Archive of Our Own

“Red is the color of heroes, Ajax.” His mother's hand gently ran through an unruly mess of bright, red hair as she continued to read a children's storybook. If the boy had known that this would be one of the last times his mother's hand would touch him so unrestrainedly, maybe he would close his eyes, cherishing the warmth of parental love. Committing to memory this time pocket in which there was no voice in his head urging him to fight, to fight, to fight. No mask attached to the side of his head and no vision at his hip. The only scar on his body being the laughable pale line under his right knee from when he fell from a tree. But, of course, the ten year old could not possess such knowledge. For him, motherly affection was an everyday occurrence. As normal and common as rain or snow. Why should he make a big deal out of it?

“A colour that brings relief and hope to those in need. Red is the colour of the sky just before down, and red is the colour of fire that warms the harshest of winter nights. And that is precisely why heroes take this colour as theirs, willing to become harbingers of hope and change for those who cannot see past the shadows of night." She closed the book, putting it on the nearby tea table, and hugged the boy sitting on her lap tightly. Ajax squirmed a little at her affections but did not try to escape mother's embrace.

“Ajax, my little hero,” she muttered as she placed small kisses at the crown of his head. “Promise mama that you will always be someone who in others eyes is clad in red.”

The red-haired boy turned his head and smiled at her, proudly displaying the missing front tooth.

"I promise, mama .”

~*~

What his dear mother failed to mention is the fact that red is also the colour of blood.

“Stop whimpering, dammit!” woman who introduced herself previously as Skirk, barked at him as she was applying some kind of stinking ointment to his fresh stomach wound. “Should not have come here if you were such a sissy.”

Ajax gritted his teeth and swallowed any other noises that might aggrivate the woman. Instead, he watched as more and more blood spilled from his insides, dyeing his trousers and shirt a rich crimson.

'Look mama, I'm wearing a colour of heroes,' he thought and then chuckled weakly. ' Haven't known it would hurt so much.'

“Why are you laughing kid, you hit your head or something?” The woman proceeded to aggressively put on some bandages and secure them tightly around his bleeding stomach. “Or are you just a little wrong in the head? Surely would explain what a whiny kid like you is doing in the heart of the Abyss.”

“No, ma'am,” he answered quietly, his throat sore from previous screams. “Just wanted to become a hero. But I lost my way in the forest and fell down here.”

Skirk contemplated him for a moment, confusion roaming in her dark eyes with a pupil cut into a shape of a star. Then she shook her head with a sense of defeat and stood up. “Come then, oh pitiful hero. Let's teach you how to make use of this pathetic thing you called a sword earlier.” She started to walk away without caring if she was being followed or not.

Ajax slowly pulled himself onto his feet, mindful of the fresh injury. Then slowly, step after step, went after her back. Both Ajax and Skirk disappeared, swallowed whole by Abyssal night.

~*~

Red were scratches on his knuckles, but even redder was the blood slowly dripping down under the older boy's clearly broken nose. Another bully was loudly wheezing for oxygen on the pinkish snow, and the third of the perpetrators sat quietly under the bloodstained brick wall. His eyes were closed, his skin as white as falling snowflakes.

Ajax just stood calmly in the middle of it all, the rushing of blood in his ears slowly calming down, no longer singing for violence. A temporarily satiated beast.

There were people gathering. Citizens of Morepesok watched in horror as the boy, whom many of them used to call 'Little Ajax', with the eyes of a honed murderer kicked the bloodynosed teen's face right into the fresh snow. The teen has stayed motionless on the cold, snezhnayan ground.

There was a muffled scream and a commotion at the end of the gathering. Red-haired woman in her mid-age pushed through a crowd with the desperation of someone dying. The shopping basket fell to the ground as she moved her hands to cover the wail that escaped her mouth. Right after her came a man clothed in simple fisherman's attire. He stood in shock for the longest moment, but then started to shakely rub something that resembled soothing circles at the back of his still-crying wife. Both of them mourning the death of their beloved, small child.

Said child stood there numbly and let them grieve.

~*~

“My dearest Eleventh,” Her Majesty's eyes were cold but genuine as she stood with him on the glass balcony. She – standing illuminated by the city lights, he – on one knee, kneeling before his sovereign. A red mask, a symbol of his rank, frimly attached to the side of his head. “What is it that you fear?”

“Your Majesty, pardon my impertinence, but this question bears no meaning,” he answered calmly, slightly lowering his head as to convey he meant no disrespect.

“How so?”

“Asking me said question would be equivalent to asking it to a sword or a spear. Weapon fears non, it is but a mere tool in the hand of its wielder.” Young man then raised his gaze, boldly meeting god's eyes. “So let me ask this, Your Majesty, what is that you are afraid of?”

His god's gaze was solid and sharp, but clear – transparent like a block of ice. She considered him quietly for a moment, falling snow getting tangled, then lost in her silver hair. Finally, she spoke: “My sweetest Tartaglia, as long as you remain my weapon, I promise you I shall never fear and keep my grip steady and unyealding. Laughing in the face of enemies, Celestial or Abyssal. That is my oath to you, my faithful blade.”

“As long as you shall find me useful, Your Majesty, I promise to stay sharp and polished, cutting your foes with no hesitancy nor second thoughts. That is the oath your blade presents you with, Your Majesty.”

She then lowered herself to meet him eye to eye and whispered, her voice unforgiving and steady like a winter wind: “They say the most beautiful blade is the one stained to the hilt with blood. And Tartaglia, my sweet child, I intend to make you the most stunning one on the face of Teyvat.”

The young man, barely turned sixteen, with remnants of baby fat on his cheeks but hands bruised and hardened over years with calluses, did not waver. Did not bat an eyelid at the promise of a life filled with violence and enough blood shed to fill Baikal Lake to its brim. Instead, in the face of a god who presented him with such a future, he but mearly smiled.

“I look forward to it.”

~*~

The eyeliner under the consultant's eyes was red.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The man bowed slightly in greeting, long mahogany hair swinging in a low ponytail. “I am Zhongli of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

His voice was deep and pleasant, demanding attention, yes, but not in a sharp, arrogant way of someone authoritative. The timbre of his voice was but a silk line, pulling you deeper and deeper into the waves of a conversation.

'What a powerful tool in the hands of a skilled orator,' he thought passingly, before also slightly bowing and introducing himself:

“Tartaglia, number Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. But everyone tends to just call me 'Childe'. And really, the pleasure is all mine, Zhongli-xiānsheng .”

When the man said nothing, feeling slightly self-conscious under the scrutiny of amber eyes, he put a hand on his neck in embarrassment and asked: “Sorry, have I butchered the pronunciation?”

The consultant blinked once, then twice, as if coming to reality from the plane of his mind, and smiled slightly. “Not at all; I was just surprised how knowledgeable you are about our customs. Oh, but I digress. Let's start eating before the meal gets cold, shall we? After all, business goes rather poorly when talked over a cold dish.”

“Oh, we really can't have that, can we?” he answered with a grin and took his seat. The table was filled to the brim with liyuen dishes. There were a few he could recognize, like shrimp balls, a crab, and tofu with some seasonings, but the rest of them remained a mystery to him.

“As I had not known your taste, I allowed myself to order a cross-section of liyuen-style cuisine. There are some Jade Parcels that, curiously, are shaped to mimic the Jadeite Cabbage – a famous jade sculpture [1]. Locked inside fresh vegetables is a sweet ham, which rather lovely contrasts the spicy broth. Though I hope the level of spice won't be excessive, as foreigners, when introduced to liyuen cuisine, often tend to express some level of discomfort. Then there is Tianshu Meat – the slice of meat in the perfect middle of being lean and fatty. Actually, it is said that the idea of this dish was first introduced by Tianshu of a certain generation of Liyue Qixing-” The consultant happily introduced him with every single dish on the table, providing context for its creation or other trivia related to it. All in this soothing, low baritone of his.

Childe put a hand to his cheek and happily listened to the, if one was being objective, rather longish and maybe a little unnecessary lecture. Their table was situated on the balcony, the refreshing sea breeze straiding through their hair, the low sun falling just right to even more enhance the consultant's choice of golden accessories.

“-and the shape of those, as I am sure you have already guessed, meant to mimic that of a lotus flower. It is a plant native to Liyue and has wide use in medicine. and-” suddenly consultant stopped mid-sentence, and harboring an expression of mild embarrassment cleared his throat. “Oh, but here I am again, rambling nonsensically when you must be hungry. I am deeply ashamed...”

'Cute,' his unhelpful mind supplied, when he noticed the slightest hint of a blush that creeped on the consultant's porcelain-like cheeks.

“Oh, please don't be, xiānsheng. I actually found it rather fascinating. And it made me realise that the rumors don't do your impressive knowledge nearly enough justice.”

“I am afraid you may be exaggerating. After all, I am but a humble consultant – even my knowledge has its boundaries. But let's not dally any further. Let's eat, shall we?” and without further ado, the consultant reached for a serving of a Bamboo Shoot Soup.

Childe decided on a dish that Zhongli previously introduced as 'Dragon Beard Noodles' and absentmindedly went for a fork only to find none. Instead, his hand stumbled upon a pair of bamboo chopsticks.

'Ah, right – they use those here,' he recalled, and grabed them rather stiffly. He really didn't want to make a fool out of himself – after all, Liyueans were rather peculiar when it came to their etiquette, and he would hate to lose a chance at tightening business relations with Wangsheng because of a pair of damn chopsticks, out of all the things. He reached for a noodle only to feel instant betrayal as it slipped right through the damn wooden sticks and fell back on a plate. Furrowing his brows, he tried again and again and fucking again, only to reach the same result. He was this close to simply throwing away the affronting cutlery and just go with the soup when, from across a table a quiet chuckle reached his ears.

Zhongli was covering his mouth behind a hand clad in a black leather glove, eyes in lovely crescents sparkling with mirth.

'Well, this went great. Good fucking job, Tartaglia – some master of weaponry you are, defeated by goddammit chopsticks,' he thought as he swallowed his bitter embarrassment of an attempt at liyue style cuisine dining method.

“Ah, pardon my lack of manners, xiānsheng, it appears that the art of using chopsticks is one that still eludes me.”

Zhongli's hand came back to its place on the man's lap, but the subtle mirth persisted, both in the amber eyes and the slightly curled corners of his mouth. “Pardon my amusement at your expense, Master Childe. I promise it is not of a bad will, just... Here, allow me...” Zhongli gracefully rose from his chair and came to stand next to Childe, gloved hands gently guiding his fingers, positioning them correctly on the pair of chopsticks.

The sun was low, the breeze was nice, and the consultant's perfume of choice was the rich scent of sandalwood. Zhongli put a strand of his long, mahogany hair behind his ear and gently but surely continued to guide harbinger's hand.

~*~

Dear sister,

I hope this letter reaches you while in good health.

Even if what Liyueans call here 'winter' has finally arrived, it doesn't even remotely resemble what in Snezhnaya would be considered an 'early spring'. It is kinda funny seeing everyone miserable because of a 'low temperature' when, as for me, I can finally breathe after a sweltering summer and a rather warm autumn. Must say, I was more than just slightly disappointed when Mr. Zhongli said that because Liyue Harbor is located by the ocean, we may not even witness snow this year. I wonder if it is snowing outside when you are reading this letter.

Even if what is called 'Lantern Rite', is still weeks away, you can already feel the overall excitement that has settled over the whole city. It is the biggest Liyue festival, maybe second only to the Rite of Descension. I think you could compare it to our Winter Festival in terms of grandeur and popularity. On the streets, you can already spot a lot more foreigners than usual – merchants and sightseers from all over the Teyvat getting excited for a festival. Worry not! I will make sure to send you a letter afterwards, along with souvenirs for everyone!

Though this letter should come with some toys for Taucer, a book on Liyue history for Anton, a tea for mama and papa, and - don't tell mama, this will be our secret, okey? - an eyeline paint for you, young lady. I am sure, with this you shall overshine the brightest of stars, your highness.

Please give everyone a big, warm hug from me, all right?

Take care of yourself,

Yours faithfully, your loyal knight.

~*~

“So all we have to do is just attach a wish and toss it up in the sky?”

“I believe the word you were looking for is 'to release'? I would be quite saddened if you decided to just throw the lanterns I obtained for us on the nearby rock.”

“Well, when you put it that way. We can't have the lanterns you miraculously bought with your own money just tumbling down from all the way up here, right?”

Zhongli simply chuckled.

From the Yujing Terrace they had a truly breathtaking view on the harbor down below. The city was cast in a warm glow from all the festive decorations, lively, busy with people – merchants trying to sell their wares, tourists glancing expectantly at the expanse of a dark sky, families with children running eagerly down the streets, friends and lovers slowly walking their way through the harbor.

'Which one are we in all of this?' he wondered as he took a red lantern from Zhongli's hands. 'Friends? Work associates? Business partners? Meant to be lovers? Never meant to be lovers?'

“Do you know why Liyueans started releasing lanterns in the first place?”

'Which one, Zhongli?'

“It was to remind our soldiers of the way home amidst the raging war. To remind them to never lose sight of themselves, even in the darkest of hours. So that they know someone is waiting for them at the end of this bloodshed.” Zhongli's eyes are heavy on his, burning with something unspoken. Burning in silence.

“And now? Why do you release lanterns now? There is no war, and no soldiers left.” Unable to stand the amber fire, he cast his gaze on the deep, red paper. The lantern was masterfully made, extravagant paper attached to the slim, sturdy frame.

“Isn't there? Don't we all fight a million battles every day? Do we not shed blood anymore? Do we not die on battlefields, and do we not have loved ones we want to guide back home?” Zhongli's voice is steady with conviction. “Do we have no further need to wish?”

“Some wishes are futile. Never meant to cross, never meant to meet, never meant to be. What about those wishes, Zhongli?”

Leather clothed hand gently detached his fingers, one by one, from the death grip they had held on the paper lantern.

“Don't all wishes seem to be futile until they come true? Isn't it just the way they are? May cross's, may meet's, and may be's?” The leather-clad hand gave him a little squeeze before detaching itself, leaving phantom warm and phantom touch in it's wake. It feels like a brand. He thinks that he would prefer if it were phantom pain instead.

“Make a wish, Childe." Zhongli smiles gently as he hands him a pencil, and all he can think as he writes down his wish is:

'What are we, Zhongli?'

~*~

Childe stopped in his tracks and simply looked at a lonesome, fragile-looking tree that was covered, to the very top, in red flowers. Even knowing how warm Liyue's winters tended to be, it was truly surprising to stumble upon bright, fully-opened buds in early February.

“Oh, it appears as though camellia is already in bloom. How lovely.” In his periperal there was a slight movement as Zhongli joined his side. Both standing under the blooming tree, somewhere in Lisha, their walk long forgotten.

“Is it what they are called? Camellia?” For some reason, his voice was quiet, tender – something in the scenery before their eyes refusing to be disturbed.

“Actually, cháhuā is their liyuen name. These flowers have been cherished in Liyue for centuries.”

“Oh? Why is that so?” he asked as he reached to touch one of the lowerly located flowers. Deep-red petals were hugging each other tightly, refusing to be separated from bright yellow filaments.

“You see, they represent a union between two lovers. At least the ones with red petals do so. That is because, in opposition to normal flowers, when the petals wither, they fall bringing the whole flower with them – calyx, which represents man dies with the petals, which symbolize woman. Together even in death – ever-lasting devotion and eternal love captured in a single flower.”

“Oh yes, you Liyue people really do love your flower metaphors, don't you? Lotus for purity, chrysanthemum for long life, and cháhuā, was it?, for eternal love.” His tone was teasing as he turned to meet Zhongli's eyes. “Could it be that Liyue is not so much a land of contracts as it is of hopeless romantics?”

The corners of amber eyes mellowed a little. “Guilty as charged, I am afraid,” Zhongli responded in a light tone. He glanced at the road they were strolling on previously, then back to Childe. “Do you wish to keep going? The Qingxu Pool is not far away from here.”

“Can we stay like this for a short while? Not long, just a moment more will be enough,” he lied smoothly. He doubted any amount of time would truly satisfy him. And that realisation scared him to the bone.

Zhongli then smiled and turned his gaze towards a tree. “Of course. After all, we have time.”

'Do we?'

They stood arm in arm, their gazes joined in observation of carmine flowers.

[2]

~*~

Childe honestly had no idea how they got here.

Was it the alcohol they shared previously in the Three-Round Knockout? But Childe was not drunk, not even tipsy; his senses sharp as ever, nerves on fire in every place Zhongli's hands as much as brushed his body. Was Zhongli drunk then? No, he remembered his eyes, how they looked a moment before their lips collided for the first time this night. They were clear, acute when he first glanced somewhere under his nose and then asked if Childe didn't want to come for a moment inside as they stood before Zhongli's front door. It was not alcohol's fault then – nonexistent promille barely an excuse they will hide behind tomorrow morning.

