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Childe always figured fatherhood would come later—far, far later, preferably after he’d retired somewhere nice and coastal, with a garden, a handful of rowdy kids, and a very grumpy but terribly indulgent partner. He did not, however, expect it to start with a brooding adeptus glaring at him from the rooftop like he’d personally offended the contractual laws of Liyue.
"Why are you following me?" Childe squinted up at Xiao, who was balanced with practiced ease atop the eaves of the teahouse.
"I am not following you." Xiao crossed his arms. "I am ensuring you do not pose a threat to Liyue."
Childe, halfway through skewering a piece of grilled squid, snorted. "Right. Because the best way to monitor a potential criminal mastermind is to skulk around rooftops instead of just watching them like a normal person."
Xiao bristled, looking exactly like a stray cat caught rummaging through someone's leftovers. "You are reckless and meddlesome. It is only natural I remain vigilant."
"Uh-huh." Childe took another bite. "You know, this is like the fourth time this week I've caught you trailing me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried about me."
"I am not—"
"You’re definitely worried about me."
Xiao turned away sharply, golden eyes burning like the edge of dawn. "Do not be foolish. You simply cause too much trouble."
Childe grinned, unfazed. "You know, if you're gonna keep watching over me like this, I might as well start paying you."
Xiao tensed. "I do not require payment."
"Alright, then, a free meal." Childe gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Come on, sit down. I’ll even order almond tofu for you."
Silence. Xiao eyed him warily, then the plate of food, and then Childe again, as if calculating whether this was an elaborate ploy to entrap an adeptus in mortal debt.
"This is not necessary," Xiao muttered.
"Never said it was." Childe leaned back, arms crossed. "But hey, you’ve been running yourself ragged lately. Even Yaksha need to eat, yeah? Consider it my way of saying thanks for, y'know, making sure I don’t get my head lopped off in a dark alley somewhere."
Xiao hesitated. Then, stiffly, as if the chair might vanish beneath him at any moment, he sat.
That was the first mistake.
Because once Childe decided you were family, there was no escape.
The second mistake started with the food.
Childe, being the kind of person who couldn’t let someone sulk in silence without annoying them into begrudging camaraderie, quickly discovered that Xiao had a soft spot for almond tofu. So, he made it a habit. Every time he passed by a stall or had dinner at a restaurant, he ordered an extra plate and left it at the edge of the table. He didn’t say anything, didn’t push. He just made sure it was there.
At first, Xiao refused to touch it.
Then, on a particularly chilly evening, Childe had turned away for a second, and when he looked back, the plate was empty, the only evidence of its prior existence a single, well-placed speck of tofu sauce on the adeptus’ sleeve.
Xiao had acted like nothing happened. Childe had acted like he hadn’t noticed. But the next time, he ordered two plates—one for the table, one for the adeptus lurking on the rooftop.
The next step in the adoption process came when Xiao started showing up unannounced.
At first, it was subtle. A flicker of dark fabric in his periphery, the faintest whisper of a presence lingering just beyond the edge of his senses. Then, it became less subtle. Like the time Childe came home to find Xiao sitting cross-legged on his roof, staring at the sky with the intensity of a man contemplating the meaning of existence.
Childe, being Childe, climbed up and plopped himself down beside him.
"You know, most people knock before dropping by."
Xiao barely glanced at him. "I am not most people."
"True," Childe admitted. "Most people don’t show up at my house at two in the morning to brood."
Xiao’s shoulders tensed, ever so slightly. "I was not brooding."
"Mm. Contemplating your immortal burdens, then?"
Xiao shot him a glare. Childe just grinned.
They sat in silence for a while after that, the city sprawling beneath them in a sea of golden lanterns. It wasn’t a bad kind of silence.
"You should go inside," Xiao muttered eventually.
Childe tilted his head. "What, and leave you out here by yourself? That doesn’t seem very hospitable."
"I do not need hospitality."
"Yeah, yeah, but I need sleep, and I’d rather not wake up to find an overworked Yaksha haunting my roof."
