and bloody. 

“That’s it! Show me what the legendary Morax is made of!” 

Zhongli narrows his eyes, wondering at the slight glitter of Childe’s scarf, almost like the stars have begun to coalesce — perhaps Childe is not quite as human as he seems?

No matter. Either way, he will not win.

“Yield.” He says, a soft huff of air as he holds the tip of his spear against Childe’s throat. Another floats in the air, ready to strike should he try to get away.

He looks as if he’s considering it, the way his hands twitch, a wild look in his eyes. Unlike many others who have been caught like this, he grins, blood smeared across his face, licking his lips. They catch red, a lighter smear across the top, pinkish against his pale mouth. His chest heaves, and Zhongli knows that he’s struggling to breathe evenly. 

The moon is slowly falling. The night will turn to dawn soon enough. Pillars of stone lay broken, and the soil around them is damp to the point of mud. 

His coat is dirty, patches of wet covered with dust and grit. The left side has a thin gash in the fabric.

How unfortunate. It will take time to fix.

“I wish I could have fought you,” Childe says, locking his gaze on Zhongli, “when you still had your gnosis. It would have been glorious.”

Zhongli cannot help but shake his head in exasperation.

“ Yield.” He says again, pressing the spear tip closer, and Childe closes his eyes and sighs.

“Fine, fine. I yield.” He lies back, breathing deep. “Ouch, that’s going to sting in the morning…”

In the old days, there were only two ways this would go. Death, or an invitation into his dominion. As Childe lies there, seemingly unaware of the threat to his life, he wonders what would be the better choice.

He could not invite him, for he has sworn his loyalties to the Tsaritsa. To kill him would likely be to the benefit of Liyue, given the nature of who he is, but...Well, he had decided to leave Liyue’s affairs to them, hadn’t he?

So instead, carried by an odd feeling, Zhongli asks, “were you not supposed to return to Snezhnaya? Why are you still in Liyue?”

Childe looks at him with a furrowed brow. His mood appears to dip again.

“You know, you could at least pretend to like me.” Something like a pout rests on his face. It’s a strange expression to see, considering his position. “You were pretty convincing before.”

Zhongli stares. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to say. 

“I...Did not know that mattered to you.” That odd feeling blooms deeper in his chest. “However, I don’t recall ever saying I disliked you.”

“Sure, but back then,” he makes a lazy gesture, staring up at the sky, “at the bank, you didn’t even look at me. Didn’t say anything this whole time either. I kind of got the hint.”

“I hadn’t realized.” Zhongli says, and Childe looks at him again with scrutiny, seeking the lie.

There isn’t one. He just...Hadn’t realized. His thoughts at that time had been fairly preoccupied with many things — pride, sorrow, relief, concern. The loss of the gnosis, a hole in his chest where it once rested, held there for thousands of years. There had been a great deal to sort out in the aftermath of Osial’s brief return and defeat — the reparation of Liyue in the places that had been affected, a few funerals, various dealings of the mortal nature. While he had predicted the possibility of Childe coming after him, he hadn’t expected to hear him sound...Hurt.

The odd feeling in his gut twists, a hot-cold sensation. Pleasure and guilt.

A sharp laugh interrupts his thoughts. 

“Oh yeah? So you just like the traveler more than me then, is that it?” His laugh turns into a cough. “Eugh. Figures.”

Ah, the traveler. Yes, he had explained everything to them due to their entirely accidental involvement in Liyue's affairs, but. That had been a matter of obligation, mostly, a response to pulling them into the affairs of Liyue without meaning to. When they travel far beyond this world, Liyue will live on beyond even him. He is sincerely grateful for that. 

The Qixing, the adepti, Liyue — this moment in time will live on. The passing of Liyue to human hands.

"I am fond of them." He answers, looking at Childe, who looks back with a dark and crooked smile. Surely he thinks he’s found the lie that does not exist. "But the time I spent with you was not at all unpleasant."

"But you don't care for me." He says, and Zhongli feels that he's phrased something incorrectly again.