Was it the weird tension that hung in the space between them for the whole evening? Too long glances, too long, casual (were they casual?) touches, brushes of fingers when exchanging bottles, brushes of arms when they walked back. But it wasn't just this evening, was it? This nervous energy, atoms in the space between them going haywire, ozonized air ready to produce lightning. Said lightning traveling down his spine as Zhongli makes small, red love bites along the curve of his clavicle.

His hands slowly undone the consultant's tie and, slowly traveling up his neck, proceed to take off the hair tie. Zhongli shivers slightly under his touch, and then the curtain of mahogany hair closes them from the world.

'Was it under the camellia?' he wonders, as both of them start to shed more and more clothing. 'On the night of a Lantern Rite?' Ornate brown coat joins his gray one on the floor. 'Our first dinner? Second? Third?' So does Zhongli's vest. 'Tell me, Zhongli, because I am lost. When have we become like this?'

His back arches a little when Zhongli's hand reaches the sensitive spot near his hip. 'Oh, this is a mistake,' he thinks when the consultant's lips travel from his clavicle to his sternum, and then down, down, down. The belt of his trousers becoming unclasped, then useless for the rest of the night. 'Definetly a mistake,' as he unbuttons a gray shirt, hands finally reaching the bare, surprisingly muscled back. 'A stupid, rookie mistake that eventually will only hurt us both.' Zhongli makes a low, soft noise that comes somewhere from the back of his throat when he lightly picks at his earlobe.

'It fails to feel like one, though.'

“I can hear your brain thinking on the overdrive, Childe. Is everything all right? We do not have to do this if you are uncom-” Childe shuts down the consultant's worried inquiry with a kiss and a purposeful flinging of one of his legs over the other's lower back – trapping Zhongli on top of him.

“Then make it stop,” he whispers in other man's ear. With so much of their bodies surfaces touching and intertwining, he feels the full-body shiver as if it were his own. “Please,” he adds for a good measure.

“All right, I can grant this wish of yours." Zhongli responds, and then his brain goes pleasantly blank for the rest of the night.

~*~

“Lord Harbinger, our research has finally given expected results.” Futuus's hand slightly trembles as he presents Childe with a Sigil. He then proceeded to stand rather anxiously after Childe took it for closer examination. Young man, aware of his colleagues not so gentle methods of dealing with their subordinates, chose to say nothing even as the continuous sound of the uniform's hem getting crushed reached his ears.

In his hand, there indeed was a, not more than ten inches long, Sigil that emited a subdued golden light. He could feel a steady flow of elemental energy radiating from the thing. The only aspect differentiating it from its original predecessor was the small, red stamp of the Fatui emblem on the back.

“It took a while, but we eventually managed to infuse the paper with elemental energy and then find a proper way of stabilizing it. It may be slightly less powerful than the original because of it being manufactured by synthetic means and not a product of godly power, but we can equalize what we lack in power with a larger number of our Sigils.” Apparently feeling even more aggravated by Harbinger's silence, Fatuus began to rushly explain.

“You did a good job,” Childe praised briefly, still looking somewhat numbly at the Sigil. The materialization of a borrowed time he was on, getting shorter and shorter, rushing to the inevitable conclusion here, in his hand.

Suddenly, he was overcome by the will to simply crush it, until only dust remained.

“Though I must say, we would not be able to make this invention without Lord Harbinger's suggestion to research the topic of reproducing original Sigils of Permission. May I inquire how Lord Harbinger managed to come up with the idea?"

“They say that, in ancient times, Rex Lapis made special sigils, which, infused by his godly power, enabled mortals to visit adepti without being recognized as a threat. They were quite common once, but now becoming rarer and rarer as some of them got destroyed, lost, or simply ran out of power. But even now, those that have been preserved should still contain immense elemental power. I wonder if it could be used in some alternative way if someone put their mind to it... Oh, but here I am digressing again...”

“Just stumbled upon it,” he answered, trying and failing at ignoring the guilt that slowly started to creep upon his shoulders. It settled there for the rest of the day and remained clenched around his throat well into the night.

~*~

Dearest brother!

Thank you so much for the last letter!

The red kite and lantern, as well as other souvenirs that you sent us with the last letter, came undamaged. The Lantern Rite's decorations are so pretty! I really wished I could see it with my own eyes! Everyone did. Especially Taucer. You know how much he adores you, and while he is always happy with the presents you send for him, he does miss you. We all do, you know that, right?

Papa said to thank Mr. Zhongli for the migraine-soothing tea you sent us. He said it really does work miracles. By the way, what's up with you and this oh so amazing Mr. Zhongli, hm? Lately, there has not been a single letter in which this gentleman is not mentioned, so we are all kinda curious, you see. Come on, brother, spill the beans! How does he look? Is he tall? Anton said that Liyueans are rather short, but surely not that short? Handsome? Come on, give me something, anything to work with! It will stay between us, I promise!

Write back soon, okay?

Your Princess, Tonia

PS: Send my regards to Mr. Zhongli!

~*~

“I just don't get why they are curved the way they are. Don't get me wrong, I am all for the curves and additional knuckle protection on the knife, gives you more options, you know? But surely there must be a more effective way to do this than, than this.”

“I am sure the blacksmith behind Deer Horn Knives, or Lùjiǎodāo [3], if you will, had a specific purpose in mind while creating them.”

“Like what? What purpose could stir someone to create this, this atrocity?!”

Zhongli smiled, clearly amused at red-head's exasperation. “As far as I am aware, their purpose was to firstly: catch attacker off guard, as they are easily concealable in the folds of ones clothing, and secondly, to disarm them, which explains their peculiar shape.” He then put down the tea cup he was holding and rested his cheek on the palm of the gloved hand, looking rather fondly at the sulking Harbinger sitting on the opposite side of their table. “In addition to this, because they were direct appendages of one's hands, they could be moved with significant speed and precision. Won't you say those are one of the most important aspects of a good knife?”

"Yes, but...” he answered meekly, not being able to find a crack in other's argument. “But Zhongli, they still look so stupid.”

At that remark, he received a charming, small chuckle from the elegant man. Somehow, the ridiculous design of the Deer Horn Knife no longer mattered to him as much.

Liyue Harbor has been blessed with a lovely, sunny day. Warm but not scorching – perfect for a short stroll or, as in their case, lunch eaten outside Wanmin restaurant. Lazy clouds were getting slowly dragged across the expanse of blue sky as they ordered tea, then ate their meal, and, because they needed a good reason not to part yet, slowly drank their second brew.

For a moment, he simply took in the way mahogany hair swayed happily with a breeze, the way long eyelashes subtly covered amber eyes, and how pale lips elegantly hugged the rim of a tea cup.

The fact that he was now allowed to do that with no necessary attempt at concealment was still slightly abstract to him.

They have not talked about it.

They have never put a label on their one-night stand, which became a double-night stand, then a triple, and then it was no longer relevant to count. No label, as they proceeded to go on their little lunch dates, walks along the harbor, business meetings, and narrow, darkened alleys in which they exchanged stolen kisses. The only words shared were sweet nothings whispered in the midst of lovemaking. Never substantial enough to bear any meaning nor clue as to what their relationship has shifted into.

They were still just Childe and Zhongli. Nothing less, and nothing more than that.

“Oh, I would have nearly forgotten. It happens that I have a small gift for you, Childe.” Zhongli's words stirred him from his little dwelling. The consultant's hand got lost for a second in the pockets of a brown coat, then reappeared while holding a small, oblong box. At the sight of the wood with a rich blood-like color [4] and the way Zhongli's eyebrows narrowed a little, betraying a certain nervousness to his usually adamant facade, he uncoutiously straightened his posture and sat slightly higher. It was obvious it wasn't just any other ordinary gift.

He tentatively took the box from the consultant's hands, the polished wood pleasantly smooth in touch. No matter how he looked, every single thing about this so-called 'small gift' screamed 'expensive'.

Amber gaze traced his every move as he slowly took the lid off, clearly not wanting to miss a single reaction. The sheer intensity of them made him shiver.

'Damn it, I am getting nervous. Why the hell am I getting nervous?' he wondered. 'It's not as if we are getting married or something, for Archons' sake. Tartaglia, get a grip on yourself.'

He then took a deep breath, as if under the protective, thick material that covered the insides of a wooden box, laid a bloodthirsty monster, ready to leap at him as soon as presented with some daylight. He removed the material with the same sharp motion one would remove a band-aid.

Both he and Zhongli seemingly skipped a breath, the air between them tender.

And then he laughed.

“Oh, Archons, xiānsheng, are you serious? Bhahaha... I thought- with this solemn look on your face, you've given me quite a scare, you know? Yet, yet, Zhongli- Gods I can't... They are chopsticks!” He choked out between his slightly hysterical laughter. “Don't get me wrong, they are beautiful, and I will cherish them forever, but gods... It really is the most polite way to tell me that my chopstick skills still suck... And I thought I actually improved as well...”

Through Zhongli's face passed a lot of emotions at the same time, which went way too quickly for him to properly comprehend. Finally, it settled on something that resembled a silent resignation.

“Is something wrong?” he asked at the other's expression, starting to feel a little guilty for his apparently ill-suited reaction. “Have I missed some symbolism and misinterpreted? Because if that is the case, I am really sorry.” He frantically eyed up the extravagant chopsticks with a phoenix and dragon ornate patterns encrusted on them with gold lines, but for the life of his, he could not figure out the potential meaning they could bear.

“Oh, do not fret over this, please.” Zhongli responded after a moment of silence, seemingly coming to some conclusion in this smart head of his. “It is nothing of great importance, and certainly not something that cannot wait. So as long as you shall cherish them as you promised, I find no offense.”

The consultant then flashed at him this beautiful smile of his, head slightly tilted to the left and eyes in the shape of small crescents, that always made him go a little weak on his knees.

' I swear this man will be the end of me. '

“Oh, but there is actually one crucial thing that you should know about these chopsticks." Zhongli's tone was suddenly again serious as he looked him in the eye. Childe gulped, previous anxiety coming fully back at him. “I may have sent the bill to the Northland Bank.”

He fully took in Zhongli's somewhat sheepish expression and laughed.

~*~

On the day of the Rite of Descension, the sky was a perfect blue. Not even the most overly cautious of the citizens have brought with them an umbrella, simply because there was no way any rain would fall on a day like this. And they were right.

The only thing that fell from the sky that day was a dead body.

The weight of the red, fatui mask on his head was prominent as he watched in morbid fascination the corpse of a majestic dragon plummeting down, then hitting a floor, the screams of gathered people drowning out the loud thud. The bricks of the Yujing Terrace's pavement getting destroyed under a dead god's body.

'Things have just gotten a hundred times messier, ' he realised, as Tianquan ordered to seal all exits. 'To think that someone would manage to kill Rex Lapis... But how?'. Distressed masses shifted around him, an unwavering current of human flesh and fear. Inevitably, someone bumped his arm, which managed to tear him away from his thoughts. That's precisely when he noticed a flash of golden hair. 'Isn't that the Traveler mentioned in Signora's report from Mondstadt? But what is he doing here? At a time like this nevertheless.'

'No time to wonder,' he concluded, when his eye caught a Millelith soldier that was methodically pushing his way through the crowd, getting nearer and nearer to where he stood with every second. 'For now, we improvise.'

And then he blended with a crowd, leaving Yujing Terrace, Rex Lapis's dead body, and his peaceful Liyue days behind. He has not looked back.

~*~

'Ugh, the damn Qixing... Interrogating a Fatui diplomat like this, no less a Harbinger, with no conclusive evidence on top of that... Give me a break...' He strolled through Harbor with no clear destination, deep in thought. 'With them on high alert, my hands are basically tied... No way I can get anywhere remotely close to the Exuvia without an incident... So Wangsheng's Rite of Parting really is the only way, huh?'

Like Pavlov's dog, at even the barest thought of the Funeral Parlor, his unhelpful mind decided to flash before his eyes a razor-sharp image of a particular consultant.

'You used him. Hell, even now you continue to use him.' An ugly, petty voice's venom smelled of guilt and self-aggression.

“Shut up”, he muttered back. The young Liyuean woman who, at this exact moment, had passed him by, threw a funny look his way, but he had not noticed.

'First the Sigil of Permission, and now a Rite of Parting... Have you no shame, manipulating the poor man like that?' The voice insisted.

'I am a Fatuus and a Harbinger on top of that. It's literally in the job description, damn it!' At that, the voice of conscience retreated, but he still had to grit his teeth as he swallowed bitter guilt down his throat.

He felt nauseous through the whole dinner in Liuli Pavilion. Deceiving the Traveler he could take, after all, Aether was no more than a stranger to him. Yes, a stranger potentially crucial to his slowly brewing plan, but at the end of the day just a golden-haired stranger. But Zhongli...

He sighed deeply.

'Yeah, but Zhongli makes for a completely different case, doesn't he?'

And that's the very bone of the issue, really.

“The design of this kite displays a firm grasp on the cyclicality and eternity so dear to the Electro Archon.” A familiar, rich voice reached his ears, and like a hopeless moth to the flame he was, his whole body turned to its source. Accompanied by the Traveler and Paimon, Zhongli stood in front of Granny Shan's stand, which was situated at the left corner of Chihu Rock, where only now he had noticed, his legs had unknowingly led him. He gently held a red kite in his hands, clearly in the middle of one of his (adorable) rants. “These markings of tree and leaf pay due honor to wisdom and the passage of time. All this, on a single kite – truly astonishing.”

It was closer to the middle of summer than early spring, so Liyue temperature has risen drastically in the span of a few last days, yet consultant was, as usual, clad in his signature long, dark coat, tie, dress shirt, and vest . 'How is this man not swimming in sweat at this point?' he wondered, while committing to memory how nicely the man looked against the background of amber-colored tree leaves. “Justice flows across the surface of the waters, war rages like a flame, as does that which the Cryo Archon once... yes, these details are masterfully done.”

He could do nothing but snicker a little at the tired face of the Traveler, who without a doubt, had already had to listen through a number of similar mini-lectures like this.

As Granny Shan was showering Zhongli with words of appreciation, he started to slowly approach the group, and to his delight, he reached them just as the man had uttered the words, “As for the payment...”

He managed to catch muttered under the Traveler's breath: “ <As for the payment> , he says.”

“Allow me!” He announced his arrival with a smile and a pouch full of mora already at hand.

~*~

The deep-crimson blood he coughed on his gloved hand immediately faded into a lighter pinkish shade as Liyue Harbor was caught in the middle of a turbulent storm. The amount of rain was severe enough to be called a taifun at this point, the wind fierce as it attacked golden trees and buildings, nearly breaking them in half, raging sea threatening to swallow the docks whole under its god-induced rage.

He watched it all, clutching his bleeding torso and struggling for breath, standing half-way to the peak of Tianheng Mountain.

'It appears the Traveler really does know their way around a fight, e? If only it didn't hurt like a bitch...'

While a slashed torso, at least two broken ribs, and a dozen bruises that now littered his body were anything but pleasant, they were nothing compared to the sheer agony of every single nerve in his body being forcefully elongated, then ripped and cauterized, and then again brutally stretched as his body relived again and again the Foul Legacy transformation he just underwent.

'Should not have come here if you were such a sissy.' Skirk's disapproving words made him grit his teeth, refusing to let out a scream. Though maybe unnecessarily. After all, they already were thousands of screams, somehow able to reach his ears through rain and wind, all the way up from the Harbor. What was one more?

From up here, the people of Liyue looked no better than ants, struggling, fighting for their survival with teeth and nails to escape somewhere, anywhere, higher, safer. He knew that somewhere there, in their screaming, deeply disturbed mass, there were people he knew—people with faces he could easily attach to a name. Xiangling and Chef Mao from Wanmin, Granny Shan, Doctor Baizhu and his zombee child, Ying'er from the perfume shop, Director Hu, and...

Zhongli, damn it,  Zhongli was somewhere there as well . Probably scared and terrified, and hopeless. If even alive. Was he able to escape? The Funeral Parlor was not that close to the seaside, but what if he was in the middle of a stroll through the Harbor, when... when he released the Osial? What if he was not fast enough? What if, if...

'Get yourself together! You knew the risks! You knew there would be casualties if you went with this plan!' He tried very hard to convince himself that the wetness on his cheeks was nothing more than rain. He failed spectacularly.

"Promise mama that you will always be someone who, in others eyes, is clad in red." His red scarf a mockery, with his dear mother's voice resonating somewhere at the back of his pounding skull.