Xiao made a sound somewhere between exasperation and reluctant tolerance. He should have left then. Instead, he stayed. And then he stayed the next night. And the next.
At some point, Childe left the windows to his home unlocked. He didn’t comment on how he occasionally found Xiao curled up in a corner of the living room when dawn broke, still as stone, like a shadow that had momentarily forgotten how to dissolve into the night.
And then came the real turning point—when Xiao got injured. It wasn’t a grievous wound, not by his standards, but Childe had a finely honed sense for when someone was hiding pain, and Xiao was awful at pretending to be fine.
"You’re bleeding," Childe said, voice flat.
"It’s nothing," Xiao muttered.
"Uh-huh." Without waiting for permission, Childe grabbed his wrist and tugged him inside.
Xiao made a vague noise of protest but didn’t actually resist. That was how Childe knew he was worse off than he let on.
The process of getting him patched up was… an experience.
Xiao flinched when Childe got too close. He held himself like a coiled spring, muscles locked, eyes flicking toward every possible exit like this was a trap he hadn't quite figured out yet.
"You know," Childe murmured, dabbing antiseptic onto his arm, "normal people let their friends help them when they’re hurt."
Xiao stiffened. "I do not require—"
"Yeah, yeah, you don’t require it." Childe rolled his eyes. "But you sure as hell deserve it."
Xiao looked away.
Childe didn’t press. He just kept working, kept being there, kept making space for Xiao even when he didn’t know how to take it.
After that, Xiao started showing up more often. Not just to watch over Childe, but to sit with him. To share meals. To exist in the same space without constantly preparing to leave.
And that was when Zhongli started noticing.
He found them two weeks later at Third-Round Knockout, Xiao sitting stiffly beside Childe while a waitress placed a plate of steaming tofu in front of him.
"You seem to have acquired an adeptus."
Childe, in the middle of wolfing down a dumpling, blinked up at him. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Guess I did."
"Childe," Zhongli said, sipping his tea with the measured patience of a man who had seen entire civilizations rise and fall. "You have become… quite close with him, haven’t you?"
Childe, who was in the middle of setting aside a bowl of tofu for a guest who had yet to officially move in, blinked at him. "Yeah? He’s a good kid. Grumpy, but good."
Zhongli hummed. "And does he stay with you often?"
Childe scratched his cheek, glancing toward the doorway where Xiao got up and was—once again—pretending he wasn’t standing there, lurking like an awkward specter waiting to be acknowledged.
"...Define 'often’?"
Zhongli set his tea down. "Has it occurred to you that you have, in fact, adopted an adeptus?"
Childe laughed. "Nah, nah, it’s not like that, xiansheng. I’m just—y’know. Making sure he eats. And sleeps. And doesn’t throw himself into danger without backup."
Zhongli stared at him.
Childe stared back.
"...Oh."
And that was the precise moment Childe realized he was, indeed, a parent now.
Xiao, still lurking by the door, muttered something under his breath.
Zhongli turned his head slightly. "I’m sorry, what was that?"
"I said," Xiao growled, ears going pink, "that if I am anyone’s offspring, it would not be him."
Childe grinned. "Oho? So you do acknowledge that someone’s gotta look after you, huh?"
Xiao huffed, stalking back inside and snatching up his bowl of tofu with more force than necessary. He didn’t argue, though.
Zhongli, watching the entire exchange with the air of someone deeply entertained but unwilling to admit it, simply sighed.
"Well," he said, lifting his cup once more, "at the very least, I hope you realize what you are getting into."
Childe, watching Xiao scowl at his food like it personally offended him, and feeling something warm settle in his chest, just shrugged.
"Yeah," he said, softer than before. "I think I do."
Zhongli arched a brow. "And Xiao, you are allowing this?"
Xiao scowled at his plate. "He is insistent."
"I am persistent," Childe corrected. "Also, he keeps showing up at my house at odd hours, so I figured, might as well make it official."
Zhongli sighed. "Official."