"That is not the case." He moves his spearpoint and dismisses the other floating in the air. "You are...Different, is all."

Childe doesn't appear satisfied by this answer, his smile giving way to irritation. 

"I know how this is going to sound, but I always took you for a fairly honest man. Why beat around the bush now?" Childe gripes, standing up. "Just say the truth. There's no need to dress it up for my sake."

"Well...What about you?" Zhongli asks, avoiding the question. "Your feelings.”

"My feelings?" He's leaning heavily on one leg, curling in a little on himself. They will have to fix that. "Honestly, I was pretty mad at first. You and Signora set me up to lose from the start! Wasting my time with diplomacy that was never meant to go anywhere — ugh.” 

He huffs, then shakes his head. "But looking back, I should have expected something. I had a feeling things were going too smoothly, but at the same time I couldn't find a reason why. And while it pains me to admit this...I may have been a little distracted."

He smiles. It’s a bit more sincere, that much, Zhongli can tell. “Liyue’s quite different from Snezhnaya, after all. You never failed to indulge my curiosity either.”

“You were a good listener,” Zhongli says without fully knowing why, and Childe laughs.

“Don’t hear that too often.”

Zhongli hums, a half-step away from a chuckle himself. "I admit it was unexpected."

Long before they had first met, he had pictured Childe in his head, a list of possibilities, personalities. Signora had made note of his brash nature, his flippancy. His tendency to react before thinking. Zhongli had been prepared for those things.

What he had not expected, though, was the sincerity with which Childe had approached learning Liyuen customs, his genuine desire to acclimate, the way he would sit, chin in palm, and listen to Zhongli speak of the history of Liyue’s pottery, its cuisine, textiles, everything. He would listen, attentive to all of it, absorbing even information that could not be relevant to his mission in the slightest.

(Of course, Zhongli had weaved in useful information, Liyue’s ancient ails, tales of Rex Lapis, myths that he knew to be true and myths that he knew held half-truths, all things pointing to ideas for some kind of grand plan. The Sigils of Permission duplicates were surprisingly precise. He had been impressed.) 

“Even distracted, you fulfilled your duties.” He says, and Childe shakes his head.

“It was poor form on my part. I shouldn’t have let myself get complacent.” His expression hardens. “If I had caught on earlier, then I wouldn’t have had to rely on such demeaning methods in the first place...Summoning an ancient god to do my dirty work is hardly my style.”

He looks back at Zhongli, and his cheeky grin stirs the feeling in Zhongli’s chest again. “Plus, it wouldn't have done anything to you anyways. If this is how you are without a gnosis, I can only imagine what you were like with one. It truly is a pity we didn't get a chance to battle before. Perhaps you’ll indulge me again sometime?”

Zhongli shakes his head, hiding a smile. 

“Maybe later. For now, let us get you patched up.”

“Sure, if you want.”

A week later, Childe walks into Wangsheng Funeral Parlor the same way he used to prior to the Rite of Parting, and asks, “do you want to get dinner? My treat.”

Zhongli accepts, a fluttering surprise at Childe’s appearance. They walk to Liuli Pavilion, and when the waiter jumps at Childe’s wave, terrified, Zhongli raises an eyebrow. 

Childe notices and smiles. It is reminiscent of folktales passed along from Inazuma, fox-like. Zhongli chooses not to ask as they’re led to a table in the back, no questions, no qualms.

They dine on Jewelry Soup and Jade Parcels, Stir-Fried Fillet and Stone Harbor Delicacies, all expertly prepared. There are whispers all around them, other patrons glancing at Childe from the corners of their eyes, but his cavalier attitude betrays nothing. It's as if he doesn’t notice them at all.

It is unsurprising. For the first week after the ordeal with Osial, he had essentially been a wanted man. His status as a Harbinger had tied those poor Snezhnayan diplomats’ hands, unable to pass him along to appease the Qixing. There had been a great number of donations by the Northland Bank, as well as, Zhongli suspects, some under the table dealings between the Qixing and the Fatui to generally clear Childe of most of his crimes, stories spun of accidents with research and cultural misunderstandings. Millions of mora had poured back into Liyue in fines and “gifts”. Ningguang must have been beside herself with joy, as she should be. It had been a masterful way of handling such a complicated affair.

