Work Text:
Here is a hypothesis because he’s almost in his mid-twenties and most of the things in his life has yet to be kind:
Childe doesn’t believe in happiness, not since he was young — very young, and he wholeheartedly dares the entire world to prove him wrong right now.
(It does. Eventually. But we’re getting ahead of the story here.)
“I hate you.”
The new neighbour points an accusing finger to his chest and he blinks the sunlit backdrop away. There goes his daily scheduled morning run, he guesses.
“In fact, you are everything wrong with this place.” The guy continues and words bounce, really.
Thing is: Aether Lampinen’s neatly cut nails aren’t sharp — he recalls, having spent hours discreetly staring at the other’s bony fingers when he paints. And yet, Childe suddenly feels its tip grazing his shirt with a visceral clarity.
(Blond, same elective art class, probably an up and coming art major.
While he’s just moved here a while ago, Childe can tell Aether is introverted and definitely wants nothing to do with men who scream at video games for eight hours every Saturday with a bad soundproof set. Definitely.
Fierce and pretty, that’s an idea Childe can get behind with.)
“Your stupid face. Your stupid voice. Your stupid giggle whenever you win a game. Your little victory music that shakes my bedroom wall.”
The guy hisses, gestures wildly with both hands like fumes should come out from his ears, cartoonish. The loose ponytail comes closer to being untied by its end as Aether walks back and forth with his frustration, Childe blinks, laughing and then resting his gaze on the bit of forehead tainted with oil hues.
Mindlessly wonders if it’s the remnant of their landscape assignment for this week — doesn’t ask either way.
“Not just that, your fucking shirtless power yoga on the shared balcony at five o’clock too.” The voice pulls him back, pebbles and stones clattering in his breathing when Aether continues to speak. “What do you think when I hear the 2000s hip hop mixed and peer out my curtains to see your ass pressed against my windows? God — Stop laughing. It’s not funny at all.”
He can’t.
This happens a few times, he’ll admit.
But Childe earnestly hasn’t known he has an audience until he looks in between his legs to see a frightened Aether staring back, all colours drained except a vermillion bloom that goes up to his neck and ears.
It’s quite a show, he guesses. Apparently memorable enough to install darker curtains on that one set of windows where they share a balcony. A sense of pride fills his chest at this wordless confirmation.
Still,
No matter how much the blond raises his voice, he has to tilt his head down to meet the blaring gaze, a hot melting orange plush under the sun’s playful rays.
A quirk of brows, Childe chuckles.
“How much?”
“What?”
“How much do you hate me?”
Seemingly taken back by the amusing tone in his words, the guy bites his tongue, then the gnawing moves to his lower lip in deep consideration.
Tugging at the end of his hair, from this angle, the fullness of Aether’s cheeks look soft enough to dip his fingers in and drown in them, mollified. Maybe they have always been like that since the first semester, maybe just recently, he doesn’t know.
(He’d like to, though.
Childe would like to know a lot more about the other.)
“I don’t know. Enough?”
“I can live with that.” He grins. “Since it’s pretty much a healthy amount to keep me on your mind 24/7 rent-free, my pleasure.”
Childe makes a bowing gesture, something less of a classic m’lady — which earns a well-deserved groan, the wooden door next by slamming shut when a flash of daisy coloured blurs inside.
Laughing, he thinks that’s a good amount to have anyway.
It’s the same noon when he brings home a better sound blocking setup instead of the ones he is trying to get from overseas. To be fair, a little bird with a low ponytail tells Childe that his neighbour would appreciate this more than the two months wait for tranquillity — and he’s not one to pass on such details, really.
(He also buys a gift basket, which is another purchase on a whim.
Nothing more, nothing less.)
Ding dong, the doorbell goes in a circle like them, like these odd dancing steps. Sing-song, it goes and he’s always somewhere behind the other in a step.
It’s quick. A blink, really when there’s a sudden groan muffled behind the wall, then a click and the basket is gone when he checks again; chest filling with delight.
Aether catches him to give notes the next day.
“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?”
He’s hanging a few of his clothes on the balcony after a wash. Some shirts shrunk, or didn’t and he’s grown out of them again with his shoulders. Stops short at the first consonant of the other’s voice, “Hm?”
“I’m talking about you giving strangers gifts. The bundle of fruits on my doormat yesterday?”