“If only the fucking gnosis was where it was supposed to be... Then there would be no need...” His voice broke in the middle, though from pain or anguish he could not discern.

No need for all those meanigless deaths.

"Promise mama..."

'"y dearest Eleventh..." Tsaritsa's voice was firm and steady, colder than the raging Liyue winds. Soft yet somehow still louder than the ear-piercing howls of the Overlord of the Vortex, whose five heads were now overwater, on full display. "They say the most beautiful blade is the one stained to the hilt with blood."

"Promise mama...'"His mother's eyes are wide with visceral despair as she fully takes in the sight of fresh snow in Morepesok, now coloured red. Her shopping basket slipping through her shaking hands.

"And Tartaglia, my sweet child, I intend to make you the most stunning one on the face of Teyvat.'"There is no mercy in godesses eyes and no warmth in her smile, and his red mask pulls him down, down, down with its weight.

"I promise, mama."

"That is the oath your blade presents you with, Your Majesty."

"Just wanted to become a hero. But I lost my way in the forest and fell down here," says the boy, no older than forteen, with pain-induced tears and petrified to the bone. There is still something alive, shining faintly in his eyes. It will fade away soon enough.

“Some hero I am...” says the man of twenty-one, watching as Jade Chamber falls on the Osile, crushing the monster entirely. Explosion lighting up the clouded skies in an orange glow as he coughed more and more blood.

At the end, Rex Lapis does not show himself.

~*~

The eyeliner under Rex Lapis's eyes was red.

“You remember the agreement, Morax. Now, if you would be so kind... The Gnosis, please." Signora's voice was all businesslike, and she looked almost bored when she stretched a hand to retrieve the artifact of the gods. Cool and collected - not a single hair out of place. He, on the other hand, was struggling to stay conscious. If not for the searing, threatening to burn him alive pain of utter betrayal, he would have already all but collapsed from blood loss and exhaustion on the Northland Bank's hard floor.

“The contract is fulfilled.” The eyeliner under Zhongli's Rex Lapis's eyes was red, and he was going to scream. “That which thou seeketh is now bestowed unto thee, for my promise is solid as stone.”

He watched the man that he thought he knew, the man he slept with, the man he was fairly sure he could fall in love with, would fall in love with if given more time, already have fallen in love with like a hawk, like a drowning man on the lookout for a lifeline, searching for those amber eyes, demanding, needing answers, or he drowns. But the amber eyes never met his. There is no lifeline. Just a deep sea of despair. Zhon- Morax has not graced him with but a glance, like if with the moment he released Osile and unknowingly achieved his purpose, he became invisible to the god's gaze. A pawn that could be dismissed and thrown away without a hint of remorse.

“As you know, I've dwelt upon this world for more than six thousand years.”

'Look me in the eyes, dammit!'

“Even boulders that can withstand whirlpools will erode with the passing of time.”

'You used me, toyed with me, deceived me, and now you simply throw me away when I am no longer needed?!' There were dark spots dancing before his eyes, ornate floor starting to spin dangerously. Gods he was going to be sick .

“Have I already finished my duties?”

It burns. His ribcage is on fire, and he can fight it or burn down with it to ash.

But right now, the slick voice of a beast coaxing him to hurt, to spill blood was unusually frail. No more than a whisper trying to pierce through the thick, cotton-like state of his mind. For the first time in forever, he did not want to fight. He just wished to sleep.

“So I feigned my own death and gathered the cast of Childe, the adepti, and the Liyue Qixing to play their roles together on the stage that was Liyue.”

“I rather enjoy theater plays,” he says one afternoon. “I even sometimes participate in them as an actor. It is pretty fun.” Zhongli smiles in response.

He despises this one to his very core.

“This meant I could remain as Zhongli, even having the chance to fulfill the age-old traditions of Liyue in this mortal form.”

Archons, why was it so hard to stand all of a sudden?

“Thank you for joining me on this journey, Traveler.”

'I don't want to be here.' This thought came suddenly to him. 'Anywhere but here. Let me collapse; let me sleep and not wake, but not here. Not in front of the woman that tricked me, the traveler that beat me, and the man that broke me.'

“I have expected them to do no more than the adepti-”

At this point, the words uttered by the Archon ( Ex-Archon?) to his ears were no more than an amalgamation of sounds. Sentences without any connection to each other, phonemes that carried no meanings, ends that were shifting into beginnings.

“They seized the opportunity to supplant Liyue's divine protectors-"

'Archons, will you stop talking already?'

“-always feared that it was far too soon for them to take over from me, and-”

'How many people have you exactly used through this plan of yours?' He was getting angry again. There was more and more cotton in his head. Maybe it will explode any second now, letting the remnants of his brain spill on the bank's floor in a macabre splash of red.

Wouldn't it be kinda funny?

"Hey, what about me?” he finally uttered through gritted teeth and nausea. “Doesn't anyone feel the least bit of remorse for deceiving me? You've practically kept me in the dark!”

“Heh, I think that thanks would be more appropriate.” Why was this woman the one answering this again? “Wreaking havoc and turning the city upside down. The Lord of Geo ought to thank you for your performance, if anything.”

'Lord of Geo should have at least the decency to look me in the eye, damn it!”

After this, there were words escaping his mouth. Something about a fight, something about being fooled (and fooled he was indeed). Traveler said something, and he replied something, and the Signora also said something in reply that no one was waiting for. A lot of somethings, some things that he does not remember nor care for.

And then he is leaving the bank with Signora, her stupid dress and stupid hair, and stupid, proud, satisfied arms—a sore sight the whole way through. He is leaving, and he is leaving behind Zhongli, (his Zhongli) because there is no more Zhongli, just Rex Lapis standing in the bank, talking with Traveler. 'There never was any Zhongli to begin with.'

He collapses as soon as he is left alone.

~*~

The voice of a violent beast screamed, effortlessly blending with a pump of rushing blood in his ears as he danced on the slip, mud-turned ground of the Guili Plains. Usually golden blades of longish grass were now coloured a hideous shade that got stuck somewhere in between brown and crimson as blood and dirt mixed grotesquely as the result of a pouring rain.

He twisted and turned and twisted again, and the bloodthirsty monster, usually laying low at the edge of his psychic, sang with every dead hilichurl, every body ready to turn into detritus. A red mitachurl swung his big, double-edged axe, and he did not register its scream, as hydro blades cut through its abdomen as easily as one cuts through butter. The spilling insides of the creature reached mud with a wet splash, and the only thing he heard were urges for more, more, more .

'Kill, hurt, rip them apart. Drag their viscera out of their pathetic bodies, let them be presented to the world. Tear through tissue, discerate muscle into autonomous fibers, separate limbs from the body, turn eyes into empty eyesockets, spill blood like it's cheap alcohol in an obscure bar.'

The reinforcements came. Or maybe he simply reached another of the many, many camps he had single-handedly annihilated prior that day. Honestly, he didn't care.

Some hilichurl boldly set its crossbow in his direction, only to end with an arrow that pierced its skull inside out. It slumped over with a soft grunt, its corpse still making the last post-mortem twitches in the mud. It has not deterred its counterparts.

He is in his room, rented under the Bank's name, standing motionlessly near the bedside. A dragon and a phoenix look at him pitifully, their condescending gazes forever incrusted onto smooth wood.

There is a somewhat satisfying crack as he breaks hilichurl's neck, just as he should have broken the damn chopsticks.

'Hurt like you've been hurt.'

He is hurting. But not from bruises, not from a myriad of small cuts all over his body, not from still-healing, still fragile ribs. The hurt is incinerating him from inside, a molten gold that flows under his skin, and he cannot eradicate it from his veins no matter how much he sweats, how much he screams, how much he tries to cool himself off. The smoldering liquid refuses to go away, igniting his blood, igniting his muscle, igniting his anger. His petty desire to harm.

'Yes, just like that', the beast grows bolder and bolder as it's not being suppressed as per usual. 'Is it not nice to wreak havoc? Is it not nice to bring hurt? Surely better than getting hurt yourself.'

Hot, fresh blood splashes all over the right side of his face as he cuts samachurls neck aorta wide open. It's warm, and in some fucked-up way, it resembles the feeling of small kisses being plastered all over his face by a lover.

He wants to scream, so he does.

'You were made for this' a sly praise as he decapitates shield-wealding mitachurl with a merciless swing of hydro. 'Look at you, you are enjoying yourself, are you not?' He kicks away the lose arm so it does not get in the way. 'An arm cut off here, a smashed skull there—aren't you a despicable little creature?' He has no patience left to summon a bow, so he simply throws an arrow in the general direction of a healer. 'So impatient to kill... Have you no shame?'

He spins, and he dances, and he hurts, and the Guili Plains is getting drowned in blood.

At the end of it all, when the sun is starting to hang low and the rain perishes, he comes to his senses. There are more dead bodies that he dares to count, most of them missing some parts or so desecrated that it was hard to tell which creature the corpse originally belonged to. His hands were red, as were his pants and probably his face, as he could feel a stickiness on its surface. The sweet smell of blood and fresh rain attacked his nostrils, and if he were not used to it, he may have puked.

'Look at you,' the voice is content, satiated as it was not for a long long time. 'You are a monster in human skin. How could you think someone could genuily ever love you, hm?'

He stood in the middle of a massacre and felt numb.

~*~

On the way back to his rented hotel room, there was a tall silhouette clad in a long, brown coat. The silhouette raised an arm, as if to greet him. From the distance, he could not discern the silhouette's facial features (but there was no need, really – he could imagine amber eyes turning into crescents in razor-sharp detail), not that it mattered. Not anymore - that is.

Before Zhon- the silhouette could reach him, he was long gone—bloody footprints the only indicator he was even there.

~*~

Childe was not entirely sure what he was looking at.

No, that was phrased incorrectly – in fact, he easily recognized a lonely, red flower petal as that of a camellia.

"Actually, cháhuā is their liyuen name" – rich, soothing voice tries to pull him under current—the edges of words are soft with something that skillfully mimics affection. Damn it, his throat was getting sore again.

No, what made the comprehension process challenging was the why? Why was there a petal of an out of season flower, through saliva and blood, unpleasantly sticky in the palm of his bare hand? Through his blood and saliva. Because he is pretty damn sure he just coughed up the bloody thing.

'And weren't those supposed to fall all at once? Both petals and everything...' He picked the petal with his thumb and index finger, bringing it up to eye level for a closer inspection. 'Never-ending love, or something...' Was he going down with a cold? Why was his throat so sore for archons sake. 'No, what matters now is fucking how?'

How on Teyvat was he able to produce a petal out of thin air?

'Okey, I am under stress – the diplomatic relations with Qixing became nonexistent, and that just makes the simplest of paperwork a bureaucratic nightmare. My sleeping schedule was thrown out of the window and long lost ever since, not starting on my overall mental condition. In summary – I am fucking exhausted. Maybe I am just imagining things, maybe the petal came here through the open window. There are probably countless possible explanations, so let's just... ignore it.' Upon reaching a conclusion to his current dilemma, he walked to the trash can and threw away the flower with the rest of the disposals. Crimson petal got lost in the trash contents, as if it never existed in the first place.

~*~

There are more of them.

They are all stacked up nicely in the large, unassuming box in the corner of his room – refusing to wither and rot away, all of them - bright red, they sit politely in their box, emitting a faint scent.

“Master Childe, have you started to use incense lately? It has such a lovely fragrance...” Ekaterina asks him once while bringing him documents in need of his signature. He smiles politely and lies to her face.

He started to personally clean up his apartment, refusing any room service - too afraid they might find the compromising flowers. The red-wooden box with the cursed chopsticks sits right next to them – both of them complementary in this corner of self-pity and bitter feelings. Sometimes, when the sleep is not kind to him, he takes the chopsticks out of their confinement but quickly hides them away again – the gazes are too heavy for him to shoulder in these fragile moments in between down and break.

On nights like that, when the pleasant dreams are just nightmares under mocking disguise, sometimes he gets out of his too empty, too big, and too cold bed and sits in this darkest of corners. His only company being phoenix and a dragon, and endless, endless petals. Petals stuck in the box, petals stuck in his trachea.

But now it is daylight, and in daylight, he ignores the petals. He ignores them when they forcefully tear their way through his mouth while working on yet another document. He quickly wraps them up in a loose handkerchief he now wears on him at all times, as they come out while he eats. He does not look at the forgotten corner and ignores their smell as he takes a nap between assignments.

He does not go to see the doctor. He can't. As he is now under the close surveillance of Qixing, there is no doctor in Liyue he can visit without them being noticed immediately. And he refuses to give them yet another trump card to hang above his head.

He cannot really see a snezhnayan military doctor either. He is a Harbinger, for gods sakes. He has a reputation to uphold, and he knows that he will find no sympathy in the gazes of his colleagues. And above all – he is Her Majesty's weapon. Weapons do not get sick, and when they start to rot, they are simply thrown away.

He refuses to be thrown away by yet another god.

So what he does is going through the whole medical section of literature in the public library, only to come back empty-handed. There is not a single mention of an ailment that involves puking flowers, so he is back to square one. Mercifully, the only thing these plants appear to be doing, at least for now, is making his throat sore and his body sleepy, which, when added to his already insomnic nights, make him pretty damn tired, but nothing he cannot bear with.

He will endure it, as he has endured everything else.

He feels the familiar itching, something slick and sticky traverses his windpipe and irritates his throat. He can already taste it – it is bitter with a sweet, metallic undertone to it. His chest seizures as he starts to cough – it takes some time because the petal got stuck on the roof of his mouth, but eventually it is out.

He stares at the crimson colour and thinks of red eyeliner.

He closes his eyes and coughs again.

~*~

“Master Childe, there is a Wangsheng Funeral Parlor consultant waiting in the atrium. He says he came to see you. Shall I let him in?”

“Tell him I am not here,” he answers, not looking up as Ekaterina leaves the room.

~*~

Dear brother!

Thanks for your last letter! Mom says the ruby bracelet you sent her is beautiful, but she hopes you have not spent half of your income on her.

Taucer came home safe and in one piece, but he surely had to endure the wrath of a century when mother scolded him for a better part of the afternoon and then cried for the rest, all the while hugging him tightly. Later, Taucer told me all about how you and the Traveler took care of him and showed him Liyue and even the toy fabric! I was actually pretty jealous. You will have to show me around the harbor one day too!

I asked him, Has he seen the oh so mysterious Mr. Zhongli? but he said no. Actually, now that I think about it, you have not mentioned him at all in the last few letters. Is everything okay between you two? Did you two have a fight? I surely hope not. But if you did, make sure to apologize, okay?

I actually really miss you,

Tonia

~*~

The breeze comes through the oval, open window of the consultant's room, giving them a breath of respite from the early summer heat. It ruffles the open pages of some old book written in classic liyuean that was left open on the low table, and it wavers through long, mahogany hair that was left loose. The sun falls onto the ornate porcelain, and figures, and precious stones, and jewelry that cluttered the room, giving it a look of an artistic mess, but most importantly, it kissed the pale skin and enhanced the amber eyes that looked at him through half-lidden eyelids.

Instead of his iconic coat, the consultant was clad in traditional, male h ànfú in the deep-brown shade, adorned by ornaments made with silver thread, as he often was on his day off. He told him once that he likes how the traditional garb makes him feel because it reminds him of memories from times past. He told him that maybe for the next Lantern Rite they should invest in traditional outfit for Childe as well, so they may both celebrate the festival in its native clothing. He told him that he would look lovely in the crimson robe.

“For some reason, when I see the red colour, the first thing on my mind is always you,” he says one night, when they lay together on the ruffled sheets. The consultant plays with his earring as he continues. “Red means good fortune for Liyueans. And having you here with me right now is, indeed, very fortunate.”

Right now, the pale hand gently caresses his cheek, and he closes his eyes for a moment. The fingers don't stop their soft ministrations and he feels as though he is melting. As they soothe the stress lines on his face, his whole body relaxes as well. His very being relaxes, mellows, no longer all sharp, ever vigilant. He is at peace. He is happy.

He wakes up with a cough.

It is an ugly, raw thing that tarnishes through his body and leaves him breathless for a long moment, even after the offending petal has long left his lungs. There are hot tears spilling from his eyes, traveling down his face, and getting lost in ruffled sheets that, no matter what he does, tenaciously stay cold.

'Gods, how pathetic is that?' he wonders while tightly gripping his hand. His nails leave red, angry marks on the tender skin on the inner side of his forearms. This pain is a good pain - it grounds him, even if just slightly, because physical pain he knows well. The pain of a stomach sliced open – the feeling of having his intestines partly outside while laying on the Abyssal ground. The pain of an irritated skin on his knuckles as he watches one of his bullies, slowly, slowly, slide down the brick wall in the patch of blood. The pain of his body being forcefully, brutally stretched in all directions when he uses his Foul Legacy. But this thing? The pain that lives somewhere inside him, that he has no choice but carry with him wherever he goes, that sometimes is just a hollow, vague mass accumulated behind his sternum, and sometimes flashes with a pain so bright he's seeing white, but refuses to die out, refuses to scar. It just bleeds, and bleeds, and he coughs, and coughs, and coughs...