Zhongli does not mind the whispers either. He hears mention of himself — “Isn’t he from the Wangsheng Parlor?” — but the greatest of his attentions is on the food, which he has not had in far too long since his descent into mortality.

As an adepti, even in this weakened form, he does not really have to eat. Food is but a pleasure, and helpful in times when extra energy is needed, but he does not have to sustain himself in the way true mortals do, and in turn, he often forgets the price of such delicacies. While he has picked up on cooking over time, there is a difference between understanding the actions and ingredients versus understanding the act itself. 

“Yeah, I understand what you mean.” Childe says when he mentions it, another piece of meat slipping from his chopsticks. “I know how to make them, but I can’t match my mother’s pampushki no matter how closely I follow the recipe.”

“What are those?” He asks, and Childe lights, a dreamy sigh escaping from him as he reminisces. 

“They’re like Golden Shrimp Balls without the shrimp. Simple, but delicious.” 

Zhongli nods. Sometimes the simplest things are best.

“It’s not much of a hobby of mine, but if I get the time I can make some for you.”

“You would do that?”

“Sure,” he says, a curve to his mouth that is all trouble, “though not for free.”

“And what would your price be?” Zhongli asks, aware of the way the air has changed.

Chin in palm, “fight me again.”

He considers. Pampushki does seem quite good.

“A contract, then.”

He laughs. 

“I guess we can call it that.”

They shake hands. His palm is warm.

Chaos gathers around him like a storm. The more often they fight, the more often Zhongli wonders at his fighting style, familiar and yet not in an odd way. A cross between something old and new.

At the end of their second spar — again, the ground is muddy, and again, Childe lies on the ground, heaving — he asks, “how did you learn to fight like this?”

An innocent enough question that begins with an innocent enough answer.

“I was taught.” 

His eyes are closed. Zhongli presses.

“By who?”

“My master.” He answers, circling the question, “she's one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. I can only hope that if we meet again, she will need both hands to beat me.”

“How did you meet her?” He asks, and at that, Childe looks at him.

Precisely, Childe looks through him, looks at the stars, looks with a gaze of someone who knows far too much of this world. The darkness of his eyes grows deeper, seeing something Zhongli does not.

It is unsettling. More than unsettling, the vaguest sense of panic begins to trickle through him, the way Childe stares, unmoving, almost like the dead do. 

Childe exudes life. A vibrant mortal, always striving to live each day. To see him so still sets him on edge.

“I fell.” 

Childe smiles, all teeth, not seeing Zhongli but something else. A memory. 

He breathes deep. The wind carries the sounds of the night, the sway of horsetail and swampgrass. His eyes close, and Zhongli finds himself relieved, no longer looking at such a void.

It had only been a minute. A grain of sand falling through the glass.

Childe hums. He seems to return to himself, opening his eyes and grinning. It’s a softer grin, playful. Better.

“Let me use my delusion sometime, and then I’ll show you what I really know.”

"The outcome will be the same regardless," Zhongli answers, "so I will not agree to that."

A single sharp laugh echoes in the dark. 

“You sure about that?”

Childe is a strong drinker, though that is no real surprise. Zhongli has sampled Snezhnayan spirits before, some brought to him by Childe himself, freshly taken from the port — most are striking and crisp, hot as they hit the stomach despite being served cold, lingering until warmth has spread all throughout the body.

“Meant to keep us warm in the snow.” He says, waving the bottle. His way of drinking it is crude, one hand around the neck of the bottle, pouring his own shots in between the shots he pours for Zhongli. “I’m surprised you can handle it! Even some natives find it hard to drink straight.”

In truth, Zhongli did find the first shot difficult, the burning sensation not what he expected. The last time he had sampled Snezhanayan spirits had been...Long ago. But it is fine as he adjusts, almost pleasant, even, especially as Childe laughs and tells him a story often passed around during the winter in Snezhnaya. A rare reversal of their usual positions, him being told a story he’s never heard, Childe the one telling it.