"Yeah. Like, 'Congratulations, Xiao, you are now my slightly grumpy, mostly reluctant, part-time son slash bodyguard.’” Childe grinned. "Has to be son. I’m not that old. Xiansheng, on the other hand..."
Zhongli gave him a pointed look. "I assure you, if anyone here were to claim familial ties, I would be the eldest."
"Which means you're officially his granddad," Childe declared cheerfully.
Xiao choked on his tofu.
Zhongli exhaled through his nose, setting his tea down with practiced patience. "You are as incorrigible as ever."
"And yet, you like me anyway."
A silence stretched between them. Zhongli's gaze lingered, measuring, ancient. Childe met it with something raw, something honest, something that had nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with the way his heart had been tilting, quietly, inexorably, toward the Archon since the day they first met.
"...Yes," Zhongli said at last, voice steady. "It seems I do."
And that, Childe would later claim, was another mistake.
But oh, what a wonderful mistake it was.
(And if Xiao, despite all his grumbling, kept coming back, and if Zhongli, despite all his warnings, kept watching them with that fond, knowing look—well. That was a story still being written.)
As for his next mistake, well...
Childe never intended to become a househusband. In fact, he distinctly remembered swearing—perhaps in the middle of an adrenaline-fueled brawl, or while dodging an angry shopkeeper’s broom—that he was not the type to settle down. He was a warrior, after all, not some quaint, apron-clad husband doting on his family between baking sessions.
And yet, somehow, he found himself standing in the kitchen of his Liyue home, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his fingertips, while a Yaksha scowled at him from across the table.
Xiao’s gaze flicked between the ingredients sprawled before them and Childe’s decidedly untrustworthy expression. “This is unnecessary.”
Childe, aggressively kneading dough, grinned. “Oh? Because last time I checked, you liked almond tofu.”
“I do,” Xiao admitted begrudgingly. “But that does not mean—”
“That does not mean, blah, blah, something about duty, something about not needing material comforts.” Childe waved a flour-covered hand dismissively. “C’mon, buddy, do me a favor and let me spoil you a little. What else am I supposed to do when Zhongli’s off at work, lecturing people about contract laws?”
Xiao scowled, but didn’t immediately leave, which Childe counted as a victory.
He also counted it as a victory when Zhongli returned home that evening to find Childe standing in the kitchen, proudly presenting a plate of slightly uneven, but still respectable, homemade almond tofu. Xiao, despite himself, was already halfway through his second portion, glaring at his food as if it had personally betrayed him by being enjoyable.
Zhongli set down his cane, taking in the sight before him with the patience of a man who had lived through many wars but was still unprepared for whatever this was. “You’ve been… busy.”
Childe beamed. “Yeah! You’re lookin’ at Liyue’s newest domestic icon. Maybe I should start a side business. ‘Tartaglia’s Tofu’—kinda catchy, right?”
Xiao muttered something under his breath about the depths of karmic suffering. Zhongli, however, was already picking up a piece of tofu with a practiced motion, studying it like one might examine a priceless antique.
Childe crossed his arms, watching carefully. “Well? You like it?”
Zhongli took a bite, chewed, and then—smiled. It was small, just a quiet curl of the lips, but it was soft, and it was warm, and it sent something bright and terrible surging up Childe’s spine.
“Yes,” Zhongli said, setting his chopsticks down. “It’s wonderful.”
And that, Childe would later insist, was when he knew.
---
Despite what Zhongli might claim, Childe was an excellent househusband.
Sure, he occasionally got into trouble (his “fishing” trips somehow always ended with broken docks and exasperated harbor guards), and his attempts at home improvement usually involved more destruction than construction, but domestically, he was thriving.
He cleaned. He cooked. He bullied Xiao into taking care of himself with the persistence of a man who once fought a literal god.
And, most importantly, he made Zhongli laugh. Which was possibly his greatest achievement, considering Zhongli had spent thousands of years cultivating an aura of unshakable dignity.