The moon is undisturbed, even as the harbinger's hand bleeds, staining the bedsheet, even as he nearly suffocates on yet another petal, even as he fights with ever-flowing tears, it shines through an open window. Marely a silent witness.

'Why do those dreams have to plague me nightly? Why can't they just go away? Just leave me alone. Just let me sleep.'

He hugs his legs in search of any comfort this harsh night can provide him with.

'All I ask for is a night of sleep. '

~*~

He stopped mid-walk to admire the sunset – the starconch he just picked up from the sand of Yaoguang Shoal, temporarily forgotten in his hand. The way the sky went through a gradient of pinks, and oranges, and reds only to be reflected in the peaceful water surface – it certainly was a sight to behold.

The ocean waves were, time and time again, gently reaching the shore with a lulling hum, and he had not noticed when his legs stopped just shy of a place where the darker sand met the ocean.

'Why not?' he thought as he slowly, as if scared of disturbing the tranquil sunset, reached down to take off his boots. When neatly placed on the sand, the singular chain on the right one rattled quietly under the sea breeze. Then, the next one to be removed was his scarf, and then his gray coat, which left him in just his red undershirt and uniform pants. He folded them and put right next to the shoes. Finally, on top of them, landed his red harbinger mask and vision. He looked at those items for a short while, then once again turned back to the ocean.

The ocean met his toes, then his ankles, and then his calves – the water was still warm, even on the verge of autumn. It shaped itself around him, bent so it could accumulate him as if he were a part of it. The ability to shift one's form to always fit any form one is being forced into, the urge to be forever moving, forever changing, never stopping, there is no time to stop – as a hydro user, this he understands well. As a human being, this he understands well.

The sun slowly sinks into the ocean, and the water just reached his thighs. He looks at the ocean, which stretches way further than the horizon he sees, and he feels small. He feels bare in just his plain, red shirt, whose rims are starting to get soaked. The ornaments, under whose weight he has to live daily, are calmly sitting on the further and further shore. The box stuffed to the brim with petals, and the chopsticks are left in their corner. There is no voice no sound in his head. Right now, for the first time in forever, he is just a close-to-hollow husk he calls himself. Just Childe. Just Ajax.

The sun has finally sunk, and so has his stomach under the water surface.

There is something the people are fond of calling a 'Call of the Abyss'. He never understood this choice of words – the Abyss does not call, it does not ask – it simply takes and takes what it wants until it is satisfied. But now, now as he looks blankly at the sturdy waves and the darkening horizon, he thinks he understands just a little. He hears the sea's gentle call – its urge hides no malice behind it, ever-changing ocean leaves you with free will, presenting you with a choice, an option. It is neither desperate nor overly sweet – it's neutral. It's peaceful.

He stands in the waves and considers his response long after the first stars awoke on the firmament.

~*~

My Dearest Eleventh,

I am writing this letter to inform you of your relocation. As much as your hard work towards handling all of the Northland Bank affairs is appreciated, right now I believe your many talents can be put to better use in Inazuma. As I was confronted with, which is, essentially, an act of treason from the Eighth, I find that there is no better than my faithful blade to send after the led astray Harbinger of mine. Please find him and retrieve that which he has stolen from me. I believe soon you will receive a similar letter from the First that will come with more information to ease your task.

The main reason I write to you personally is that I wish to express my delight in how you handled your mission in Liyue. But while I am thankful, please do know that keeping you in the dark gave me no pleasure, and for that I would like to apologize. For that, please know that I am sorry.

As always, I thank you for your loyal service,

Her Majesty,

The Tsaritsa

After rereading the letter, he folded it neatly and hid it in the inner pocket of his uniform.

He could already see a silhouette of what he assumed was a port in Ritou that appeared and disappeared under the gentle waves, as well as the twin peaks of Mount Yougou that dominated over the horizon. The weather was nice – a clean, blue sky blessed sailors with perfect visibility, and a calm but steady breeze allowed to forego oars. Which was incredibly lucky, even if the inazuman taifun season was on the verge of flickering out. Come to think about it, through all of his two-week-long journey towards the Land of Eternity, everything went as smoothly as it could – the weather, the passengers, the finalization of his paper work, the packing. It was almost scary how easy it was to leave Liyue behind.

At least technically.

He came to a halt before the entrance of the boat that, in the span of an hour, would take him far, far away, towards the Narukami Island of Inazuma. Well, technically, to the port in Ritou, but he does not plan to stay there long. Not with documents and a letter of recommendation straight from the Zapolyarny Palace, which were safely hidden in the inner pocket of his coat. In the same pocket was also his travel ticket, which he now retrieved with his free hand. The other was holding a medium-sized travel bag that contained his belongings. While packing, he wanted to laugh bitterly at how easy it was to simply bundle his year-long life in Liyue into the singular bag. With how much empty space was left in there, he was left with no good excuse that would allow him to leave the cursed chopsticks behind.

(Not that he ever could.)

He was dallying, he realised, but what for he could not tell.

(Yes, he could. He definitely could, as he searched for a blur of mahogany, for a speck of red under the amber eyes. He could, even when he hated himself a little for it, even if he knew that it was impossible for the man to be here. After all, he made explicitly sure that the consultant will not be noticed of his departure. And yet, he searched the crowd and silently hoped for the impossible.)

He could already feel the petal dancing on the porch of his throat, so he pushed himself toward the boat entrance.

He could already feel the petal crawling up his trachea, so he forced himself to change the current of his thoughts.

As it was already late September, Ritou was swallowed whole in the red leaves of clone trees, which proundly grew in every free space between the buildings that, with how close the ship was to the shore now, became easily distinguishable from each other.

'What was their name again? Momiji?' He recalled from the documents that came with a letter from Pierro about customs, culture, and language of the region he was headed to. After all, as Her Majesty's official deputy, he could not come off as ignorant. Especially as Inazumans were somehow even more peculiar about their customs than Liyueans.

The deck of a ship that was proudly named Nánhǎi lóng, which meant 'The Southen Sea Dragon', swayed gently with its passengers as it entered the port.

In the span of a next quarter he had already stood on the Inazuman ground.

~*~

“And cat? How do you say cat in your language, onii-san [5]”

“It's koshka. Cute, right?”

The girl with short, black hair and pale pink kimono, who previously introduced herself as Midori, tilted her head to the side and responded, “No way, neko [6] is way cuter, right, Kouichi?”

The boy called 'Kouichi' changed the way he sat under the big sakura tree of Hanamizaka to make himself more comfortable before answering with a spark in his eyes: “But koshka sure sounds way cooler!”

“You wouldn't know what 'cool' means even if it hit you right in the head!” was Midori's fiery response, and Childe felt as if he had to step in if he wanted to avoid a quarrel.

“Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves! I actually think that both sound quite nice,” he said with a placid smile, which thankfully managed to diffuse the situation. Midori simply sent one last sharp glance towards the boy and changed the subject.

“And dango? How do you call dango?

“Oh, there are actually no dango in Snezhnaya. It is a food specific to Inazuma, I'm afraid.” But seeing disappointment in the girl's eyes, he quickly added, “But there are pel'meni that can be eaten with sweet farcing! Actually, they are a favorite of my brother Anton, and-”

“Yoimiya!” was the exclamation that interrupted him, both Midori's and Kouichi's voices in perfect unison as they ran towards the newly-arrived short, blond woman. The weird foreigner they were talking with merely a second ago - long forgotten.

“Midori! Kouichi! So nice to see you two!” The woman's voice was pleasant, with an energetic undertone that seemed to be made for the sole purpose of talking to children. “What are you up to?”

“We were talking with onii-san!” Midori answered happily and pointed in his direction. The woman called Yoimiya followed the line of the girl's index finger, and he could see the precise moment she recognized the uniform he was wearing as her posture tensed and her smile faltered slightly. She assessed him for a short while as he sat calmly under the big cherry tree. Finally, not once taking her eyes off him, she gently ushered the children to go home, with a promise she would find and play with them later. A few disappointed whines and a 'bye, onii-san' later, they were left alone under the Hanamizaka tree.

He stood up and brushed off dust from his trousers as the woman started to approach him. Her red accessories, which were falling into an almost orange shade, swayed dangerously with each step forward. Finally, she came to a stop and asked in common language:

“What business does Fatui have with those children?” she asked sharply, protectively, as she crossed her arms, which exposed a bright, pyro vision attached to her waist. A not-so-subtle warning.

“Ah, simply an exercise in talking inazuman, nothing more, I can assure you.” He made his smile into a gentle curve that he knew rounded his face, making him look softer, younger, and less dangerous. “After all, children make for good conversation partners for beginners like me, don't you agree?”

“And what need do you have for speaking inazuman? There are plenty of people capable of speaking common, especially in Inazuma City,” she continued to interrogate him, still tense, still vigilant. He noticed how her eyes flickered in the direction of a nearby doushin.

“Yes, but surely you are aware of how differently Inazumans treat the so-called gaijin [7] who speak inazuman, and those who don't. And I don't exactly want to stand out even more than I already do.” He answered calmly, noticing how she twisted her mouth in dipleasure at the derogatory word 'gaijin'.

The woman stood quietly for a moment, clearly in deep thought. He willed himself to relax. After all, by speaking to Midori and Kouichi, he hasn't done anything illegal. Funny how he is being interrogated the one time he actually has not done anything bad.

“So, you just want to improve your inazuman? Nothing more?” she ascertained. Her posture becoming more relaxed as he nods in confirmation. At last, she put her arms down and came a bit closer.

"Sorry for the questioning, but I am sure you can understand... I'm Yoimiya.” She bowed slightly in greeting. “It's nice to meet you.”

"Childe,” he introduced himself, also slightly bowing. “And yes, I understand. No offense taken.”

She smiled at that, showing her teeth. The ornate hairpin jingled with movement. “Glad to hear that. So, Childe, you said you were looking for a conversation partner? How about me? What you say?”

'Ah, so that's how you plan to keep your eye on me?'

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and also smiled.

~*~

The room he rented was situated on the first floor of a lovely ryokan that went by the name that loosely translates to “Red-tailed Tanuki." Because it was located on the western side of the city, further from the main street, even though the walls were mostly made from oil-impregnated paper, it provided its guests with a moment of respite from the city hustle. The room had a surface of sixteen tatami mats [8] and contained a low, wooden table that was drowning under papers that just screamed: 'important!', another table in the center that he used for meals, a spacious wardrobe, and a comfy futon that should have been neatly folded this morning and placed in said wardrobe for the day, but he just couldn't be bothered. The box that held bloody petals prisoned found its new brooding corner, and alongside phoenix-dragon chopsticks, both participated in their exclusive pity party. On the wall, there was a beautiful woodblock ukiyo-e painting that showed a boat and raft with men hurrying somewhere under the willow branches, from which a solemn moon observed them somberly. [9] The lightning and ventilation were good as well, and there was always a nice-smelling incense, already lit up whenever he came back after a day of on-field work. So, yes, in short - it was a really nice room.

It also had windows directly facing Liyue Harbor.

In fact, when the sea was calm and the sky was bright, you could, although very faintly, see a silhouette of the Harbor - a mirage at the very edge of the horizon. Or maybe his stupid, stupid , homesick (why is he homesick for a nation that was never a home?) heart made him hallucinating in broad daylight because there was simply no option he could see a port of a far, far-away country with just his naked eyes.

And yet, on nights when the sleep was not kind to him, he spent hours and hours looking, searching the horizon in hope for something that, realistically, could never be.

~*~

“So, you're fluent in liyean as well?” Yoimiya asked while they were waiting for their orders.

The owner of a small ramen-ya [10] that was hidden in a side road and stuffed between buildings, but which Yoimiya sweared provided the best ramen in the whole city, smiled and continued to chop vegetables as they talked.

“I wouldn't exactly use the word 'fluent', but I manage,” was his honest answer. While it was true he knew liyuean, on at least a communicative level – after all, he lived in Harbor for a whole year, it would be weirder if he didn't - 'fluent' was still a bit of a too big word in his opinion.

“That's still impressive, at least from my point of view. Archons know how hard it was for my poor parents to hammer into my head the very basics of common. But look at you! You speak, what? Four languages?”

“Actually, it may be five.”

“Huh? How so?” She then proceeded to count on her fingers. “One for snezhnayan, two for common, three for liyuean, and four for inazuman. In what world does it give you number five?”

“I may know some fountainian as well.”

“Damn,” she responded after a second of exasperated silence. “Well, please enlighten the common folk, how does it feel to be a poliglot?”

“Sorry, je ne parle pas inazuman. [11]”

“Ugh, show off!”

The owner, who listened to their conversation as he cooked, laughed and stirred in a big pot. There was now a delicious smell in the air. Gods, he was getting hungry.

“No, but seriously,” Yoimiya said, refilling their cups with sake. “Which one was more difficult to learn for you? Inazuman or liyuean?”

“Depends.” He gave it some thought as he took a sip. As he came to learn, even if inazuman sake was rather weak when compared to snezhnayan vodka, he rather enjoyed it. “Inazuman grammar is a nightmare. Why, why would anyone need three, three different constructions just to convey that the information they are saying is a hearsay? And why does every single possible verb alternation just get pilled up at the end of said verb?! And, Celestia, have mercy, why does honorific language even exist?”

“Don't ask me, pretty boy - even Inazumans keep asking themselves this question. But you have not mentioned a writing system at all – I thought it would be the first thing you'd complain about, honestly.”

“Ah, yeah, it's frustrating – especially if you know the meaning, but for the life of yours can't remember how you're supposed to read the damn thing. Or if liyuean and inazuman meanings are different even if it's the same fucking character.”

“On the bright side,” he continues as the owner starts to pour ramen into cutsy-lookng bowls with small, red decorations. “As I'm a snezhnayan native, Inazuman pronunciation comes easier for me. And you don't use tones. And thank fuck, as I am pretty sure at least half the time I open my mouth to speak liyuean I spend on butchering tones.”

“Cheers to that!” Yoimiya laughed and raised her cup in a mock toast.

“Your order.” And just like that, the topic is over – both of them too busy trying and failing to not burn their tongues with hot noodles. Or rather, this was the case with Yoimiya - he, on the other hand, was failing to actually catch said noodles with two bamboo sticks that were imitating cutlery for normal, resonable human beings.

“Bhahah!” Yoimiya laughed at his pitiful attempts, the side of her mouth dirty with soy sauce. “What in Teyvat are you doing?! Gods, how have you survived for a whole year in Liyue while, while... like this?!”

The owner tactfully said nothing, but he could swear he saw the corners of a man's mouth curling in mirth.

“It's hopeless! No matter how hard I try, these damn sticks just refuse to obey! Even Zhongli gave up on this, and Celestia knows, he tried!”

In his aggravation, he had not noticed the slip, but Yoimiya perked up, hearing the unfamiliar name

“Zhongli? Who's Zhongli?” She asked, clearly intruiged. After all, it was a rare occurrence for red-head to mention by name someone outside his family, and this person was clearly Liyuean if judging by the name.

“Once more, shall we? The bottom chopstick goes between your thumb and pointer finger and rests on your ring finger. Yes, just like that. The second one goes the same but rests on the middle one... Wait, allow me.” There is a warm hand on his, gently placing his fingers in the right positions. The air squashed between them smells of sandal wood. “Good, now try to lift it...”

“No one,” he gasped in spite of the suffocating petals. “No one,” he repeats quiletly.

Yoimiya does not ask further.

~*~

“-and I think both of you would go along extremely well, with Anton being so into history and you being, well... Extremely into everything.”

At that, he received a small chuckle and a gentle stroke of a warm hand against his scalp. If he were a cat, by now he would have been purring in lazy content.

They were sitting under a big, age-old tree with a bark at least trice as wide as he was, deep in the Minlin region called 'Nantianmen'. Well, technically, the only one properly sitting was Zhongli, as he, contrasting the epitome of elegance that was the other man, was splayed like an overgrown, lazy cat on the majority of both of their coats, and most prominently, with a head happily resting on the consultant's thighs. On a really comfy, and really soft, and really nice set of thighs. At first, he was reluctant to the idea of using Zhongli's crazily expensive-looking coat as an ordinary blanket, but under the consultant's coaxing - he gave up, and here they were.

“'Everything' may be a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?” Zhongli asked gently, still dutifully caressing the untameable mess of orange hair. “There are not many things in this world to which a word such as 'everything' can be safely and genuinely applied.”