“The more I think about it,” Childe says as they sit across from each other in a private room of the bank, bottles neatly arranged, “the more I realize how blind I must have looked to you.” 

“How so?” Zhongli asks, taking a sip of his rice wine.

He shifts, propped up on his hands as he faces the ceiling. “How else would you know so much about Liyue? You knew — know — everything about Liyue’s history. And unlike the books I read, or anyone else I asked, you said everything like you were personally there to see it.” 

He pulls himself up and points an accusing finger. “And you were, weren’t you? Rex Lapis, Morax — you watched everything! Took down all those gods yourself!”

“I had aid.” There were many who had followed him, and many who had fallen in fulfillment of his duty to Liyue. “There were many things I did myself, yes, but there are many things that have been exaggerated also.”

He smiles, thinking of those tall tales. Time has made many legends grander, some details lost, some greatly recontextualized. Some stories have gone so far from their true origins that they may as well be fiction, not that he minds. Many are better now as the stories they are, rather than their dull, bitter truths.

“And the statues!” Childe says, waving his cup. Interestingly, he manages to keep from spilling. “They're pretty worn out, but some of the details are still there. You haven’t changed your hairstyle in a thousand years?”

“I have, on occasion.” He takes another sip. The wine is of exceptional quality, and he savors it as such. “But I do like this form in particular.”

“Of course you do.” Childe says, and spots of red flare up along his cheeks as he downs another drink. “But really, I don’t understand how I could have missed everything. I'm usually pretty sharp.”

In the interest of being diplomatic, Zhongli says, “my figure is a bit different now, and many stories of Rex Lapis focus on his deeds as a warrior. Based on such expectations, it is not surprising to overlook a simple funeral consultant.”

“You're a little more than—” Childe cuts himself off with a swallow. His face does something Zhongli isn’t sure how to describe, which is a rather unpleasant feeling. Especially as it shutters, the liveliness in his expression smoothing into his business smile.

He leans forward, setting his cup down.

“Childe?”

“Sorry, I— there was something I just remembered.” He shakes his head, business smile still in place. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Zhongli frowns. Childe makes no mention of their next duel, and they part ways at the end of the night with few words.

It is...Unsatisfying, he thinks, this parting. That feeling follows him all the way back home, and he stares in the direction of the Northland Bank, trying to understand the curling of his gut.

He can enter and shape mortal dreams with some effort. He does not often do so unless to punish or to assist, finding it tricky. Humans interpret things differently every era, old symbols gain new meanings, new things become new signs. Accidental movements, sayings, all can cause unintended consequences. He is not so clever as to never make mistakes.

However, there are times when his curiosity gets the better of him, and those nights are the nights he wanders the sea of dreams. He sifts through desires for wealth, power, or simpler things like a favorite meal. He says nothing in these times, a silent specter, only curious as to what mortals dream of, what things they desire. What has changed and what has not. What he may be able to provide as Zhongli, or perhaps prevent. 

While he cannot reach beyond Liyue, all within it are in his grasp, for Liyue is his birthplace, his blood, his bones. Connected to him until his eternity ends.

He thinks of blue eyes and a closed smile. 

Dreams of grandeur, maybe, of battle, of victory.

But Childe does not dream the way he expects.

Darkness beyond the depth of night. Nothing but the sound of battle. Nothing but the faint smell of decay. The sounds crest and fade like the ocean waves, roars of all kinds crashing against the shoreline. Stars will sometimes flicker, sand catching firelight, but they vanish just as ashes do, the light left by a swinging blade, magic. 

Someone speaks faintly. 

“Again.”

The night is everlasting. The air is thick with agony. The lurching maws of aching gods, violent seas made of blood and darkness, a neverending landscape where peace does not exist. Like those who lost the Archon Wars, those who fled beyond the borders, beings of malice, pure energy, rage. Creatures of a shapeless nature.