It was a late afternoon, the sky painted in hues of gold and amber, when Childe decided to test his latest theory. Zhongli was seated by the window, reading, with the elegant ease of someone completely oblivious to the chaos about to befall him.
Childe sidled up behind him, all exaggerated innocence. “Hey, babe.”
Zhongli turned a page. “Yes?”
“Did you know,” Childe began, draping himself over the back of Zhongli’s chair, “that technically, I outrank you now?”
Zhongli paused. Slowly, he looked up, amber eyes sharp with amusement. “Oh?”
“Yup.” Childe nodded solemnly. “See, since I’m the one taking care of the house, that makes me the boss of this domain.” He gestured broadly. “And since you live here, that means you’re under my rule.”
Xiao, listening from across the room, visibly stopped sharpening his spear to stare at Childe as if he had just personally challenged Celestia.
Zhongli, ever composed, rested his chin on one hand, eyes gleaming with something almost dangerous. “Fascinating.”
Childe grinned. “I know, right?” He crossed his arms. “So I was thinking, maybe you should start calling me something fancy, since I’m technically in charge.”
“Oh?” Zhongli murmured. “And what, pray tell, would you prefer?”
Childe leaned in, all teeth and mischief. “I dunno. ‘Lord of the House’? ‘Master of the Hearth’?”
Zhongli closed his book. “How about husband?”
Childe’s brain immediately blue-screened.
Xiao let out a noise that could only be described as a snort.
Childe, despite being a trained warrior capable of battling gods and monsters, suddenly found himself speechless.
“I—uh—” He blinked rapidly. “Wait. What?”
Zhongli, completely unruffled, reached for his tea. “Would that not be appropriate?”
Childe gaped at him. “You can’t just drop that on me without warning—”
Zhongli took a sip of his tea, exuding the smugness of a man who had just won a war without lifting a single finger.
Childe groaned into his hands. “I hate you.”
“You do not.”
“…No,” Childe admitted, grinning despite himself. “No, I really don’t.”
And just like that, another line was crossed.
Another step closer.
And, somehow, impossibly, Childe found himself falling—not like a warrior into battle, not like a fool into recklessness, but like a man who had finally found something worth landing for.
Falling in love was nothing like falling in battle.
In battle, there was the rush of adrenaline, the clarity of instinct. You knew the stakes. You understood the cost. You braced yourself for the impact.
But this—this was something else entirely.
It was in the little things.
It was in the way Zhongli never failed to pour him tea first, even though Childe always gulped it down too fast and burned his tongue. It was in the way Xiao, despite all his scowling, started showing up at their table without an excuse, as if some part of him had accepted the ridiculous notion that he belonged here. It was in the mornings, when Childe woke up before Zhongli, stretching in the golden dawn, and realized that this—this quiet, steady life—felt more like victory than any battle ever had.
Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t chaos.
Because of course, there was chaos.
"Childe, what is that?"
Zhongli stood in the doorway, expression composed, but with the unmistakable weight of a man deeply concerned.
Childe, crouched on the floor, froze mid-sweep. The mess before him was something between a disaster zone and an avant-garde art installation. Flour dusted the counters, a broken jar lay perilously close to the edge of the sink, and Xiao—seated in the corner with a very unwilling expression—had what appeared to be egg yolk dripping from his sleeve.
"Uh," Childe said intelligently.
Xiao, deadpan, picked up a broken shell and let it drop onto the table. "He attempted to cook."
"Correction!" Childe held up a finger. "I successfully cooked! It’s just that some people," he shot a look at Xiao, "refused to participate in a little friendly dumpling-making."
"I did not refuse," Xiao muttered. "You ambushed me."
"Semantics," Childe said breezily.
Zhongli sighed. He stepped inside, surveying the wreckage. "And what, precisely, were you attempting to make?"
"Soup dumplings!" Childe gestured grandly to a plate of very… interpretive dumplings. Some were overstuffed, some were tragically deflated, and at least one looked like it had been through an existential crisis.
Zhongli, to his credit, did not immediately turn around and leave. Instead, he picked up one of the dumplings with the delicate precision of a man handling an ancient relic, inspected it for a long, long moment, and then—against all odds—took a bite.