Considering it — the idea. Childe is not one to show off with money, and never will be, he hopes. But when he sees how Aether’s cheeks are more lively today in a pinkish hue that may or may not have to do with the basket being the artist’s first meal in a week, all conscience eased.
“Nope.”
No gift-giving, fine.
He’ll cook too much then. That’s his one bad trait.
Well, it’s not really a bad thing when one considers that his servings are planned perfectly for his family of six. But he’s miles away from all of them and this is now a downfall. (Or a masterful plan of making a new friend, really, because Scaramouche sure as hell will not help him with this even when he begs the other to).
“Here’s a housewarming gift for you.” He smiles.
Standing outside the other’s doorstep with an apron still tied on, Childe is trying his best.
A blink.
“You moved here over two months ago.” Aether rubs at his eyes, drowsy.
It’s not the best tactic to wake up someone at five in the morning, but he might as well. Aether holds back a yawn in sweater paws, knuckles barely showing until the blond’s gaze falls on the red crab. Stuck.
Eyeing the pot of Calla Lily seafood soup suspiciously, he prompts.
“What… What even is this?”
“A delicacy. Wait — Don’t shut the door, I mean it!” Childe shoves the pot in the middle of the creek and holds off for now. It looks like it’ll make a dent, something blunt and he needs to wrap up his sales speech before the other kills him with bare hands, or the tilt of his fluffy hair. Whichever goes first. “The crab meat and twenty-five sprigs of mint help make for a thick, slimy and spicy soup. All while the calla lilies garnish it with a refreshing sour taste!”
“None of that sounds like they should be put together.”
“And yet, it’s perfect.” Childe smiles. This rejection means nothing compared to his years working at the wet market alongside his mom. In fact, the confusion seemingly intrigues the other further. “Give it a try, please.”
Hesitantly, Aether takes in the pot.
None of them has yet to know this will become a weekly routine.
The thing about living on campus is:
You’ll run into people. Too often you’ll run into the sunlight and wet grass and professors with decaf coffee mugs as the clock rolls on. But you’ll also run into the neighbour who isn’t really a neighbour because hey, living on the same student housing block means you’re almost housemates, really.
Childe waves at Aether from across the library seat and the other drowns his head in a book about human anatomy.
He doesn’t point any of this out loud when they cross paths the next day.
He sits, perfectly still and Aether is painting again, alone in a corner of their class.
Always a softer self-portrait with shorter hair in a white dress — the blond takes his time with each stroke, carefully tilting the brush with each angle to create a new depth. Pastel and vibrant and pastel of mauve, he’s crafting something of love and perfection that will be another great piece to show.
Childe just knows it.
Feels it, somehow.
Doesn’t know if the artist realises they’re in the same class for the past six weeks or not. Doubts that, to a fault. The guy looks at the canvas and he looks at him, a weird sight of other seas.
“It’s time to wrap it up, everyone. Great work today.”
The teacher assistant notes and Childe follows, rolling up the pencil sketch half-finished of a crescent face into something he can hold instead of a giant frame to drag around campus.
To be honest, he isn’t sure this is the class for him either.
Childe doesn’t draw abstract nor portrait, just whatever comes to mind in the form of thoughts and it’s something to discuss later with Albedo, said assistant in his class.
Still, perhaps it’ll have to wait, just for a moment.
Blinking at the oblong corner of shade and light, the announcement doesn’t reach Aether right away. Always takes him a second or two to get down from the sublime space to Earth — this is another thing to discuss later, alone.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Childhood Pancreatic Cancer Lab
Greetings Ajax,
Splendid work on the published abstracts about solid pseudopapillary tumours of the pancreas! While published abstract findings are often refuted by subsequent evidence, you have proven yourself worthy of our attention.
As I have received your request for a bigger laboratory with more research fundings, therefore, we will be in touch.
Good day,
Tsaritsa Queen, Ph.D.
Distinguished Professor,
Department of Biological Sciences, Celestia University.
“Not you again,” Aether murmurs in the cafeteria.
Rolling back his eyes of sea glass and stars, Childe can’t help but chuckle at the image.
“How on Earth is that out of everyone on campus, only our schedule syncs up?”
“Must be fate.” He shrugs and the other gives him a slight snort. Then reaches a hand up and corrects himself. “Can’t fight the red string of love, neighbour.”