He hears them coming. He hears them die.

He returns to his own body and takes a moment to breath. The motion is calming, learned. Comfortable.

Familiarity is not always comforting. This is something he has both known and is learning, as he adjusts further to mortal ways. Sometimes the familiar is painful, unpleasant. Sometimes it will bring memories he keeps tucked far back to the surface, eager for a moment in the light.

In ancient times against ancient gods, Zhongli heard those sounds. They were typical, the sounds of each day the same. War cries. 

Now, this far into a peaceful future, those same sounds ring in his ears. The screams of beings who could not win. The howls of beasts corrupted by their madness.

The faded screams of banished gods? Why does he hear this when he sleeps? 

The stars coalesce, his eyes oceanic. The faintest glitter when he battles for his life, alight with the joy of living. 

Zhongli stares at his ceiling. His eyes give off a faint glow.

Contracts and Justice often find themselves intwined. A contract breached is an injustice, and justice is often served by agreement as to what is just. He and the hydro archons of the past have often found overlap in their tastes regarding those who earn visions, with the smaller details deciding their fate.

Childe does fit as a rushing rapid. He shatters convention but follows a path, moves single mindedly towards his goal of strength. Unlike those who are steady, he rushes past his own limits, his progress is marked by bursts as well as regime. He lives for his single goal, and pursues it without looking back. All and everything is devoured by his desire. What he pursues is his truth, devout to it, ever pushing on, relentless to the point of reckless. His wish.

Not for the first time, Zhongli thinks of his gnosis, his long held tie to Celestia. 

When it was in his possession, he’d had access to nearly every mortal in Teyvat. If he had it now, he could look into Childe's past. His fate.

(There are many things that even he does not know about Celestia. There are many things he understands about them as well. 

There are rules. There are agreements. His opinions of the details aside, at the least, they have never failed to honor their agreements with him.)

Now though, he has his gnosis no longer. He has chosen to live the mortal way. 

And so, in the mortal way, he must simply...Ask.

The words sit in his throat. Childe laughs merrily next to him about the fishmongers who fail to hide their secrets, shamelessly listening in on their conversation as they dine at Third Round Knockout. 

He hesitates, remembering another evening, another duel, Childe looking through him. Looking at the stars. A strange moment for a human man, for a man like him. 

He hears the echoes of bygone gods.

"When did you acquire your vision?" He asks abruptly. 

Childe startles for a moment, then leans on the table — poor manners, as Zhongli has informed him before — with a smile.

"And I was just beginning to wonder where your mind was wandering. Curious about me, are you? I'm flattered."

He hides his fluster behind a sip of tea. He hadn’t intended for the question to slip out like that, but it seems Childe’s impatience has begun to spread to him. 

"Is it so strange? While I have told you much of Liyue, I have come to realize that I have heard little about you from your own mouth."

"So you're saying all of Liyue is you, huh?"

There's something cryptic in the way he says that, his eyes narrowing, an analytical examination. It prompts a moment of thought, Zhongli pondering his statement.

But first, "Perhaps. Still, the fact remains that I have told you much about Liyue, but you have rarely shared anything about yourself."

“Well, you know,” Childe waves a hand, “I’m hardly more interesting then anyone else.” 

Exasperation rises in his chest. They are both aware of just how untrue that statement is, judging by the smug smile on Childe’s face.

He sets his cup down and looks Childe in the eye. 

“Consider it an apology for my previous lack of care.” Zhongli says, “about...Those matters during the Rite of Parting.”

The walls have ears, as the saying goes. Childe laughs. 

“An apology? Why, Zhongli, we resolved that particular issue ages ago.”

He spreads his hands wide, sliding them across his side of the table. His smile is somewhat cold.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. It was my mistake,” his hands pull back towards him, and he picks up his chopsticks again, “as we agreed.”

Zhongli frowns. 

Across from him, Childe continues to try with the chopsticks. While his progress has been surprisingly slow, he has made some — he grins as he successfully picks up a wine-soaked rice ball, and the sight of it brings a small smile to Zhongli’s face.