Xiao stared. Childe leaned forward, eyes bright. "Well?"
Zhongli chewed, contemplative. "It is…"
"Yes?"
Zhongli swallowed. Slowly, he nodded. "It is not the worst thing I have ever tasted."
"Ha!" Childe threw his arms up. "I’ll take it!"
Xiao exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple like someone suffering from severe karmic debt. "You are both insufferable."
Childe clapped a flour-covered hand on Xiao’s shoulder, grinning. "But, here you are."
Xiao scowled. But he didn’t move away.
---
The house felt different after that.
It was warmer. Less like a place Childe was just passing through, and more like somewhere he was meant to be.
Xiao never officially moved in, but he had a permanent seat at the table. Zhongli never asked Childe to change, but somehow, Childe found himself softer, steadier, in ways he never thought possible.
And one evening, just as the lanterns were being lit, Childe turned to Zhongli and said, "I love you."
Not dramatically, or in some grand, sweeping gesture. It was said casually. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Zhongli stilled, his amber eyes deep with something unreadable. And then, with the weight of a promise older than the mountains, he reached for Childe’s hand. His fingers, calloused and warm, curled over Childe’s own.
"And I, you."
It wasn’t a battlefield. It wasn’t a war.
But Childe had never felt like he’d won anything more.
Love, Childe was learning, was not a battlefield.
Or maybe it was, but not the kind he was used to—the kind where you charged in headfirst, weapons drawn, ready to bleed for victory. No, love was more like an endless series of small moments, each one a choice, each one an act of staying.
And despite everything—the wars, the distance, the blood on his hands—he stayed.
---
It started with the little things.
Zhongli had a habit of losing himself in thought, slipping into the kind of silence that felt ancient, endless. Childe learned to fill the space with stories—half-true tales of Snezhnaya’s frozen lakes, of the time he wrestled a bear (he swore it was true, but Zhongli’s raised brow said otherwise), of his siblings and their endless letters, filled with the kind of warmth he missed more than he let on.
In turn, Zhongli taught Childe patience—of brewing tea slowly, of walking through Liyue’s streets without urgency, of savoring a meal instead of devouring it like a man on the brink of war.
(“You chew too fast,” Zhongli had once observed, watching Childe inhale a plate of dumplings.
Childe had swallowed—mostly whole—and shrugged. “Old habits.”
Zhongli, ever composed, had simply refilled his teacup. “Perhaps it is time for new ones.”)
Childe wasn’t sure when he started listening.
But one evening, as they sat by the harbor, lanterns floating like stars above them, Childe realized he was slowing down. Drinking his tea without rushing. Watching the water lap against the docks, the sound steady, soothing.
And Zhongli—who had once been a god, who had once held the weight of an entire nation—sat beside him, completely at peace.
Of course, peace was a relative concept.
Because as much as Childe had embraced his so-called domestic life, chaos still had a way of finding him.
Case in point: the morning he woke up to find Xiao standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Uh,” Childe blinked, still half-asleep. “Are we under attack?”
“No,” Xiao said flatly. “But I am.”
Zhongli, ever unbothered, sat up with the elegance of someone who did not just get rudely awakened. “Xiao, what troubles you?”
Xiao gestured at himself, scowling. “Your husband—” (Childe’s brain short-circuited immediately) “—has been attempting to ‘improve’ my wardrobe.”
Zhongli turned to Childe, who was grinning far too wide for someone who had just been accused of crimes against fashion.
“Okay, okay,” Childe held up his hands. “First of all—love the use of husband, thanks for that. Second, I stand by my choices. The black and green look is great and all, but have you considered, I don’t know, colors?”
Xiao glared at him. “I like my current attire.”
“But think about it,” Childe pressed. “A nice deep blue? Maybe some reds? Hell, I’d even settle for dark gold. Live a little!”
“I am not taking fashion advice from someone who wears a cape indoors.”
Childe gasped. “It’s not a cape, it’s an aesthetic statement!”