“That’s it. One more flirty comment and I’m going to report you to the resident assistant.” The blond groans but there’s no bite, quickly returns his attention back to a sketch of the galaxy.
Faint and inconsistent, eraser crumbs curl up on the glass table by large windows. Aether is poetic — and in over his head, a pencil halted between fingers when he pauses every now and then.
“Ah, I see you’re late on Tuesday’s assignment then?”
Happy to make conversation, Childe flops down on a chair across from the other, making Aether scrunches his face and moves a little away when he hears the sound. “Me too.”
“I know. You never send anything good in.”
“So you do notice me, how flattering.”
And it’s a pleasant surprise, a half-knowing one because Childe has been told to make quite an impact in every class he walks into; he simply hasn’t thought Aether has taken an interest in him either.
A groan, softer but it’s just a must in their casual conversation at this point.
“I can’t ignore you. You’re everywhere and nowhere.” The former makes a comment, entertaining his thoughts. “That doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge you right now though. Work is due soon.”
They’re still a seat away when Aether doesn’t seem to have a good grip on the frame as he tries to position the drawing correctly.
Childe also doesn’t have a good grip on anything, which is as well.
He leaves a pot of soup after a few knocks and Aether brings it back tomorrow, cleaned and empty. No words were exchanged but it’s also good, he thinks. The guy could have poured the entire thing down the drain, except there is a note, something slightly dampened from the softest rain and—
“Thank you for this.”
Childe places it up near a framed photograph of Teucer.
Quick to get back on his emails for school in a better spirit, he’ll think about it later.
The thing about losing someone close to you is:
It’s a pain one hardly knows how to convey in words — so, he doesn’t press.
He wakes up around 3 AM and, “what are you doing?” Childe asks no one.
For such a small frame, the guy still cuts out an imposing silhouette against the night.
Maybe it’s a subjective guess, he doesn’t know Aether per se. But his eyes pick up on the slightest movement and there’s no mistake of who is the person sneaking around on their ground floor.
Half leaning over the balcony rail when Childe sees him holding a stack of print on one arm in the parking lot, Aether makes quick work to disappear into god knows where.
(He checks, later because curiosity draws out the cat.
Fingers flattening the missing posters, the drawing of a blonde girl in a white dress coming to life as the pieces fall together in his mind. A missing twin who has been gone sometimes after the first semester starts, no information even when it has been months.
Lumine, like starlights, a perfect matching name to the skyline.
There are also photos, but she’s always hidden in blurry corners of the frame, shy and aloof to her own world, it seems. Maybe they were close, maybe not; the images don’t tell. But the paintings speak louder than any word could, an aching and raw familial love in the way it transposes from his brush to the viewer’s eyes, in the way the colours drape down in strokes. Unblended.)
“Do you need help?” He offers, once, twice and maybe more but the other always runs off before there’s a reply. “Do you want help?” He stares at the figure with blond hair tucked inside a hoodie too large for his body, Childe can still tell who that is anywhere.
Are you lonely
Isn’t that lonely?
Why would you suffer alone?
—Stayed as questions he doesn’t ask, ever.
He has a dream that night of someone he hasn’t seen in years.
Hospital lights, the world blurred with loud shoutings and,
This hits too close to home, Childe admits.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Childhood Pancreatic Cancer Lab
Greetings Ajax,
Firstly, I am impressed with your rather continuum of publications on the matter despite the initial hiccups. I can see your passion and I am willing to stand beside you on your research.
However, as of right now, there is an increasing concern that most current published research findings among students are false. Re: Mr Javert’s recent project with an ill-founded strategy that has been sent out in a newsletter on Monday. In consequence, our school has yet to be confident in funding your project completely until we can prove that there has been a fair preselection of tested relationships.
The next logical step for you would be to carry out additional studies to determine the feasibility, while I will convince the board to reconsider your potential.
Looking forward to working with you soon,
Tsaritsa Queen, Ph.D.
Distinguished Professor,
Department of Biological Sciences, Celestia University.
It’s Friday and he’s squinting his eyes against the lights.
The party is for Scaramouche. Technically. Sort of. Okay, it’s hosted by La Signora because she has been trying to get Scara alone for weeks but he’s not supposed to say anything, which is as well.
Childe likes to feign ignorance with a lot of things, his seniors’ relationship is just another point on that list.
The music is too loud.
Someone has linked the most generic Youtube playlist on there, but it drowns out people trying to make conversations with him — so it’s a good balance after all.