Odd, he thinks, the smile fading. The warm feeling does not. 

“I suppose,” he murmurs, now lost in thought, “you are correct. In the end, I am simply curious about you.”

The rice ball hits the table, having slipped from Childe’s chopsticks, and Zhongli tuts. In a show of bad manners, Childe hastily picks it up from the table with his fingers, swallowing it down far too fast to be reasonable.

“Childe.”

Childe drains his teacup before answering. Zhongli frowns deeper. 

“Bad manners,” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know. Didn’t want it to go to waste or anything!”

The cup comes down too fast, rattling the table, and Zhongli doesn’t understand what he’s done, what he’s said, the faintest of pinks dusting along Childe’s cheeks.

Embarrassment, he thinks, but why?  

“Have I…Said something offensive?” He asks, lost. “I assure you, that was not my intention if so.”

“No, no,” Childe waves his hand, “it’s not you, Zhongli. It’s just, ah, been a while since anyone’s said something like that to me.”

“I would think many people would be interested in a Fatui Harbinger.”

“Yeah, but not in the way you are.” 

He shakes his head, and before Zhongli can ask what he means, he speaks again.

“Anyways, I guess I can tell you about my vision. Honestly though, I don’t remember when it appeared. I think I may have been in the middle of a fight.”

Childe waves his chopsticks in the air, then sets them down and grabs a meat skewer instead. “Or maybe after...Hm, no, I already had it once I joined the Fatui.”

“When was that?” 

Childe pauses, nibbling on the end of his skewer. He looks at Zhongli, then away, then back, almost as if he’s getting lost in thought.

Finally, he says, “I think I had just turned sixteen.” 

Zhongli frowns.

“If I recall correctly, that is the youngest they allow.”

“Yep!” Cheek in palm again, a closed eye smile. “Impressive, right?”

“...I suppose.” 

A group of children run by them, laughing, and Zhongli thinks of the past, the young soldiers who once stood at his side, the tumultuous times when young men and women left their homes to defend the harbor. To defend villages long gone, families that have since died out. 

Childe interrupts his thoughts with a hum.

“My vision, hm…” His fingers tap along the table, a rhythm as he thinks. “I can’t remember exactly when it showed. Sorry to disappoint.”

Zhongli nods, and the warning comes as it always does. 

“Power like that comes at a price.” 

Their eyes meet. The world slows, it seems, as he’s taken into the shadow of Childe’s eyes, the murky blue ever dark.

“Don’t worry,” Childe says, and that troublesome grin appears, “I’m aware.”

Zhongli wonders if he does, and believes him all the same.

Their spars have become a bit playful, more like an act of theater then a true battle. This, Zhongli prefers. One strikes, the other blocks, one swing matched by the other. Almost friendly, akin to the way adepti would sometimes play in the past.

Childe likes to try new things, take new techniques; every fight he changes his strategy and approach. In these moments Zhongli can see where his expertise lies, why he is placed where he is in the Fatui, the honor of the vanguard. There is something pleasing in unraveling the puzzle of it, every new trick Childe throws at him, all while maintaining a strong grip on certain core style he has not seen in Liyue. 

The last time he had gone to Snezhnaya had been long ago, before the current Tsartisa. Back then he had seen some unique elements to their combat, designed to endure the climate, but he supposes that, like how Liyue’s martial traditions have changed, so have theirs. 

They are dueling in the night again, the moon obscured by clouds, and Childe smiles. His fighting this night has been sharper, cleaner, and yet Zhongli feels like he has been holding back. His choices are conservative, maintaining his space, managing his stamina in a way he has rarely chosen to do. 

Is this just a ploy to distract him? Or is it something else? Either way, he stays aware, uncertain of what will come.

He is quiet, firing thin and cutting waves, and then, “I’ll be leaving for Snezhnaya soon.”

“Is that so?” Zhongli answers. His emotions feel jumbled, tense from the oddity of the fight. A strange kind of sadness creeps at the realization that Childe will no longer be able to join him for dinner and drinks, evenings he has grown accustomed to.