'And yet, I would literally bend over my back, for a chance of making you my everything' he thought, and immediately cringed at how cheesy the line constructed by his hardly-working brain was. Must have been the fault of this fair pair of thighs that were polluting his last few brain cells.

“And yet I can safely say that Anton would most definitely love everything you would tell him about.”

“Is that so? Well, if young Anton is half as good at surviving through my little rambles as his older brother is, then definitely he would make for an exquisite conversation partner.” Zhongli put one of his elegant hands under his chin, amber eyes cast upwards in contemplation.

Archons, when he looked at the consultant – broad shoulders but lean waist, a blur of mahogany splayed on the background of golden leaves, and amber – no, golden eyes that shined under the light of a setting sun, the only thought his useless, mushy, enamoured mind came up with was:

'Beautiful.'

“I don't need to survive anything,” he said through a suddenly tight throat and a dry mouth. “I love to listen to your little rants.”

His voice was small when he said it. Soft, genuine, and honest. Little embarrassed. Bravely circling around the word 'love' in raw vulnerability.

Zhongli's eyes were now entirely focused on him, so intense yet gentle – a molten, liquid gold demanding his every breath, confiscating it from his lungs. There was a curve to his mouth, a soft smile on his face as he once more ruffled through his scalp before responding:

“And I love you patiently listening to them.” There was no waver in his tone, but a sturdy determination, assurance in bringing to existence a sentence that, if it only contained a comma, a singular little comma, would sound like:

And I love you, patiently listening to them.

And I love you,

I love you.

He could feel a red, hot blush rapidly spreading from his cheeks to the very edge of his ears in a splotch of burning red.

Zhongli sent him a smirk, an actual, slightly boish smirk, and patted his head once more.

He patted it without a break as he ultimately relaxed and fell asleep.

He woke up to a violent cough.

The deep, sticky blood may have been translucent against the red of camellia petals, but not against his pale hands nor blue futon. His cough, normally silent through the sounds of everyday life, now each and every like a thunderclap in the fragile midnight hours.

When the petals finally retreated, he slowly stood up, shivering when the early winter chill met his warm skin. Two men depicted on the ukiyo-e, as well as the dragon and phoenix, watched him change from the night kimono into his everyday clothes in dead silence.

'How else are they supposed to stare? They are fucking dead.'

“Gods, I need a walk,” he muttered under his breath. He threw freshly puked-out petals into the box and left to the silence of night.

The body took over the mind, and his feet brought him to the Hanamizaka and then further out of the city – him reduced to merely a passenger in his own flesh. He noticed the first tori gate at the edge of a Chinju Forest and then another one as he started to slowly climb towards The Great Narukami Shrine. This walk took him hours, yet the flow of time seemed matterless. Seconds and minutes and hours all blending into one vague matter, without a start or end. When he reached the top, there were already the first signs of a coming sun-rise - the sky little purplish just above a water surface.

He sat, just out of sacred grounds, until the sun fully rose.

~*~

Ajax, my little boy,

It has been a while since your last letter, so I hope you will forgive your old mother for getting restless and writing you a letter of her own. I know you are a grown, adult man on an important mission, but even as you have grown up from being a child, I have not grown up from being a mother. And it is a mother's duty to worry.

Correct me if I am wrong, but in your recent letters, you seem... sad. It is not an obvious thing, it is not in the words written but hidden in those that are not. Somewhere under the surface, in your dots and loops, I can't precisely point the source, but I cannot shake away the paranoia. So if it is only a paranoia of an old woman, correct me, but if it's not... Is everything okay? I know our relationship is... complicated. Your father and I, we both regret how we handled some things in the past and would carry them differently if given the chance now. So what I am trying to say is that I know I don't exactly have a right to pry, but at the same time, I cannot stay idle. I just want you to know that if you only wish so, you can confide in me. And I can't exactly do miracles, but I will try my best.

With a letter should come a red woolen scarf. It's already winter, so I made it in hope it will keep you warm as you are away from home.

I love you,

Mama

~*~

“And what do we have here, hm? A lonely, brooding Fatui Harbinger, sitting in the middle of the night on my doorstep like a reprimanded dog. Tell me, puppy, are you here to cause me trouble? As that would be more than a little inconvenient.”

This self-assured, definitely condescending tone of voice, thinly veiled with threat under its jovial surface, could only belong to one person. The deduction even more obvious, as he was, just like the kitsune kindly stated – sitting on the red railings, legs dangling freely, with his back to her shrine.

“Lady Gūji,” he started, gaze still riveted in the direction where the Harbor should proudly stand, miles and miles away from where he was. "Disturbing your precious sleeping schedule was not my intention, nor was it causing you any trouble. I came here not as a Harbinger, but simply as a person in need of some fresh air.”

“Oh my, the air in this place must be quite exquisite indeed if you continuously bother to make such a long walk from the city every other night. Makes you wonder, how did I manage to stay oblivious to its unwonted properties for such a long time, no?”

“If I intrude, please say so directly, and I will make my leave, Lady Gūji. I can't say I am in the mood for jibes, as of now.” The words sounded tired even to his own ears. He would be more than slightly annoyed at this blatant display of vulnerability, but at this moment, in the middle of a chilly winter night, with the images from his recent nightmare still vivid before his eyes – he could not bring himself to care.

Yae Miko stayed quiet for a while – with his back turned to her, he could not see what emotions were crossing through her face. He was too busy trying to will away the feeling of a warm hand cusping his cheek oh so gently, an insistent tingling on his lips, to give her any attention.

“Your eyelashes are way longer when up close. Breathtaking.”

He does a poor job of trying to conceal the coughing, the sound coming from his throat loud and pathetic in the dead of night. There is a bitter, metallic taste that persistently sticks to his taste buds long after he forcefully swallows the petals.

"That's one nasty cough you have there, mister 'I came here for fresh air'.” The woman then came to his left side, naked arms resting on the railing, unfazed by the winter wind. At the very sight, he buries his face a little deeper into the red scarf. ”It's been a while since I've seen another case of Hanahaki, as well,” she adds gently at the end, not graceing him with a look.

“Hanahaki?” he asks, mouth awkward around the unfamiliar word.

“Oh dear, to think you don't even know the name of the disease that is slowly making a gruesome garden out of your lungs. Aren't you one pitiful creature?”

“Pardon me, Lady Gūji, but as far as I am aware, you are not exactly known for your medical knowledge, are you? So forgive me when I take a diagnosis based solely on hearing me cough once, with a gran of salt.”

“Hmm, you are coughing blood-stained flowers, are you not? Their amount is increasing, though you stubbornly tell yourself otherwise, do you not? There is an unfamiliar, ever-persistent feeling of something festering in your chest – something wrapping around your alveoli, tighter and tighter, squishing and squishing until you are left gasping for air. No matter how much you sleep, you cannot rest - always tired, as if something was sucking every bit of energy out of your cells. And most importantly – the cough gets the most vicious wherever you think of the person who is dearest to you. Or am I mistaken?”

With his very soul grasped tightly by a cold dread of being seen through, he slowly turned to finally look at the woman whose face was sporting a look of great self-satisfaction.

“H-how...” was the only thing he was able to gasp out, eyes wide open in shock. The kitsune calmly held his gaze, pink hair dancing with the wind. There was something gentle in her gaze. He could not name what it was.

“It gets lonely, does it not? Getting swarmed by those otherwise beautiful, breathtaking flowers but not being able to enjoy them whatsoever, as each and every single one - a cruel reminder of what you do not have, what you cannot have. All simply a morbid wreath for a funeral in making.”

The look of self-satisfaction was swept away with every word she said, leaving her face with an expression of quiet sorrow at the end. The nameless emotion getting unveiled in the process.

Understanding. The kind of only someone who has gone through the very same thing you had is able to give.

“So it is lethal, after all. Just my rotten luck, I guess,” he said in a bitter tone that tried to sound light and unbothered. It obviously has not worked. “Can you tell how long I have left?”

“Ara, were you not the one who just minutes ago said I am 'not exactly known from my medical knowledge'? And now you're asking me for a diagnosis, have you no shame...” Her voice wavered at the edges. A better spectacle than he gave, but still - not a perfect one. “I can't say for sure... Cannot really tell from my experience as I am a yōkai, so naturally this sort of thing progresses differently for me, but you are an allogene. So it probably makes you more resilient, gives you more time. How much? I don't know, but I would say - a few years at most.”

A few years, that's... His mind scrambled for the right words, frantically trying to come to terms with this new information. Trying to catalog it in the correct place, but there was no correct place for a revelation such as this. No mental drawer he could stuff it in. None could bear the overwhelming weight, so the information itself was left floating uselessly in the space in between, at the very front of his mind – unassimilable.

That's not enough.

“There is no cure, I presume?” He asked weakly.

“There is, actually, but... how do I put it...” Violet eyes stared at a broad, dark sky wistfully. “It isn't something easily attainable.”

“What is it?” he asked eagerly, desperately, clinging to the very possibility of a cure. Of a more time, he oh so needed.

“Do you know what the source of Hanahaki is?”

“What? No, were you not the one who just pointed out how I didn't even knew its name? What does it matter anyway?"

Dying. He was dying. With every breath-in and breath-out, he was dying, and he knew that he would die at a young age from the moment he joined ( was forced to join) Fatui, but there was no time limit, no breath-ins and breath-outs, like a clock, making his liftime shorter and shorter. Tic-tac, tic-tac, tic-tac – he is dying, and he can do nothing but breathe in and breathe out till his lungs choke themselves on crimson flowers.

“Oh, but it is the very thing that matters, you see - Hanahaki is a punishment installed on those who dared to commit blasphemy.”

“Well, I know more people that I can count on my fingers that indeed committed blasphemy, yet none of them is puking fucking flowers, so forgive me for calling this bullshit.” He was trembling. Suddenly, acutely aware of every breath he took, not sure if he really felt something shuffling inside his flesh or if he was paranoid enough to imagine the sensation of it. The very knowledge that there was something viciously growing inside him, is there something poking at the walls of his windpipe? It must be - he can feel it – it makes him want to clow at the tender flesh of his throat.

“Oh, I am sure you do, but I am not talking about some minor attempts at questioning the nature of this world or undermining the positions of some deities, no. Tell me, Harbinger, has anyone of those people you mentioned actually dared be blasphemus enough to fall in love with an Archon? To think for a second they are worthy, good enough to reach their hand towards those who occupy seats of Celestia, dellusional enough to think they can actually grasp them? Foolish enough to think they can be loved back by them, cherished as equally as they are cherishing and loving? No, I don't think so, because the only ones I can think about, the two biggest, dumbest, blasphemus individuals are right here!"

She was also trembling, her voice crumbling just at the end, chest going up and down, up and down, as she breathed frantically.

It was in her eyes – the woman... no – Yae , was scared. They both were.

“So, this cure you mentioned...” he started gently. “As, I presume, you have not found it in all those years, it really is...” Unatainable? Futile? Helpless? - not knowing how to exactly end the sentence, he just... didn't.

Yae nodded sadly, grasping the ending without it being articulated. “That's the cruel part, you see...”

Her eyes were fogged, staring somewhere past the railing, not seeing it even if being directed its way. He could only stare at her, seeking comfort he will not get.

“For the Hanahaki to be cured, the subject has to get something from the Archon in question... Love. The love they hold, the love that is killing them - it has to be mutual. And if it is... There is no need for Hanahaki in the first place, right?” Her voice is small. Defeated.

“That's not how you hold chopsticks. Here, allow me...”

“Actually, cháhuā is their liyuen name...”

“-do not have to do this if...”

“Breathtaking.”

“-when I see the red colour, the first thing on my mind is always you...”

“And I love you patiently listening...”

“Oh... I see...” He would have to have been loved in the first place. This husk of a man that goes by the name 'Childe', this shallow visage covering the existence of a monster that lurks just shy of the surface, this hungry sword with no sheath called 'Tartaglia' – this existance dancing at the edge of humanity, he would have to have been loved in the first place. And as he could already feel the next petals ready to make their way up his lungs, well...

He clearly never has been.

~*~

Mama,

Thank you for the scarf! As inazuman winter is harsher than what I have experienced in Liyue Harbor, I wear it every day. It really is perfect!

As for the other part of your letter... Hey mama, do you know I am dying? You need not worry! I am not sad, I am terrified. merely a little tired. I am exhausted, but whenever I sleep, it just gets worse and worse. Sometimes the work just gets like this, but it is nothing I cannot handle. Mama, there is a plant in my laungs - it grows and grows until it sees the sun, and I will die of asphyxiation as it's through my throat it will eventually reach the sunlight. Sorry to make you worry like that I haven't known you could see through me like this. Gods, what else have you seen? promise I am alright. I know you have your own problems, so I don't want to die, I don't want to die clutter your mind with unnecessary concerns for my wellbeing. As you said, I'm an adult – it would be unbecoming of me to cause you worry while nothing is fine wrong.

Take care of yourself and father,

Your-

He shoves the unfinished letter to the ground. The red wool stiffling his cries as he breaks down.

~*~

There is a small package, wrapped in elegant-looking red furoshiki [12], sitting on his table as he comes to his room one evening. There is a short note, written in elegant but simple calligraphy, and a bunch of heavly-smelling herbs stuck inside.

Tea made from these does wonders for a sore throat. Feel free to use them.

Take care,

Someone not known for their medical expertise

He ponders at the message for a short moment and then goes downstairs to borrow a set of tea utensils from the owner.

~*~

“Oh, wow! Isn't this kimono pretty! And the pattern! Gods, it's a shame we won't see tsubaki in bloom for a while. I really want to see them now...”

He watches numbly as Yoimiya comes closer to the shop display, on which a few sets of lovely-looking kimono were presented. The one that caught the woman's attention was in a calm, toned-down shade of navy blue, with a deep-red pattern of delicate, familiar-looking flowers engraved on it. To stumble upon flowers he is accustomed to seeing in bloodied, saliva-stained, messy fragments – now elegant, prim, and proper, gently made into the fabric of an exquisite kimono, was a truly disturbing, out-of-body experience.

“Tsubaki?” He mouthed more to himself, but Yoimiya still caught the word nonetheless. She turned to him, her hairpin jiggling cheerfully.

“Oh, have you not seen them before? They are pretty common here, though there's still quite a bit of time left till they bloom. We should totally go and see some when their time comes in a few months...”

“No, I... I have seen them before...” he responds, still out of balance, still disturbed. The flowers stare at him calmly through the shop display. “In Liyue...” he adds quietly.

“Oh?” Yomiya's eyes sparkle with clear interest as she tilts her head a little to the side. “I haven't realised that they are not solely inazuman plants.”

“Me neither... They-” he stumbles as a familiar, hunting voice whispers in his ear.

“-cháhuā is their liyuen name...”

“-they call them cháhuā in Liyue...” He finally spits out.

“Cháhuā?” She stumbles at the unfamiliar sounds. “Huh, the more you know, I guess...” She turns back to look at the kimono. “Well, here they are called tsubaki. A pretty name for an equally pretty but gruesome flower.”

“Gruesome?” he asks, confused. “Are they not a symbol of eternal love?”

She again turns to stare at him, looking equally as confused as he feels. Slightly self-conscious under her questioning gaze, he starts to explain:

“I was told that, because the flowers fall down in one piece, they symbolise the union between partners who, refusing to be separated even in death, simply die together.”

“That's... That's such a pretty thought!” Her hands are clasped together, eyes wide in excitement. “Damn Liyueans sure are romantics, are they not! It's a drat no one in Inazuma thought about them this way...”

“So... what's their symbolism in Inazuma?”

“Well... Try imagining the flower falling down in one piece - petals, filaments, and all – it's rather heavy, so it falls quickly in a straight line to the ground. As it reaches the earth, because of its momentum, it pops up slightly once and then lays forever motionlessly in all its crimson glory... Well, does it not make an image similar to this of a head being cut off, falling down to the ground in gruesome red?”

“Oh...”

Crimson flowers stayed unbothered on their kimono, still solemnly pretty even as their morbid symbolism gets unvailed. Asking in their disturbingly calm way:

When will your head be joining us?

~*~

It is January now. It has been for a while – roofs of wooden, inazuman houses turned white under the pilled-up snow. There are fewer people on the streets – most of them sporting paper umbrellas to shield them from the falling snowflakes. There is now a heater in his room, brought by the owner one cold winter evening. There is a spare blanket next to his futon, just in case of a particularly chilly night.

There is also a lonely letter sitting on his desk. The red envelope is made from high-quality paper, the recipient's details written in elegant calligraphy, both in common and liyuean languages. The sigil is still unbroken, the contents still unread. It has been left like that for a week now.