Besides his one elective art class, every small talk lately has been about RNA samples, Islet cell tumours or whatever else from their department newsletter as Dr. Tsaritsa reviews everyone’s works. The most spice he has gotten to dull ears is about a guy named Javert, who is foolish enough to be caught rigging data so his distorted reporting could get him into the pool of funding. Which, well, is leaking out bit by bit.
Still, despite being someone who worships her insight religiously with her years of discoveries and paperwork, there comes a point in his week where Childe would turn off the notifications on his phone.
He’s tired.
He shouldn’t be this tired and burnout at twenty-three, but he is and the expanding loneliness from being miles away from home won’t ease either.
Pours himself a cup of liquid and knocks whatever is in this mixture dry, it’s the next person he finds in the crowd of bioscience majors that surprises him.
Clink goes the wooden door and Aether walks in when everything slows down, for one second. All around them, the students chat, continue chugging down beers and the odd colour sangria in harmony. None the wiser to realise the sudden maelstrom in his veins, the drumming of stale beer down his throat.
Childe blinks, static.
It feels like an eternity when they meet each other’s eyes.
“You made it,” someone greets the blond and he hasn’t recognised the person yet. Maybe he doesn’t really know everyone here, which is a first. “I told you to call, I would have picked you up just fine.”
“No, no. It’s alright.” Smiles Aether and his glance drops halfway. They seem friendly. Potentially more because Childe has never seen this guy loitering around the apartment, but if he knows where Aether lives — they must be on a somewhat friendly term. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Xiao.”
“You should have. It’s annoying and I don’t know anyone here.”
“Aren’t you in a study group with Keqing right now?”
Xiao shakes his head. “As I said, no one.”
“That makes two of us,” Aether confesses with a lilt and that’s his cue, he thinks.
“The name is Ajax ‘Tartaglia’ Ivanov but everyone here calls me Childe.” He laughs. Makes his way through the crowd and holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Xiao doesn’t shake it and Aether just stares sheepishly for one moment, which is whatever.
But the way the former stands closer to Aether as if shielding him away from Childe is a little funny, to be honest. He doesn’t look like he can even reach Childe’s gaze even when he bends down, so he gives it a smile to ease the air. “This is my friend’s house, so consider yourselves at home.”
“I see.” Xiao gives him a thoughtful nod and Aether is looking anywhere but his eyes. The blond looks exceptionally cuter in a beige overall with these long sleeves — Childe will give him that, no more. “It’s kind of your friend to invite the entire department through relentless chain emails.” He grits his teeth. “Even when it’s … not the most ideal.”
A shrug.
“That’s Scaramouche for you.”
Xiao looks at Aether while he looks at Childe and this—
This is complicated, he thinks.
The situation is simple: Either they have something, or they don’t. But telling the boy next door that you feel something for him in front of his (probably) boyfriend — is a dangerous game and assuming this is something that needs to be spoken, is also foolish.
Studying his solo cup, when Signora pulls him in the very much planned group with Scaramouche, he still doesn’t cut the gaze away.
“Truth or Dare, Childe?” One of them asks and he shrugs. “Dare.”
“Kiss someone you find attractive in this room right now,” Snickers Pierro.
Truly living up to his nickname the Jokester that he gave himself when the film Joker premiered on their campus, the guy is never one to back down from any party. Even when Signora has fought him off with a broom at the front door.
I’m serious, Pierro argued and the clip-on tie that sprays out water did not help his case one bit — but Childe isn’t one to bash on people’s peculiar fashion taste.
“Like, a real full-on make-out session. No back down because we are all adults here, of course.” He shrugs, still excited. “C’mon kid, put on a show!”
“You’re being a real dick right now,” Pulcinella blinks, the drink bubbling from their fingers. As the eldest in their group, they’re often the wisest with and without the presence of booze. “Take your time Childe, don’t let these fools’ peer pressure get to you.”
He turns to the side, contemplating.
Aether is leaning against a wall with Xiao entranced by his voice, and there’s half an urge to stand up and kiss the other into oblivion, to make something of this mess and paint it better, somehow.
The other half tells him no.
“Alright.” Childe runs a hand through his hair and puckers his lips. He makes his first few steps and there are a few audible gasps going. Staring down at Scaramouche while Signora looks like she’s going to jump him at any second now — “This isn’t going to hurt one bit.”