“It’s unfortunate that we agreed on no delusion,” Childe continues, and Zhongli tries not to stiffen, an ominous feeling curling through the air. 

He had never specified his request as a contract, and thus, there is nothing that truly binds them to it. That Childe had chosen to follow through is an act of his own that Zhongli had appreciated.

Honor, one may call it. Obstinacy.

(“I don’t break my promises,” he smiles, a charming veneer, “so I try not to make ones I can’t be sure to keep.” )

He mutters something, and Zhongli strains to hear it. 

“Makes...Easier.”

Light bursts.

A gust of wind so strong he has to dig his heels into the ground pulses from Childe, and the mask along his head stretches to cover his face, armor plating his form. His weapon shifts, water surrounding him, and Zhongli’s head scrambles to a conversation he had with the traveler, the mention of some transformation. At the time, they had said it might be tied to his delusion, but as Zhongli looks at him now, he sees their assumption was misplaced.

A sickening energy comes from Childe, this form of his. It is bleak and heavy, and the pain of this form must be crushing, if Zhongli can feel it from where he stands. That Childe dares to endure such a thing is reckless beyond measure.

Yet there is no crackle of lightning, and some part of him finds relief in that, even as the rest struggles to understand why Childe would allow such a poison into his body.

His scarf blocks the sky with its stars, a galaxy spread behind him, and Zhongli knows where he has been as he sees it, even if he does not know how he got there. Those screams and cries of monsters become clear again, that dream he wandered, and he grits his teeth against the memory, the realization of what exactly Childe knows.

Childe is mortal, born human, alive. He has proven himself with the ingenuity humans have, the sheer will to go on despite knowing how fragile they are in this world of gods and monsters. A young man striving to live every moment. In him Zhongli yet again understands what Guizhong saw in humanity.

To see him this way, marred by this...Sludge…

(Has it only been five hundred years since that one moment? When Barbatos had faced that calamity, and Zhongli had come to the edges of Dragonspine, ready to defend Liyue. When they had all gathered to watch that horror, such a thing unseen in a long while.

That place, that poison. An eruption of a festering wound.)

Childe strikes the ground and water jets from the sea around them, springing like geysers. Zhongli moves carefully, faster then before, his focus drawing.

He is surprisingly quiet like this, Zhongli thinks as he dodges, pillars rising under his feet, shields of stone breaking under the speed and force of each wave. Dozens of small steles fire off in response, and Childe teleports to dodge them, staying a certain distance away.

He floats, the single eye of his mask glinting in half-hidden moonlight, and says nothing.

Every strike hits harder, cracks his shield and forces his attention. Water fires fast enough to slice straight through his pillars, and Zhongli almost misses the moment when Childe swings.

He pulls back just in time, a long blade swinging through the air, the tip shattering his shield. 

Childe laughs lightly and strikes, closing the distance in less time then a blink.

This close, Zhongli can feel the heavy grip of the Abyss, finds it distracting as Childe pushes against his spear, outright ignoring the pillar Zhongli strikes him with, the stone shattering against the armor around his leg.

Such a suffocating power.

“Having trouble, Zhongli?”

His voice is distorted. More then anything, that is what sets Zhongli off.

“No.” 

He kicks his spear away, another materializing as he springs back. The first crushes into Childe’s chest. He doesn’t seem to feel it.

“This power will consume you.” He says, and anger comes to a simmer. “It’s—”

“Spare me the lecture.” Childe waves his weapon, splitting it into twin daggers. “I know.”

Do you? Zhongli wants to ask, finds himself almost desperate to know. Do you really?

He wants to grip Childe by the arm and force him to understand that this power will be his end, whatever was promised to him. That this is not a power that can be used freely, not without consequences. It will eat away at his core until he is merely a shell for it, a parasite for another purpose.

He meets his next attack head on, avoiding swipes to the stomach, forcing Childe back whenever he gets too close, when his claws swing to grab him. Every jab of the spear has to be aimed, decided, every point in his armor assessed for weakness. 