He is pacing around the room again, torn between the desire to finally open it, the fear of what it may contain, and the pain of flowers demanding more air. He throws a quick look towards the envelope, hesitates, then scoffs and continues to traverse the tatami .

'Damn it, it is not like me to hesitate like that.' He always prided himself on being the man of action – someone who will push and push forwards even if it destroys him. Dancing and dancing - around the words, around the enemies, around people, always in motion, heading in some direction, even if it does not lead to a clear destination yet. But now he is stagnant, has been stagnant for months.

He is tired of inaction.

With a sharp movement, not unlike ripping off a bandage, he opens the envelope. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath – oxygen dancing around voracious flowers as it fills his chest. He takes his time to calm down his heartbeat, to soften his fear, to find his usual courage and bravado. And when the right moment comes, he takes the letter out, unfolds it, and starts to read.

Childe,

I have written so many drafts of this letter that I lost count a long time ago. The unfinished ones all scatter my office and my abode alike, yet I found myself unable to dispose of even a single one. However, the seasons have changed, and with them, once again, the Lantern Rite has been brought close. With no better time for beginnings or endings, I pray this letter will be the one that finally reaches you.

I am aware that we parted on... not the best of terms. I wished to give you some space, yet you left Liyue before I was able to properly talk to you even once. And then I started to write the letters, but I found myself stuck in the loop of writing and writing and never sending. Trying and failing to break this hopeless cycle. Writing from dawn to break and still having nothing to show for it. But today, while on the walk, I saw on sale this beautiful lanter – brilliantly red - and the first thing on my mind was a memory of you. We were standing on the Yujing Terrace, your features softened by the warm light of decorative lamps. A faint spark in your eyes that went too quickly for me to properly discern the meaning behind it. Standing so close, yet being as unreachable as the stars above us. And suddenly, right there in the middle of a crowded street, I have been overwhelmed by how much I have missed you, by how much I still miss you even as I write these words. By the urge to speak to you, even if only by the word written, without a guarantee that it will even reach you, that you will even be amenable to reading it.

And, just as always, here I am digressing and running in circles around the topic I am supposed to be covering. The reason I am writing this letter is that I found myself incapable of letting our relati- friendship be suspended in this vague state of not knowing where we stand with each other. It pains me that if we shall never talk again, I may not be given a chance to apologise to you personally – thus, I am putting the much-needed words in here. Please believe me that causing you any emotional pain was never my intention. Yes, from the very beginning, before I even knew what face shall I attach to the name 'Tartaglia', you were a crucial part of my plan to retire. Though everything that transpired between us was not part of said plan, I understand why you may feel betrayed and deceived. For that, I am sorry. And if you never want to hear from me again - I hope this letter at least shall give both of us much-deserved closure. After all, the lantern rite is a time of beginnings, but it is also a time of endings, and I have to accept it, whether I am prepared for it or not.

I shall not ask for a reply, as I am aware I may have forever forfeited a right to demand anything from you, and yet... I will wish upon this year's lanter that you will at least consider it.

I wish you a happy New Year,

Zhongli

He was trembling.

'Cousing you pain was not my intention' ? 'Friendship' ? 'Closure' ?

The fucking audacity.

His hand is white from how hard he is clutching the letter – expensive paper threatening to be torn any minute. He is trembling, but not from cries or pain, as of recently, no. It has been a while since he was angry – royaly pissed. But, oh, does it feel good.

For once, the thing that's stirring in his chest is not a ruthless plant but a cold fury. And he lets it guide his hand as he traverses the tatami towards the box, as he takes a fresh envelope, and as he stuffs it to the brim with flowers. Even if he trembles and grits his teeth, his mind on the loop around the words 'closure' and 'friendship' and 'happy New Year', his grip on the pen is steady as he writes the name of the recipient, just under the pround words 'Liyue Harbor'. He seals it, throws it on the floor, and screams.

~*~

It is February now, and he is back in Snezhnaya.

In the early hours of the morning, everything is still on the surface of the lake. The snow stopped falling somewhere around break, and the wind has dared not scatter it around ever since. The water in the small blowhole too lazy to make ripples, and the fishing line, much to his disgruntlement, stubornly unmoving.

Signiora's funeral was a simple enough affair. None of the Harbingers were the type to unnecessarily fiddle around when all had their tasks at hand – all waiting to be tended to. They met in the chapel, they gave their regards, and they all went their separate ways. There was no mourning. As cruel as it sounds, none of them had enough capacity to do so anymore.

He nustles his nose deeper into the woollen material, but otherwise – does not move. Something in the winter scenery subduing the nervous energy constantly stirring just under his skin, gently but firmly lulling it to sleep. Even the flowers seem to calm down a little, allowing him to take deep breaths without wheezing pathetically.

“Your Majesty, you wished to see me,” he says, head bent down in respect.

“Yes, I did...” There is a sound of material rustling, and then the heeled legs descend down the stairs leading to the throne. Even as she comes to stand right before him, he stays on one knee, head down. “My faithful blade, you are dying, are you not?”

He sharply raises his head, forgetting all about the protocol, and is met by a pair of icily-blue eyes. His goddess is staring at him with a gaze that betrays none of her thoughts, and he cannot look away.

“I...” he stutters, mouth shaping around words, but vocal chords produce no sound to articulate them. Tsaritsa kindly waits.

"Yes," he finally utters. "Yes, I am, Your Majesty.”

The red mask is burning at the side of his head with scorching fear because the goddess's eyes betray nothing, and that's it – that's it, she is going to throw him away, like a useless piece of trash or a toy she has no more need for, and he can do nothing, nothing, just as he could have done nothing in Inazuma, and nothing in the Bank, and nothing in the Abbyss-

There are cold hands on his face now, softly carressing his cheeks in a way his mother has not done in years. He blinks and once more actually sees the Tsaritsa, and not just a blurry image she was merely a second ago. Her eyes are sad.

“Fear not, my child...” she murmurs softly and gives his cheek one final pat. “I shan't abandon you – how could I, when for years all you have done was serve me well?”

“But, Your Highness, I... I betrayed you. I let myself be covered in rust when my only purpose should have been to remain sharp and unscathed in order to serve you well. And, now...”

“Tartaglia... no – Ajax,” Ajax. It has been so long since someone has called for that scrawny little kid. He sometimes wonders if the boy is still around. And yet, she calls for him so surely, certain that it will be possible to find the kid somewhere in the shell named Tartaglia... “I am not a merciful god, I do not know how, not anymore. But even I could never fault you for succumbing to what is – essentially - the very core of what it means to be a human. I will not punish you for love. Not when, once upon a time, it was the very ideal I swore to protect.”

All he can do is stare blankly, trying to comprehend that, no – he is not going to be punished, and no – he is not going to be thrown away. The concepts too abstract to understand.

"Although I must ask – is the love you are slowly dying for – are you certain it is truly unwelcome?”

“Your Majesty,” he starts slowly. “Aren't the flowers in my lungs proof enough of it?”

She considers him for a moment before saying,

“Not necesserly... You see, hanahaki is, of course, an alliment originating from unrequieted love, but primarly, it is an illness of perception.”

“Perception?”

She nods in confirmation. “What those flowers are feeding on is not the love itself, but your unshaken belief that it is unreciproated. Do not understand this wrong – there is a possibility that that is the case... But there is also a chance that you are mistaken.”

“And... assuming that I am mistaken?” He asked, voice filled with doubt. Indulging the goddess in going with assumption he has no faith in, not really. Because how could he?

The amber eyes that refuse to meet his as they stand on the Bank's floor.

The words constructed solely so he looses his guard – so he can be easier manoeuvred in whatever direction the man needs him to.

The silence after he left. And the letter that broke it, after months and months, with words like 'friendship' and 'closure'.

Are those not proof enough?

“Then... there is no need for you to die, my child.”

No need to die... That is what he wants, right? Not even a month ago, he was so scared so terrified at the prospect. Desperate for an ounce of hope, for a faintest light of it, really. But now?

He remembers the calm waters of a Yaoguang Shoal, their faint call. He remembers his response. He is not so sure of it anymore.

The Tsaritsa must have seen the turmoil coloured on his face because she put her hand on his arm in a comforting gesture.

“You shall receive your new orders in a few days. Know that I am not giving them out of cruelity, I merely intend to give you a chance. Present you with a choice. I will not order you what actions you should or should not take on... But I will strongly advise you to at least try. After all, I cannot simply let my finest blade shatter without trying to preserve it, can I?”

Liyue. He is once again getting relocated to Liyue.

The fishing line twitches once but quickly regains its previous state of stagnancy, as the fish under the ice clearly lost interest.

By the end of the next week, he will already be standing on the streets of the Harbor – red buildings, curled-up roofs, and a tall peak of Tianheng Mountain embracing it all. A swarm of people – merchants trying to sell their wares, tourists curiously laying their eyes on anything they find interest in, sailors loudly laughing on their way from tavern to tavern, businessmen in hurry for their next appointment, waitresses luring clients to their respectful tea houses, members of the Adventurer's Guild running from place to place in their green outfits, and countless citizens speaking in hasty liyuean – all of them traversing the city streets, not unlike blood cells do traverse veins. And somewhere in this hustle, there will be a certain consultant with amber eyes coloured red.

He does not question if they will meet – the fate itself seems to hate him with passion, so surely the crossing of their paths is inevitable at this point. No, the question is, what should he do when they meet?

His mind comes blank.

Everything is still on the surface of the lake. The sun is way up on its daily jorney through the sky and starts to slowly melt the pilled-up snow. It is a pointless endeavour, though – soon enough, another layer will fall, making the sun's effort naught. Nevertheless, it is persistent and continues to fight the accumulated flakes well into the evening.

The Harbinger, unaware of the fervent battle, stays dormant on the lake.

~*~

It was well into the night when their family gathering came to a conclusive end. His older siblings said their goodbyes before heading back to their respective homes, and the younger ones were all herded into their beds by the father and the ever-helpful Tonia. He volunteered for the dishwashing duty - his mother had done all the cooking for his goodbye dinner party, so it was only fair that he at least helped with cleaning, really. And that is how he found himself with hands to the elbows in soapsuds in a small, dim kitchen in the midnight hours.

His task was repetetive – throw away the leftovers, rinse, clean, rinse again, dry, and repeat – but he didn't exactly mind. Because it was repetetive - it made it all the more easier for him to think. And think is what he really should do.

He is going to Liyue tomorrow (today? It really was quite late), and still, when confronted with the question, 'what is he going to do?', was coming empty-handed. Hours and hours of contemplation and nothing. It was as if he were standing in front of a shop display packed to the brim with possible purchases – each one lovlier than the previous – and was given the task of choosing just one. Considering, debating, looking and looking – unable to make a final choice and thus paralysed in front of the display for eternity. Even if it was frustrating to no end, all he could do was stare some more.

“A mora coin for your thoughts, darling?” He has not jumped a little, startled by the voice of his dear mother, thank you very much.

Even if she had noticed, she said nothing, simply taking a cleaning cloth and starting to dry the plates.

“Ah, it's nothing important, mama, don't worry. Just spaced away a little,” he answered in what he hoped was a casual tone.

“You tend to space away quite a lot these days,” she responded gently while critically looking for smudges on the wine glass she just dried. Seemingly satisfied, she put it away and started to work on another one. “Through tonight's dinner, you were awfully quiet as well. Honey, are you sure everything is alright?”

Her voice was filled to the brim with worry - any second now and it will spill, flooding her and him and taking the small kitchen as collateral. He remembers the letter – has her simple handwriting before his very eyes. ' If you only wish so, you can confide in me' it is written. For some reason, the letters seem desperate. And maybe that is what makes him crumble, makes the unbothered facade finally be torn down, his shoulders sagging with it.

“I-” 'I'm fine' is the lie the facade wants him to answer with, but it gets stuck in his throat, then swallowed back. “I have a lot on my mind,” is what he finally says.

“Is it something to do with your work?” she gently pushes. Another wine glass was deamed good enough and put away into the cabinet.

“No, it's more of a...” What, more of a what? How do you even put into words this mess his life has become? “...relationship problem?” is what he settles with.

“Relationship as in... romantic relationship?” They were on thin ice – both so out of their depth that any other time he would laugh at how awkwardly they danced around the matter. He did not.

“Ah, well – I wouldn't exactly call it a 'relationship' as there is no relationship as of now.” He might have started to scrub the poor plate a little too harshly, but hey, sue him! “Not sure there was a relationship to begin with...” he adds quietly.

“So... it's not a romantic relationship problem, but just a romantic problem, then?"

“A little bit of a health problem as well.” Yeah, like 'he is going to die' a kind of health problem, but he is not going to simply tell his poor mother that he is being, slowly but surely, suffocated to death by the flowers he got by foolishly falling for an Archon. He was not exactly ready to open up this box in the middle of their kitchen.

“So a health-romantic problem, then?” Her confusion was evident, though it has to be given – she was nothing if not determined. Determinated to understand, to comprehend, and to help and comfort, even if all she was getting from him was nothing more than some scraps of information. “Got it... What about this problem has been bothering you recently, then?”

“Um...” The plate he was working on for the last five minutes must be nothing less than spotless by now, with all the scrubbing and washing he was putting it under. “It's just... The person involved in this, ah – problem is in Liyue as of now. So there is a fair chance we will run into each other.”

“And... do you want to see them?”

“I-” he hesitates.

Does he want to see the man again?

He never really asked that himself. Yes – he did consider whether he should talk with the man or not, and if yes, what words he should use. He thought about ways to avoid the man if the answer was no. He mused on whether he should take Tsartisa's advice or not - whether there really was a chance of her being right. And if it was worth the mortification that would come with asking. Or if maybe he should simply – accept. Accept his fate and die. Succumb to the flowers and wait until they fully bloom, or find death on his own terms. Should he tell his family? Was it better to prepare them for the inevitable or to let them live in happy unawareness to the very end? What was the least cruel? But never, not once, did he think about what he wants to do, and not just what he should or must. So he stops for a while and asks.

Does he want to see Zhongli again?

He tries to remember the hurt of standing on the cold tiled floor. Helplessness as he was being disregarded between his very eyes. Loneliness on nights spent tossing in cold bedsheets and even colder hands of numbness, which slowly wrap around his throat as he stands with water to his chest in the sea. Anger and grief as he looks into the equally angry and greaving eyes of Yae Miko. The despair of learning he was dying. Finally, the blazing fury that made him send the letter filled with bloody, gruesome flowers straight to Liyue Harbor.

And yes, they were all there – mellowed but still within reach, merely waiting for him to act upon them. But, curiously, there were not the only things he could extend his hand for.

There was... longing. And a lot of it. The urge to see, to hold, to touch. There are memories of gentle hands on his scalp and his cheeks, handling him as if he were nothing less than glass. The amusement of being subjected to yet another rant about culture, history, or whatever else the consultant deemed important at that peculiar moment. The lullying contentment of merely existing in the same space, the deep comfort of being held and cherished, an admiration for the other. A desire – sometimes impatient and scorching hot, sometimes calm and gentle and freeing. A steady, firm feeling of belonging – as if the man's side was the very place he was always meant to find himself in – his personal pocket of existence. Most importantly – there was love. Love so strong that it caused flowers to bloom. Love so deep it was literally hurting and killing him. A love he chose to not look upon, to antagonise, to pack in the box and completely deny its existence. A love he was now staring in the face.

The water started to overflow from the sink. A hands he recognises as his mother's turn the valve to make the water stop, and then gently take his wet, soapy hands in their own. They are warm.

“You do,” she says softly, and that makes him finally look her in the eye. The hair he remembers as even brighter than his own has grey streaks in it now. There are soft wrinkles in the corners of her green eyes, and she has to actually look up to meet his gaze. Finally, he sees how frail she looks – no longer an unshakable force who, in a child's eyes, cannot be wrong – but simply a woman of fifty years old. “You do,” she repeats, and squeezes his hands. She is right. “But still, you hesitate, why is that?”

“We parted on not the best of terms... I am not sure I would know how to talk to them as I used to. But there is a slight, rather improbable, chance that talking to them may resolve the health part of the problem. Or really, the whole problem. But I just... I just do not know how.”

“And why do you think it is improbable?” She makes slow, soothing circles on the upper side of his calloused hands. But it's all right – her hands have calluses as well.

“Because it would have to mean that they... he. That he loves me back, and...” his throat is tight. “That is impossible,” he ends quietly.

“Honey, you can't know that.” There is something steady in her voice – it grounds him. “You are not a mind reader, you will never know what someone feels for you, even if you spend hours, days, and months analysing, thinking, and trying to come to a conclusion. Not until you ask, until this person explicitly says so.”

“But, mom, it's... Gods, mom, I am scared.”