He’s the luckiest person in this room — campus even.
Not even two hours in, Xiao abruptly remembers that he has a paper due tomorrow and has to go. There’s no hug, not even a handshake goodbye so they can’t possibly be together, Childe thinks.
(There’s also the fact that Scaramouche immediately scuttled off when he tried to kiss him — which is as well. He hardly can picture a better way to end a game he doesn’t want to participate in from the start.)
Finding Aether standing at a corner all to himself when he’s circled around people for the past hour, half buzzed, he brings a bottle of water to the former and gestures to the upstairs balcony.
“So I take it that you weren’t lying when you said this was a friend’s house.”
“How come?” He grins. The air out here is soft, more breathable than a living room with twenty-something students who are getting rowdier as the night falls. Taking a sip of the drink, everything is glistening in the distance. “Did you happen to pick up a tail on me or something?”
Dainty fingers cup around the bottle, “Because you seem to know the layout, I guess.”
“That’s not a good guess at all.” He shakes his head. “I can also be a creep who has been eyeing this house for a long time without knowing the host.”
“Well, are you?”
“Nah.” He laughs, air breaking from his lungs. “I lived here with him during my first year. One hell of a snore though, that guy.”
“I see.” Aether replies, voice quiet. The corners of his mouth have been flipped upward ever so slightly and this is good, Childe thinks. He doesn’t get too many chances of seeing such miracles.
“You’re much prettier when you smile, do you know that?”
He says it and yet, it’s not what he’s meant to say. It’s nowhere near that — he thinks — or maybe it is and his lips are twenty per cent more loosened with alcohol.
There should be some sort of warning on these drinks. These mixtures. Something along the lines of “Hey, don’t go on your fifth cup of unknown fruit punch because it can be a truth serum on your sixth sip.” Or maybe there is and he hasn’t been looking at anything but Aether long enough to take notice of such danger.
This is an unguarded talk, he blinks.
Alcohol makes for loose lips and loose lips sink .
Bringing the red solo cup away from his mouth, the next thought he takes in is tentative. He studies the blond for a few moments, letting him study him in return.
“Anyway, about tonight’s party,” Childe continues abruptly. He swallows, straightens his back and hopes that Aether is better at reading the room than he is. “It’s not really hosted by my friend Scaramouche per se. Truth is, another senior above our year is super into him and she has been peer pressuring the rest of us into coming here so she can create scenarios to flirt with him. You know, the awkward hair twirling ‘let’s all spin a bottle’ kind of thing.”
“Wow.” Aether manages. “That sounds like a lot of work.”
“True,” He nods. “But you have to praise a person for being that committed. The guy is barely even five foot six and La Signora is still nothing short of dedication.”
It gets a snort, the little comment.
“Here’s to being taller than five foot six.” Aether knocks his own bottle against the plastic cup and it barely makes a sound. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“No freaking way.” Aether laughs, voice cracking and Childe has never known of a sound more beloved to his ears. “That’s you?”
The guy zooms in the picture until all is too pixelated to see. The camera quality is bad, but one can draw a connection between that kid with a face full of freckles and Childe with the same hairstyle, himself.
“You’re telling me I’m standing here with a theatre kid? Mr Peter Pan himself?”
“Hey,” Childe raises up a palm and shakes his head slowly. “Don’t clump people like that. It’s not black and white since everyone has layers, you know?” The phone is hot on his hand, or it’s the heat from the other being less than an arm’s length away from his shoulder. Slipping, Childe can’t tell yet. “All cards on the table, I also did sports too.”
“You look the type.” Aether takes a sip from a beer bottle that he sneaks out. Sated. There’s a smug look on his mouth that the latter wants to wipe out with his own. Face on face, lips on lips. He wants to do so much to this guy’s body, with his own.
A thought occurs to him, or rather, it slams straight into his frontal lobe and Childe immediately flips up his shirt past rib cages. The wind grazes his skin, tightening his stomach.
“See? I told you I worked out—” A beat. No. Yes. No. What? “—Wait, you’re already convinced?”
The blond laughs softly. A huff so warm, his cheeks flushed. “Yeah, I practically have seen all of you, remember? Your shirtless power yoga at five?”
Childe’s cheeks burn. “So, I just showed you my body for no reason.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Aether shrugs and pouts as if to suppress a smile and oh, he is impossible. “I can name about… Eight reasons?”