Being too close makes him nauseous, but with every attack he can see how it eats at Childe as well.

How long? How long can you hold this form? 

His eyes narrow. If this is a test of endurance, then he will win.

Restraints come easy to him, even now, as he ties Childe’s abyssal form to the earth with chains of jade and stone. He flails against it, light firing from the gem in his mask, but this battle is over. Zhongli knows this.

He is tired.

“Enough.” The chains continue locking into each other. Childe is losing steam.

He tries to slip out, form wavering. Tries, but Zhongli encases the both of them in stone, where the only light is the pulse of geo, and he knows Childe is done. 

His armor melts away, water that turns the dirt dark, near black. What lies chained is the man, who can only weakly try and summon a blade, his arm twitching.

Zhongli waits.

Childe stops.

He sighs, a rattling sort of sound, and looks at Zhongli as best he can while locked to the ground. His skin is near grey, he trembles.

Zhongli slowly unwinds his chain and cage, the light of the moon coming to greet them.

For a moment, there is silence, until Childe wheezes and coughs. Zhongli rushes to check him over, then, only to find Childe smiling. It doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I couldn’t win once.” His tone is strange and unidentifiable. 

“We should take you to someone who can heal you.” Zhongli answers, choosing to ignore it. “Childe, that—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Childe says slowly, like he needs to catch his breath on every word, “but I know what I’m doing.”

“No,” his voice is sharp. Hissing. It has been...A long time since he felt like this. “You do not. The price of that power, Childe, it—”

He’s interrupted again, this time by an airy laugh. Childe looks at him with something like fondness, and Zhongli’s chest aches for a reason he cannot place, tenderness and fury.

“This might be the last time I get to fight you, Zhongli,” the ache grows, “so I wanted to make it count.”

He smiles wider, that playful grin Zhongli knows well. “And I didn’t even use my delusion!”

He doesn’t know whether to smile or frown. He just allows his face to make whatever expression it wants, looking at Childe, assessing his wounds. 

(He aches with something he doesn’t know, but finds familiar. Childe’s amusement, the truth. This may well be the last time they meet in his lifetime. 

If that were to be the case, Zhongli thinks, and does not finish the thought.)

He reaches out and touches his hair, the mask falling off. Childe looks at him, a smile that doesn’t quite reach, and Zhongli almost shivers with want.

Wants what? He doesn’t know. He understands the desire to have something, understands as he gently pets Childe’s hair that something matters, that the way he feels is different from other things, but he doesn’t know what it is. 

Childe closes his eyes and rests his hands on his chest, and Zhongli is reminded of the morgue at the parlor.

“Thank you,” he says, still carding his hand through Childe’s hair. “For not using it.”

“I told you I keep my promises.” 

“I was unaware you considered that a promise.”

“Well,” Childe looks at him then, a look that warms Zhongli all over, “I’ll admit you’re a little special.”

“What a cheap trick, Zhongli. A contract? Really?”

The docks are barely occupied at this hour. The Fatui mill about behind them, loading their ship with supplies. 

Childe acts fine, but Zhongli can see the way he leans, the fatigue that drags at his heels from their fight three days ago. The teasing grin on his face, however, is truly sincere.

Zhongli does not allow his expression to change.

“We can call it a promise instead, if you wish.”

They look at each other, and Zhongli allows that ache again, an ache of wanting something he cannot name.

Childe’s expression changes.

It’s different. Gentle.

Quietly, “I’ll write when I can.”

Zhongli feels there is something to be done as they stand on the docks at dawn, the sun rising with a golden light.

Time passes.

“I guess this is goodbye then.” Childe says, stepping back.

Zhongli catches his hand. It surprises both of them.

“For now.” 

The words are firm and from nowhere. 

Childe nods, looking at their hands with a small smile.

(She had handed him that stone dumbell with a similar smile, Zhongli realizes.) 

“For now.” 

He holds his hand for a moment longer.

“It’s a promise, Zhongli.” Childe says, still gentle, and lets go.