“Oh, Ajax.” One of her hands is on his cheek now, forcing him to look at her. He has no strength to fight it, not that he really wants to. “Ajax, it is never easy and always, always scary to bare your very heart and soul to someone. But you are nothing but brave, Ajax – my little hero.”

“I am not...”

“Not?”

“A hero,” he sputters bitterly. “I have so much blood on my hands, and even if I wear this cursed red everywhere I go, I bring no relief and certainly no hope. Just chaos and destruction.”

“Ajax, listen to me.” Her gaze is unwavering, full of conviction. “I will not comment on your work, but to me, to me – you will always be a hero. To Teucer – you will always be a hero – one who spoils him rotten with every present you send him. To Tonia – you will always be a hero – with every letter signed 'a loyal knight' at the bottom. To Anton – to the rest of your siblings – you will always, always be a hero. So don't give yourself a harsh shoulder because it breaks my heart as you bring upon yourself harm.”

To that, he can say nothing, simply crumble in his mother's arms and cry and cry . She holds him through it all – the same way she did when he was five, seven, and ten. It is comforting, even if more than a little embarrassing. But it is all worth it because, at the end of it, he has found his answer.

They leave the unfinished dishes for the morning.

~*~

Liyue Harbor is the same as he remembers it.

A city showered in golds, reds, and hues of jadeite. Its citizens participating in the daily rush. The orange tree leaves, cobbled streets, and calm presance of a Tianheng towering over the elegant curves of Yujing Terrace. He stands on the wooden pier of the Harbor and breathes in the salty air of the seaside city – it smells a little like home.

He takes his travelling bag and heads deeper into the Harbor.

“Childe!” He hears the familiar voice with an unfamiliar edge to it and freezes right next to the Adventurer's Guild.

It was too soon – yes, he was fully intending on finding the man and talking to him, but it has not even been fifteen minutes since he put a foot on liyuean ground. He had a plan – a faint idea of how he wanted to handle their conversation but gods, he wanted to give himself at least a week to calm down a little and mentally prepare. But, as it was becoming something of a trend recently, fate, of course, had a different plan for him.

When he finally sees the man, it feels both like a blessing and a punch to the gut.

Zhongli looks... ruffled, for lack of a better word. His signature coat is missing, there are stray strands of mahogany hair sticking at odd places, and his amber eyes are a little wild, even if the red eyeliner under them is nothing but precise. He looks like he was running, but more importantly, there is a weird mixture of emotions on his face – one of which Childe is not ready to unpack just yet.

And Archons , he was beautiful.

They stood there motionlessly for what felt like an eternity and a blink of an eye at once. The few metres between them - both too close to fully believe they were able to reach each other and yet still too far to actually do it. People might be giving them a few weird looks by now – especially towards Zhongli, who looked nothing like a put-up, elegant parlor consultant as of now, but neither cared to notice.

“Zhongli...” was what escaped his throat in a voice silent and frail. It was also what made Zhongli finally shake off whatever petrification spell was put on him and slowly, oh so hesitantly, cross the distance between them. He could touch him now if he only reached out his hand. He doesn't.

“Childe...” There is disbelief in his voice and in his eyes. He thinks at least this feeling is mutual between them. “I came as soon as I sensed your presence in Liyue, and-” he stutters in what is so unlike the ever-composed Zhongli the consultant, it is a little uncanny. “I... I got your letter, and, and I think we should talk... That is, if you are amenable to it.”

Amber stares at him with an intensity that would make a lesser being crumble. He, though, just gets slightly woobly on the knees.

And so he looks back in it, thinking there may be a silent plea hidden in the usually unreadable gaze.

A shame he was not deemed worthy of such a look in the Bank so many months ago.

He takes a deep breath, roots and steams and flowers move with the arrival of oxygen but otherwise stay oddly dormant. He breathes out and finds his resolve.

No, he was not ready yet. But he will have to be.

“Alright, we shall talk,” he says in the voice of someone who is calm and collected and knows precisely what they are doing. He doesn't. But that is alright.

Whatever happens next, he will be alright.

“But not here.” He bypasses the consultant and starts to lead the way, not looking to see if he is being followed. He knows he is.

The walk is silent and awkward, but they persist and finally arrive on the patch of flat ground just outside the city's premises.

He takes off his coat and puts it, along with his luggage on the ground so it will not get in the way. Then he turns to face the slightly confused consultant and, in a steady, rehearsed voice, says:

“Prepare your weapon, Zhongli.”

When he mulled over how to handle this conversation on the board of the ship, he asked himself, what was his usual, preferred option for resolving conflicts. And the answer was obvious, and easy, and laughable in its simplicity. Because, no matter if it was Childe or Tartaglia or even the little Ajax – all of them when faced with a predicament, their very first impulse, their nature, was to take out their weapon and charge head-on. And yes – he was capable of manipulation, of deception and diplomacy if he put his mind to it. But he had enough of it, was sick to the stomach at the very mention, and so he, for the first time in what was a time way too long, decided to simply do what sits right with him. And if that was to point his weapon at the face of a man he loves but cannot forgive, so be it.

“I... beg you pardon?” If the man was not confused before, he sure was now.

“Prepare your weapon. You wished to talk, Zhongli, and this is the only way I'm willing to do this. On my terms, for once.” He summoned his hydro blades.

“I do not wish to harm you.” was the answer, and all he could do at it was laugh joylessly.

“You already did. Now, prepare your weapon – I won't ask again.” And not awaiting the response, he charged.

Before his blade could touch the flesh, Zhongli with truly godly speed, summoned the golden spear and parried. He then dodged the other gracefully but didn't counter, even when it was a perfect opportunity to do so. He simply drew back and waited – a martial god going against his very nature.

Childe simply clicked his tongue and chased.

It went like that for a short while – Childe attacking, and pushing, and chasing, and Zhongli blocking, parring, or dodging but never striking back.

“Oh, now you won't attack?” He gritted through his teeth as a spear of hydro once again missed its mark.

“I already said – I do not wish to harm you.” Was the strained answer. He thought there may have been an ounce of desperation behind it. He chose to ignore it.

“And yet you hardly hesitated when you played with me!” Attack, spin, attack again. “You think it wasn't harm when you pretended to care just to throw me away like a trash?!” He was getting agitated, he knows. His words more like screams and shouts than the calm accusations he intended them to be. He did not care.

“I never...” There were cracks forming in the stony facade. “I've never thrown you away!”

He laughs, and it probably sounds more than a little histerical, judging from the disturbed eyes across from him.

“You haven't spared me a fucking look!” Their weapons meet again, yet there is a hesitance in the movements of a golden spear. “You just stood there, all high and mighty, as if I were invisible! No more worth a look than a fucking fly!” Oh, he was definitely screaming now, the words rushed and frantic - all his hurt spilling from every syllable that left his lips. “Tell me, have you enjoyed it? Was it making you feel good?”

“Enjoyed it?!” Oh, the stone finally crumbled, and he felt an ugly satisfaction at seeing the man lose his composure. “Do you truly think so little of me, to think a second of seeing you nearly collapse on the floor brought me any enjoyment?!”

“How would I know?!” The spear changes into twin blades again. “You never fucking told me otherwise!”

“I tried!” It wasn't a shout, not really. But it was so different from the usual low, soothing cadence that it as well might have been. “I tried, but you never let me! You simply left!”

The attack came so quickly and unexpectedly that Childe barely managed to get out of its way. Then came another – Zhongli no longer simply backing away but starting to deal blows of his own. Finally, a conversation, not a one-sided assault.

“And why wouldn't I?!” This one he blocked, hands nearly getting numb at the force, but he persisted. “You never gave me a hint that doing otherwise was an option!”

“A hint?!” The spear moved even faster, backed by indignation. “When have I ever given you a hint that I have not treasured the friendship that we-”

“Friendship?!” His arm sprained forward like a whip, missing the consultant's aggravated face by mere centimeters. “We have slept with each other! Multiple times! And I assure you – friendship was the last thing on my mind then!”

“And how otherwise should I have called it when you never told me what to think of it!?” There was an age-long exasperation behind the sentence. A tiredness deserving of a lifetime.

“Isn't it a common notion that when you start to sleep around with the person you regularly go on dinner dates and walk dates with, then maybe, just fucking maybe it isn't a friendship anymore?! Have it even crossed, oh the great, Rex Lapis's mind to indulge such a thought?!”

“How would I know?! It's not like I have ever been with a human before, so pardon me if I was more than slightly uncertain!” There is a hint of pink on the porcelain cheeks – from anger or embarrassment, he could not tell.

“Oh, then let this lowly mortal spell it out for you – I love you! I love you so fucking much I am dying!” The months of pilled-up feelings, of flowers shut in the box, of nightmares, of denial, and of fear and feeling useless have all now exploded, producing this one sentence in the resault.

“And I cannot fathom why, when I love you just as dearly!” Zhongli screams.

In the aftermath of an explosion, the first thing to come is silence. And it is silence that fills his brain and ears as he lowers his weapon and stares.

Stares at Zhongli who looks distressed beyond measure, clothes ruffled, hair wild, grip on the golden spear trembling, amber eyes wide and frantic. He looks nothing like the great, wise Rex Lapis of the stories of old, nothing like a dragon-martial god that shaped the land of Liyue with his bare hands and steel will, nothing like an Archon that unwaveringly led his people for nearly four thousand years. He looks at the man before him, and he thinks that, right now – he simply looks human.

Next came the denial. An ugly, sneaky thing crawling through underneath his skin, whispering:

'He's lying, remember what he did to you.'

'He's lying, he wants to use you again.'

'He's lying, no one could ever love someone as hideous as you.'

But then he looks again into the pleading, desperate eyes of cor lapis and hesitates.

“You...” He wants to say 'love me' but he cannot get the words out. “You say that, and yet you still used me.” It was supposed to be a statement. It sounds like a question.

“I... I did...” The man looks small right now. It breaks his heart even when he was the one whose fault it is." And as I wrote in the letter – I cannot express how truly sorry I am for it. Our... relationship was never planned. Before you arrived in Liyue, I fully intended on simply keeping an eye on whoever the Tsaritsa shall send, ensuring that the contract would come to completion. But then... But then I met you, and...” The man looks so defeated. His hands tingle to hold and comfort, but he wills them to ramain still. " And I couldn't help it. The contract explicitly stated that no one other than me and Tsaritsa shall know its details, so I couldn't tell you. Objectively, it would be better for us to stay as far from each other as possible, and yet... I have not wanted that. From the very first meeting, I was unable to let you out of my sight, so I selfishly did not, and... And I knew it would not end pretty, yet I did nothing to stop it. Guiltily enjoying every single moment until you left the Bank, and then avoided me, and then left without even telling me. I naturally reached the conclusion that you do not wish to see me again. So I tried to give you space, but... you were always there. I looked at Wanmin's menu, and my eyes automatically were finding the dishes you might find pleasing. I walked through Harbor and found myself looking over my shoulder as if expecting to see you. I looked at the red buildings and thought of your earring or just you in general, and it was maddening. I thought I was going mad with every letter I wrote. I... I do not exactly have much of an, um – experience with... relationships, nor with feelings in general. But I had my fair share of experience saying goodbye and letting people I care for leave me behind, so I thought I would be fine. That, as usually – I would persist. And yet...” The hydro blades long since dissipated, leaving his hands empty. Zhongli tenderly makes a move towards them, looking for any indignation of objection. When he finds none, he grasps them gently. They shake a little but do not move away. “And yet, I was not,” the man concludes quietly.

“I felt guilty as well,” he starts, not knowing in what direction the words will take him because it is so much to suddenly comprehend. And yet he says them anyway, because Zhongli's hands tremble over his, and in the end – he will do everything to make them stop. “For all these months, every scrap of information about Rex Lapis that I could use to complete my agenda has come from you, and I have been sick with guilt over it more times than I can count. I was so sure you would hate me when you found out, so it was a shock to learn, not only have you known everything from the very start - you were the Geo Archon himself. So, of course, I assumed it was not you who had been used but me. And, Zhongli – you are a god. Was it so far fatched of me to assume I was just a mortal tool in your hands?” Zhongli opens his mouth, clearly ready to object, but he squeezes his hands, signalising: 'Not yet, let me speak, I need to get this out once and for all.'. The man understands and simply squeezes back. “Of course I'd felt betrayed, and honestly – more than a little pissed. But mostly, it just hurt. And then I left, and it got worse – and then I learned about Hanahaki and thought – right, of course you would not look upon me this way, because why would you? I'm a mess!” There is a deep frown on Zhongli's face as he laughed self-contiously, but the man's lips stay sealed. “And I lived with this mindset for months - so sure I was going to die, because you do not love me back, and now you say you do, and honestly? I do not know how to handle it, as of now.”

After this, they both stay silent for a while, both processing and comprehending, but it was not awkward. Tired? Yes. Exasperated? Of course. But not awkward, because their hands have stayed intertwined through it all.

“So, what do you wish to do now?” Zhongli asks just as the sun starts to set. The rays catch his golden highlights and make them glow.

“I... I do not think we can simply go back to what we used to have,” he answers truthfully. “I am still... confused. And I do not think I have completely forgiven you, not yet – at least. But I want to be able to someday.” As much as he wants to – one conversation simply cannot take months of suffering, and pain, and depression away. Life was not a fairy tale where they could just kiss and forget all about it, happily chasing the sunset. “But I want to try."

They look at each other, amber meeting blue. And, finally – on the tired face of the consultant, a small smile came to settle. It is a trivial little thing – merely a curve of a lip and a softening of an eye. But it is a happy one, and most importantly - one that is slowly reciprocated on his own features.

“Then try, we shall.”

They were going to be okay.

~*~

After, on one murky day, Zhongli came to his office during lunch hours and tenderly asked if he “would be receptive to the idea of dining together?" and after he, ignoring the persisting itching in his throat, simply answered with, “Yes, where do you want to go?" they once again took upon their tradition of sharing as many meals together as their busy schedules allowed. Honestly, it was a little frightening how easily they slipped into the routine that was left unperformed for merely a year, how easily they went on with their meetings, as if they never stopped having them at all. Still, there was one major change to them, one crucial yet simple detail – instead of "outings," they started to call them "dates”.

Curious how something so small could bring such a big shift in the air – how it no longer felt suffocating, too dense with things unsaid to breath. How there was no longer a need to overthink every miniscule reaction or search for double meanings behind the words exchanged. No need to dance around topics, and no need to dodge uncomfortable questions with a strained smile. Instead, it became... cozy. Comfortable. The conversation between them has always flown naturally, but now – if how they were before could be compared to a bashful stream, now the words exchanged flew like a steady river.

He thinks he likes this change very much.

“Zhongli!” he shouts to get the man's attention, and stands half-way from his chair to show the consultant the location of their table. The man in question searches the small dining area of Xinyue Kiosk for a short while, looking slightly lost, but spots him soon enough and briskly starts to come his way. There is a subtle smile dancing on his lips as he approaches, and Childe goes slightly warm all over at the thought that he might be the one who placed it there.

'As if.' The petty voice that for the last months has been going ranpant in his head starts to sip its venom, trying to nourish the dying flowers in his lungs, only to get swiftly cut off. He is sick and tired of letting it get its way, of terrorising his psyche, of polluting his head with statements that are not true, and so he swears himself to fight it whenever it raises its ugly head until the day it finally dies. And Celestia knows – he is nothing if not a fighter.

“I apologise for running late, Director Hu has been rather... ah, lively today, so the amount of work suddenly piled up, as it, unfortunately, does when she goes into one of her creative sprees. I hope you have not been waiting for long,” Zhongli says after taking a seat at the opposite side of their small table.

“It's fine. Though I let myself order for both of us while waiting, hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not, I fully trust your judgement.” The little smile from before morphs into a deeper, more subtle one, and with it, the whole face gently settles into the look of happy contentment.

Thankfully, he has already been sitting – he honestly doubts if his legs would be able to support him, with Zhongli looking at him like that – all soft around the edges, head slightly tillted, amber eyes sparkling with joy - Archons, this man is not fair.

Then the consultant tenderly, making his intentions very clear in case they were unwelcome, reached for Childe's hand, which was resting on the table. Not meeting any objections, he took it in his palm, lacing their fingers tightly. They fell together like puzzles of a jigsaw, returning into their rightful places. Childe hummed and gave their intertwined hands a little, appreciative squeeze.

“But enough about Director Hu, how was your day?” Zhongli asked and squeezed back.