“Eight would be correct. It’s my lucky number.” He adds, doesn’t expand further.
The thing about being lonely in your twenties is:
You’ll find that you’re more inclined to spill your heart than to drown in someone else’s. Or maybe it’s both. Maybe alcohol helps and it’s both and you’re teeth deep into someone’s skin to know better right now.
—It’s like statistical hypothesis testing: Choosing between two different possibilities to resolve an ambiguous scenario. Except they’re both drunk to an extent and he doesn’t recall whose lips cave in which skin.
Doesn’t matter much, either way.
(“Did you mean it, when you said I was pretty?” Aether asks behind a sip, voice dripping and Yes. Yes. “Yes.”
He has forgotten how intoxicating a touch can be.)
The sun extends its grip and he wakes up alone.
Which, honestly, isn’t quite irrelevant to most days.
He doesn’t expect the morning after to be a world breaking event. Childe has had a few sparring nights like this back in his freshman year, mostly to know — then to chuck it off his bucket list and move on with life.
But fine, Aether isn’t a fling.
He’d kissed the guy and he kissed him back, didn’t he?
Doesn’t that mean something in normal people’s books? Does it at least mean it’ll go somewhere and Xiao won’t look at the other with starlight in his eyes anymore? Does it mean anything — or is he grabbing at straws here and Childe has meant as little to Aether as those freshman nights meant to him?
Crawling off his bed with his shorts hanging loosely by the hips,
Until he finds Aether loitering around his kitchen in a shirt that seemingly drowns the other down to his knees — speaking — he has yet to believe this is reality. “Morning. Do you have anything remotely edible around here or do I have to google how to make a protein shake?”
You. He wants to say. You’re fucking unbelievable. And edible and that’s such a bad joke but you. Just, you.
Childe grins and, “Let me check the cabinet instead.”
“I don’t know how to do this.” Aether confesses almost below his breath. There is an extra pillow on his bed, soft and Childe is thinking about making room for an easel too, if Aether would let him.
“I don’t either.” He smiles back, honest. “But we’ll figure it out. I know we can.”
There is no rush in this prolonging moment in time.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Childhood Pancreatic Cancer Lab
Greetings Ajax,
While it has been two weeks since we last talked, I have successfully convinced the board to give you a chance.
As our budget and time are limited, please select the time best fitting you in my attachment link below. Dress properly and bring your slides. No more than fifty minutes long on your pitch and make sure you will be hydrated beforehand.
Looking forward to hearing from you soon,
Tsaritsa Queen, Ph.D.
Distinguished Professor,
Department of Biological Sciences, Celestia University.
He nails the talk, breezes through the slides.
Only half-pausing when one of them asks why he wanted to pursue this cause,
Childe informs them with a slide on Teucer.
“You suck at this.” Aether makes a face and he’s not offended by the slightest. The sound is muffled, electronic beats that clash together with a few random recordings he’s found since middle school — scrunching his freckled nose while Aether removes Childe’s headphones away from his ears. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you didn’t pursue a career in deejaying right now.”
“Aw, man.” He huffs, dramatic. “I can’t believe you just murdered me in cold blood.”
“At least your eardrums were intact when you died,” Aether shrugs. “My heart dropped when you used the neighbourhood dog’s bark as a beat, and I still can’t find it now.”
Wrapping the other in a quick hug, he whispers.
“Nah I picked it up already. Finders keepers.”
They stay like that for a while, Aether sitting perfectly on his laps and laughing into his ears. It’s when the kettle makes a deafening sound and Childe can no longer keep Aether away from the overboiling stove — he releases the other of his grip.
When he opens his eyes from the afternoon nap, there is a new painting in their living room.
The thing about falling for an artist is:
He’ll paint.
The door, the walls. The old notebook that he claims is boring because you only own them in a basic colour scheme. The pot of his plants that you got roped into buying because he thinks it’ll make the room pop. The corner of your desk where his oil hues drip onto dry wood.
But more importantly,
He’ll paint his love for you in every breath, every song. He’ll make a home in your heart that you can’t refuse and when you think it’s too full to hold anything ever again — there’s a tangible painting he places near your bed.
He loves as he paints and you’re the subject.
He loves and you’re the muse.
Around their one month of dancing around, he realises something as a constancy.