Zhongli sighed, rubbing his temple. “If I may intervene—”
“No,” Xiao and Childe said at the same time.
---
Despite the complaints, Xiao did not, in fact, leave.
And despite everything, Childe found himself rooting—not just in Liyue, but in something deeper. Somewhere between the quiet mornings and the bickering over household chores, between the late-night talks and the way Zhongli’s fingers traced idle patterns against his palm, between Xiao’s reluctant presence at every meal and the warmth that settled into his chest—Childe realized.
He had a home.
He had a family.
And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t just fighting to survive.
He was fighting to stay.
---
No one—no one—had ever expected Tartaglia, Harbinger of the Fatui, to become a doting husband.
Certainly not the Harbingers, who had long since accepted that Childe’s idea of “domestic stability” involved battlefield rations and teaching his younger siblings how to throw a punch.
Certainly not Xiao, who still regarded Childe’s culinary attempts as a personal attack.
And certainly not the entirety of Liyue, which quickly learned that while Childe had successfully infiltrated their city as a warrior, diplomat, and all-around menace, his real challenge was the domestic battlefield.
---
“Absolutely not.”
Xiao’s voice was sharper than a blade. He stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the chaos before him.
Childe, wearing an apron (which he insisted was cool and intimidating), stood over the stove, looking far too proud of himself. Behind him, the kitchen was a warzone. Flour coated the counters, an overturned bowl of what might have once been dough was now a tragic smear across the floor, and a faint burning smell lingered in the air.
“Oh, come on,” Childe grinned, brandishing a ladle like a weapon. “It’s just food, not warfare.”
Xiao’s stare remained unmoved. “Last time you said that, I nearly choked on an undercooked dumpling.”
Zhongli, who had just stepped into the room, surveyed the disaster with the calm resignation of a man who had lived through literal wars but still found himself unprepared for this.
“Childe,” he said evenly, “why is the teapot upside down?”
Childe immediately turned to look. “Shit.”
In the midst of this mess, he had somehow—somehow—managed to set the entire tea set in a precarious arrangement atop the stove, where the teapot was now precariously tilting, dripping into a pot of… something vaguely soup-like.
Zhongli exhaled. Xiao turned to leave.
“Oh no you don’t,” Childe called after him, wiping his hands on the apron before lunging forward to grab Xiao by the back of his cloak. “You’re eating this, whether you like it or not.”
Xiao scowled. “I would rather face a thousand karmic demons.”
“Too bad,” Childe sang, dragging him back to the table.
Shockingly, the food was… edible. Not good, per se. Not terrible either. Just—average, which, all things considered, was a major improvement.
Zhongli, ever composed, ate it without complaint. Xiao, begrudgingly, did the same (though very slowly, as if waiting for poison to take effect).
Childe, meanwhile, grinned like a madman. “See? I told you I’d get the hang of this whole ‘domestic life’ thing.”
Xiao set his chopsticks down, expression flat. “You burned tea.”
Childe’s grin wavered. “…Minor setback.”
Zhongli sighed into his cup.
---
Despite the numerous disasters, Childe didn’t give up. Because for all his failures, for all the kitchen mishaps and Xiao’s never-ending judgment, there were the good moments too.
Like the way Zhongli always, always drank his tea—even when it was a little too strong or a little too bitter. Like the way Xiao, despite his very vocal complaints, kept showing up at mealtimes.
Like the way, one evening, when Childe absentmindedly pulled a blanket over Xiao (who had fallen asleep on the couch), the adeptus didn’t immediately wake up and swat him away.
(Zhongli watched from the doorway, a knowing smile on his lips. Childe scowled. “Don’t say a word.”)
Love, as it turned out, wasn’t just the grand gestures. It wasn’t just confessions beneath lantern-lit skies, or battles fought side by side.
It was this.
It was burnt dumplings and quiet breakfasts. It was bickering over chores and Xiao sighing in exasperation but still eating everything Childe made. It was Zhongli’s quiet patience, the way he stayed, the way his fingers brushed against Childe’s as he poured him tea.