When he was in the middle of an elaborate explanation on why, exactly, the Bank does not need his signature on every single piece of documentation (“The application for reimbursement for cleaning supplies, really? Do we really need to involve four different people to conclude: 'Ah, yes - this floor cleaning detergent was, indeed, a sound purchase thus, Ekaterina, most surely, ought to get her money returned for buying it'. Come on!”) the waitress arrived with their order. This, saddly, brought their little hand-holding session to an abrupt end, but he refused to sulk over something as simple as that - not with a bigger threat looming on the horison.

He glared at the wooden utensils from the darkest reaches of the Abbyss that humanity generously chose to call 'chopsticks' for a short while before clumsily situating them between his fingers. He glanced at the, honestly, divine-smelling Jueyun Chili Chicken, then once more at the wooden abomination. He sighned.

'Nothing lost, nothing gained.'

As the task of manovering the pieces of food to his mouth with just two sticks and not a fork and knife like, you know - reasonable people required his whole attention, it took him a longer moment to notice Zhongli's bizarre behavior. But when he did, he stilled – a forgotten piece of chicken falling through the chopsticks that were already half on their way to his mouth. In his confusion, he slowly brought the utensil holding hand down on the table and just... stared.

Zhongli stared as well, though not at his dining companion but at his very own plate. Well, glared was more of an appropriate wording in this case, he supposed, though why the usually stoick man looked at his dish as though it threatened to kill everyone he loves – he had no idea. To their credit – under the weight of the gaze that used to bend mountain tops and dieties knees as if they were merely twigs on a young tree – the slices of fish, squid, and vegetables on the plate looked impressively unbothered.

Zhongli must have felt his questioning gaze on himself, because he postponed his little staring contest with a seafood and looked at him.

“Is there some problem with your order?” Childe asked, still confused but refusing to show it. “Do you want me to order something else?”

There is a brief look of panic in the amber eyes as they quickly slip to the plate and then back to him. To the plate, back to him. To the plate.

“No, it is... It won't be necessary, thank you.” Back to him. Aaand once again to the plate. “I just... remembered something mildly unpleasant, that's all. Absolutely no need to waste perfectly good food over a few disagreeable memories, is there?” Suspiciously, it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than explain his weird behaviour, but Childe supposed he could let it slip.

Zhongli grasped his chopsticks with more grace than Childe will ever be able to manage and skillfully coughed food between them like it was nothing. It was a deep-fryed piece of squid.

Childe, not wanting to make Zhongli uncomfortable with his staring but also being incredibly intrigued by the unusual behaviour, chose to at least pretend like he was occupied with his own food and halfheartedly started to poke at the contents of his plate, all the while observing the other man.

And, oh dear, what an observation it was.

The closer the hand with a piece of squid was coming to the consultant's mouth, the quicker it was slowing down, with Zhongli's face going through the various expressions - from stoick determination through quiet horror to berely conciled mortification - all the way. Finally, the hand forewent its movement completely and stilled just before the man's face. Said face then blanked for a second, amber eyes burning holes in the poor seafood. Childe ceased his pretending act completely at this point in favour of fully absorbing the show. And then – the hand with chopsticks in it, started to tremble, and usually unshakable, porcelain-like face twisted - eyes widening with horror and raw, visceral disgust.

The expression that settled on Zhongli's face was so unexpected, in such a contrast with his normal polite, toned-down mimic and just straight-out cartoonish that, honestly?, what else was he supposed to do?

He put his utensils down and started to laugh.

Amber eyes immediately jumped from the food to him, Zhongli's embarrassment clear in the way the red was slowly colouring his cheeks until it finally reached the exact shade of the consultant's eyeliner. Parted lips and widened eyes that spelled perplexity, and the gloved hand stilled with an affronting piece of sea food still between two elegantly wielded chopsticks. He looked, he looked...

Adorable.

Only after Zhongli finally put the squid back into its plate and actually kicked (although lightly) his leg under the table, Childe managed to somehow calm himself down, even if his mirth persisted in the way his mouth slightly trembled all the while he listened to the rushed explanation (“Childe, they were everywhere , I had to personally go from house to house and exterminate them one by one. And the smell... ”) and as he was making another order for a consultant (a dragon noodles, this time) to an amused waitress.

“...but what I don't understand is, Zhongli, why haven't you told me when the food arrived?”

At this, the man across him blushed, and in quiet, meek (Rex Lapis – meek!) voice answered:

“You were the one to order for me, so I have not wanted to cause you worry.”

They held hands for the rest of their date.

~*~

On bad days, he still sometimes coughs up the damned flowers.

His feats come and go – with neither a pattern nor a specific reason. Sometimes he sits in his room, working on Bank's documentation, and when he clears his throat because it feels rough from not using it, there is a petal in his mouth. Other times he looks at the shop displays and has to quickly pull out the handkerchief, or he splotches precious wares with blood. On especially bad days, it gets so violent he all but bends in half, cursed buds fighting their way through his trachea, tremors shaking his body while he tries to simply breathe. Whenever it happens in his presence, Zhongli patiently sits with him through it all, gently rubbling soothing circles under his shoulderblades and through the length of his spine. There is a complicated look on his face – worry, and determination, and guilt.

The first time it happened, he tried to talk about it, apologies spilling through his lips like water through a broken dam. When Childe managed to finally grasp enough oxygen to talk, he simply grabbed the distressed consultant's hand and said, “It will eventually go away. You already apologised enough, just be patient with it, okay? This flowers already know they've lost, this is just their last, futile attempt at once again becoming relevant. But they won't - I won't let them, and it's high time they finally acknowledged it. Though they surely are sore losers.”

And since then, Zhongli no longer tried to apologise, even if the apologies leaked from every action he performed in such moments. From every comforting rub, and soothing touch, try-to-be-brave smile, and kind word. And Childe accepted them for what they were, leaning into the touches, smiling at the smiles, and melting at the kind words.

The flowers fought, but Childe fought harder because, unluckily for the stubborn plants, fighting was just what he does best, and slowly but steadily, the fits became less and less frequent, less and less violent until they finally subsided.

After months and months of their ruthless tyranny, the flowers finally died.

~*~

Utmost respectable Lady Gūji,

At the time when red tsubaki buds are at their most beautiful, I pray that this letter finds you both in health and prosperity.

Now that we are done with the obligatory seasonal greeting opening phrase [13], let me get to the point of this letter. Do you know hanahaki is an illness of perception?

With the slow coming of a spring, I find it easier to breathe the slowly warming air. I hope we may meet when the winter becomes all but a distant memory.

Your lowly servant,

A lonely, brooding Fatui Harbinger

PS: As much as I enjoyed your tea, even you must be tired of its taste after this long, no?

~*~

“Thank the Seven that you are back together again. Don't know if I would have survived another week of this old man sulking in his office while writing letters like a madman. Terrible for business, having your best, and only, mind you, consutant constantly on the verge of a metal breakdown, let me tell you. Tea?”

“I- Yes, please.” Was the rigged-up sentance that tried to figure as an answear to Director's Hu verbosity. Before he even could correct her, as he and Zhongli weren't technically together yet, nor were they ever, in a formal manner, the cup of a scorching tea was unceremously pushed in his hands, and the Director was already talking.

“Are you even aware of the amount of office paper that was lost in this obsessive pursuit of a perfect letter? And not the ordinary, cheap bunch, oh no, the expensive, fancy one. The one on which we usually only write condolence letters. And the business isn't exactly triving as of now, so you understand why it pleases me so, that this lunaticy has been postponed.”

Ten minutes ago, he was sitting in the lobby of the Parlor, waiting for Zhongli to finish up his work so they could go and get lunch together in a perfect, peaceful silence. Now he watched as Director Hu adjusted the three red flowers on her hat, all the while talking his ears off. Not knowing what to do with himself, he tried to drink the tea he was offered, only for it to result in his tongue getting burned. He put down the delicate china on the nearest tea table.

“-well, but you can't really blame the old man, can you? Everyone would be devastated to have their fiancé just up and leave the country. Honestly, what even happened between you to-”

“Wait, wait, wait!” he managed to finally cut across the never-ending stream of words that he was drowning in. “Director Hu, there must have been some sort of misunderstanding; what do you mean- Fiancé?!”

The young woman looked at him in perplexity for a moment, and suddenly he felt really, really dumb under her bright, oddly-coloured eyes.

“Weren't you given the dragon-phoenix chopsticks? And haven't you accepted them?”

“I mean- Yes, but what does it have to do with anything?”

Hu Tao blinked once, then twice, her expression enigmatically blank. Then very slowly, as if talking to the toddler and not a Fatui Harbinger, she asked:

“Mr. Tartaglia, do you know the connotations of a phoenix-dragon symbolic in the context of Liyue culture?”

“I-” He felt really, really small at the moment, his shoulders put up defensively, his left leg twitching slightly. He must have looked comical – cowering before the woman, who, if they were standing, wouldn't even reach his chin. “There- there is some symbolic?” he asked meekly.

“Oh gods,” she started in what had to have been the blankest, most devoid of emotion tone he ever heard. “Oh my gods,” she continued in a more exasperated one, looking at him with bewilderment. "Oh, my fucking gods!” The potential client who had just entered the parlor, hearing Director's loud exclamation, slowly backed away. The ornate china chattered weakly as Hu Tao slapped her hands on the surface of a tea table, all the while looking at him with wide eyes.

He swallowed loudly.

“So, just to be clear – you- Zhongli, Zhongli who has been agonising over this for weeks, finally proposed to you, and you, you what?”

“I... took the chopsticks?” he asked, even though it was supposed to be a statement.

“You simply took them?!”

“Um, previous to that, I might have laughed a bit at the situation?”

“You did not.” There was a grave expression on Hu Tao's face as she searched his face for an indication of a joke. “Oh my gods, you did.”

“I thought it was a polite way to tell me my chopstick skills still sucks!”

“You thought it was what?!”

“I see you are both very energetic, would you perhaps mind sharing what propelled you to reach such loud volumes while some people are trying to actually work in here, Director Hu?” was the deep but slightly irritated tone that put the end to their screaming match friendly disspute.

Something cracked in his neck from how quickly he turned to face the consultant. When their eyes met, Zhongli smiled at him, and something in his brain abruptly crashed.

'Zhongli proposed to me last summer.'

He recalled the nervous, self-contious way Zhongli was looking at him that sunny day as he presented Childe with a red-wood box.

'Zhongli wanted to marry me.'

“It is nothing of great importance and certainly not something that cannot wait. So as long as you shall cherish them as you promised, I find no offence.”

'Zhongli wanted to marry me.'

“Childe dear, is something the matter?” asked the most ridiculus, absurd, mind-blowing man in the whole of the Teyvat, pointedly ignoring Hu Tao's vivid gesticulation.

He blushed bright red from cheeks to the very tips of his ears.

~*~

They kissed again, probably faster than it was wise. But it happened so naturaly - the progression between them talking and them kissing smooth and obvious. And Archons, it felt like a homecoming - like getting settled under the warm blanket with the knowledge you can stay there for however long you like. The kiss itself paradoxical in how it tasted like the first one but felt like a one of a thousand. With shy, excited butterflies in the stomach, but with relaxed hands, steadly holding the lean waist.

The first started tenderly, the second became passionate, and the third one landed them in bed.

And then neither bothered to count.

~*~

Mama,

I am writing this letter to put your mind at ease – upon arriving in Liyue, I took your advice (though I admit, it happened sooner than I was prepared for), and I am relieved to say it all went well.

My romantic problem resolved itself into what we now call a relationship, and while some things are still rather frail and tender, the rest of them are so warm, and fullfilling and comfortable that, at the end of the day, I find it all worth it. Zhongli is nothing less than everything I ever could have wished for.

I think I'd like you to meet him. Zhongli, that is. Maybe not in the near future - for now, work prevents me from coming home, but please keep it in mind. I am sure you will love him. 
The health part is also already resolved, I am well and healthy and ready to once again spoil all my siblings rotten. (Please give the latest, limited edition of a Mr. Cyclops figurine – with red straps! - that should come attached to this letter to Taucer. Let him know his brother says hi).

Thank you, mama, truly.

Love you,
Your son

~*~

“Chil-”

"Ajax,” he says one day, chest still breathing heavily, blood rushing in his ears from their recent activity.

“Pardon?” A trickle of sweat slowly travels down the column of a pale throat, only to get lost in the red sheet. There is confusion in amber, if still sightly blurry eyes.

"Ajax,” he says again, ignoring the anxiety that slowly crowls around his solar plexus. “That's my birth name.”

"Ajax.” The bruised mouth gently circles around the new word, and Ajax shivers. “I rather like the sound of it,” Zhongli says with a smile, and it was all that was needed for the sudden nervousness to back down.

They lay down together for quite some time after that.

~*~

The sea of the Yaoguang Shoal was calm – the horizon trying to separate the azure waters from the clear sky marely a blurred and vague line. The blue starconches glistened under his feet – each a shiny gem burried in the pale sand. Ajax came to a halt.

For a second, he regarded the tranquil waves with a distant, wistful look and then slowly closed his eyes. He stilled completely and listened.

Nothing – the only sounds were coming from the gentle breeze and water shyly reaching the shore. But from the sea itself? He strained his ears, but no. Nothing. Silence.

He smiled and opened his eyes.

“Ajax, dear, is everything alright? You looked deep in thought.” There was a subtle concern in Zhongli's voice. The breeze built up, taking the cascade of mahogany with it. Ajax had to hold on to his fatui mask otherwise, it would have been blown away.

“Nah, just wanted to check on something. No worries,” he said lightly, taking the consultant's hand in his in one smooth, practiced gesture.

“If you say so, dear.” Zhongli squeezed his hand, and that was the end of this matter. They lazily continued their walk. “When are you exactly departing for Fontaine?”

“Next week. What, will you miss me?” He asked cheekily, adjusting his red scarf with his free hand.

Zhongli gave him a blank stare – amber bright under the sun's rays. “Well, with an attitude like this? No, I do not believe I will.” There was a hint of mirth in his gaze.

“Ouch,” he gasped, hand theatrically grasping at his chest. “Let the man dream, xiānsheng...”

“ Hmmm, maybe when the man in question will cease uttering stupid questions.” Oh, there was definitely mirth in those eyes.

The eyeliner under them was red.

Ajax shrugged – no matter. He can give Zhongli this one.

After all, red was his favourite colour.

Fin.

Footnotes:

[1] Yes, I shit you not, this is a real thing, according to the wiki. And yes, I have checked a wiki page on Liyue cuisine. Give me my life back I'm begging you. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jadeite_Cabbage

[2] I did my research, but I am not knowledgeable on the subject of Chinese culture and flower symbols (not nearly enough as I am on Japanese), so pardon me if I interpreted something wrong. Also, it amazes me how different the interpretations of the same flower are when comparing Chinese and Japanese contexts.

[3] For those curious, this is what deer horn knives/crescent moon knives (Chinese: Lùjiǎodāo / Shuang yue, tho i couldn't find the proper tones for this one) looked like. I may have researched a topic of Chinese martial weaponry on wikipedia and let me tell you, some of them are creative af.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deer_horn_knives

[4] For those curious, the wood used was Griffin Exotic Wood (or a Bloodwood). I just thought it was really pretty. https://images.app.goo.gl/mniBDjadSTvRuTyN6

[5] Meaning: older brother. A way children in Japan can address older but usually not adult males.

[6] Neko(jap.) - a cat

[7] Gaijin(jap.) - a short form of the word Gaikokujin, which means foreigner, but it has an offensive undertone. And while we are at the topic, what Childe said about the difference in attitude towards foreigners who speak and don't speak Japanese is very much true.

[8] Aproximetely: 26m2. Traditionaly, in Japan, the perimeter of an apartament/room is conveyed in the amount of tatami mats it can fit. The standard tatami size is 90x180 cm.

[9] The ukiyo-e I used here is “Twilight View of Seba” from the series “Sixty-nine Stations on the Kisokaido” by Utagawa Hiroshige.

https://www.adachi-hanga.com/ukiyo-e-en/items/hiroshige119/

[10] Ramen-ya(jap.) - ramen restaurant/ramen shop

[11] Je ne parle pas inazuman(fr.) - “I don't speak inazuman.” I discussed it with a friend, because for the life of mine, I couldn't tell if it should be 'inazuman' or 'l'inazuman'. My middle school French teacher would be so disappointed.

*For those interested – wikipedia list of japanese-chinese 'false friends'

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Chinese%E2%80%93Japanese_false_friends

[12] Furoshiki - a wrapping cloth of various sizes traditionally used in Japan for wrapping, packing, and carrying various types of objects.

[13] 時候の挨拶 [jikō no aisatsu] When writing a Japanese letter, conventionally, you should include some sort of a weather/season element in the greeting. For example, „We have come to the season of autumn leaves, how do you fare?”. The same can be included in the ending phrase: "I would love to see you again by the time cherry blossoms bloom." They can be both mundane or poetic in nature.