And it was the way Childe—Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, the walking embodiment of chaos—was finally, finally learning peace. (Even if it meant occasionally setting the kitchen on fire.)
The thing about peace, Childe had long since learned, was that it required a different kind of battle. It wasn’t the kind fought with blades or blood or the ever-present thrill of war. It was the kind fought in the quiet moments—the choice to stay, to try, to believe that love was something he could hold in his hands and not crush between his fingers.
And so, when Zhongli turned to him one evening, hands folded neatly over the tea table, and said, “Have you considered retiring from the Fatui?” Childe knew, with absolute certainty, that it was a battle he would win.
(Not against Zhongli, of course. Against himself.)
---
The resignation process, as it turned out, was an absolute shitshow.
Pulcinella, ever the reasonable one, had sent him a congratulatory letter along with a bottle of fine Snezhnayan firewater (which Childe immediately put to good use).
The other Harbingers, on the other hand…
“You what?”
Childe had braced himself for this moment, but hearing Arlecchino’s voice laced with murder made him just a little nostalgic for the days when people weren’t so mad at him for choosing peace.
“You heard me,” Childe said, rolling his shoulders. “I’m done. Retiring. Hanging up the mask, putting away the knives, et cetera.”
“You are the youngest Harbinger in our history,” Dottore drawled, equal parts amused and exasperated. “And you’re throwing it away… for love?”
Childe grinned, unbothered. “What can I say? Turns out getting married’s a little more appealing than international warfare.”
The silence that followed was glorious.
“You’re getting married?” Sandrone’s voice was caught somewhere between a shriek and an incredulous laugh.
“Oh, did I not mention? Yeah, the wedding’s in a few weeks.”
“You are giving up everything for a man.” Arlecchino sounded personally offended.
Childe scoffed. “You say that like I haven’t spent years giving up everything for a woman—y’know, our queen?”
Another silence. Then, finally—
“The Tsaritsa approved?”
Childe smirked. “Not just approved—she sent her blessings.”
It was, by far, the most satisfying moment of his entire career.
---
The wedding was a Liyuean affair, elegant and steeped in tradition, though Childe had insisted on just a few Snezhnayan touches.
(“Love, if you make me wear something with fur on it, I will leave you at the altar.”
“Noted. What about a fur-trimmed cape?”
“…I’m reconsidering marriage entirely.”)
Xiao, predictably, tried to skip the ceremony altogether. Predictably, Zhongli didn’t let him. And also predictably, Childe dragged him into the festivities anyway.
(“Look, you’re practically my kid at this point, might as well celebrate your old man getting hitched.”
“…I despise you.”
“Love you too, bud.”)
Zhongli, of course, was every inch the dignified groom—poised, graceful, eyes warm as he met Childe’s gaze beneath the lantern-lit sky.
Childe, on the other hand, was trying very hard not to grin like an idiot.
(He was failing.)
The vows were whispered, meant only for the two of them. Promises not of eternity, but of staying—something deeper, something real.
(“You make me want to be better.” Childe’s voice was quiet, reverent. “And I will, every day, for as long as you’ll have me.”)
(Zhongli’s fingers curled around his own, firm and steady. “Stay with me, love. Always.”)
When they kissed, the crowd erupted into cheers.
(Xiao pretended not to care, but Childe swore he saw him smile—just for a moment.)
—
After the wedding, after the feasting, after the ridiculous number of toasts (Childe absolutely got drunk and absolutely challenged Xiao to a spar, which Zhongli swiftly put a stop to), there was just them.
The quiet of their home. The warmth of their bed. Zhongli’s fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along Childe’s back.
And for the first time in his life, Childe felt truly, wholly at peace.
“You’re happy,” Zhongli murmured against his temple, a statement, not a question.
Childe hummed. “Yeah. I really am.”
Love, he thought, wasn’t about running or fighting or bleeding for something unattainable.
It was this.
And for the rest of his life, Childe would choose it.
Every single day.