It’s simple. It’s grief. They’re together but the baggage lies heavier whenever Aether slips out after dark to plaster the posters of his missing sister in every corner of their campus again.
Still not bringing her up in any conversation —
He doesn’t want to press, doesn’t want to force anything.
Childe asks around, uses his old contacts in the military to find traces and when Aether is back in these bundled up sheets again, he’ll place an arm over the other’s cold torso to warm up his heart.
(There is nothing conclusive, and hope is slim.)
Both are quiet, never addressing the illuminant ghost in their room.
“What’s this?” Aether asks.
“An umbrella,” Childe shakes the thing gently. It makes sounds when opened and closed, which gives a sense of clarity in the dark. The umbrella is also painted in bright yellows, like the sun and the gold spun hair he dearly loves — which is a plus, really. “Didn’t know they don’t have this back in Mondstats. Huh. You learn something new each day.”
Swatting a hand lazily against his chest, “No, you dork. I meant: what’s the occasion for this. I already told you about my birthday, didn’t I? Is today yours then?”
“Do people tend to give others gifts on their own birthday?” Childe quirks a brow. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding. The weather has been weird lately so I might as well get you something useful, so why not a yellow umbrella?”
“Were all the other colours sold out? Not even a dreadful white?”
“Yes, I made sure they’re unavailable so I can punish you specifically with this.” He laughs. “No, I got it because it’s pretty. Like you.” A beat. “Do you not like it? I know I’m not as good with colours but when I see this, it screams ‘take me home to shield your boyfriend from sudden illness’!”
Aether’s laughter rumbles through his entire body. Then stops, mouth hangs open for milliseconds as if to speak something. Doesn’t.
He picks at a thread on Childe’s frayed sleeve, quiet. “So, I’m your boyfriend then?”
Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes. “If you want to.” Childe smiles. “No pressure of course comrade, because we’re in academics and you know how people say that these things don’t tend to go hand in hand and—”
“Ajax.”
Not crossing his fingers at all when Aether’s gaze locked in with his,
“Yes. I’d like to be your boyfriend.”
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Friday meeting.
Greetings Ajax,
Congratulations!
As you have successfully sold us on the presentation, there will be a celebratory dinner from our board. I will be bringing the clauses for you to go through, so do be on your best behaviour at this time.
Since Dr. Dottore, Dr. Skirk and Dr. Capitano will be in Liyue for a conference meeting by then, I will be alone in assisting you on this meeting. The restaurant’s information has been reserved and attached below, please check for your allergies on the menu prior to coming.
Do not let a lady wait, and, looking forward to seeing you,
Tsaritsa Queen, Ph.D.
Distinguished Professor,
Department of Biological Sciences, Celestia University.
He fixes his tie and,
“Ajax, lovely seeing you again!”
The woman greets, gently gesturing for him to pull out her chair.
It’s a sense of oddity. At the first glance, her dress looks fancier than a professional meeting, it has a high slit up to her thighs and their table seems oddly intimate in red lights. But he won’t ask anything right now. Professionally, he’s come far enough that these things shouldn’t mean anything, right now.
“Charming as always, I see. I adore your outfit.”
She rests her chin on her hands, fingers linked. Okay, that’s not how he’d expect the most respectable doctor in the Biology Sciences department to act like, but it can’t have any deeper meaning, can it?
“Dr. Tsaritsa,” He smiles, settling down on the seat opposite from hers. If she is any displeased by his distance, the knowledge is painted faintly on her brows. “Thank you for having me here tonight. It truly is a pleasure to be in your presence.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” She smiles.
The realisation is slow. Hesitant.
Everything comes with a cost, really.
He walks her to her car and the rain coats them, soft.
The night has been well, he likes the clauses and he’ll like working at her lab. Despite her weird off-beat jokes, the woman has been kind and gentle to his ideals. She was everything the department painted her out to be, so all is well, really.
All until Dr. Tsaritsa leans in and kisses him dry.
“I know you want this.” She says, voice dripping down like a phlegm in his throat. Her hands rub against his shirt and Childe feels terribly ill right now. The world is tilting, floor sinking and fuck, how did he not pick up on the alarms? “You have so much potential, Ajax. Come with me and I’ll settle everything for you. Anything you want, labs, types of equipment, I’ll get them for you.”
“What—” He chokes. “What are you on about—”
Pushing her away, stunned by her act —
There’s a yellow umbrella dropped a few feet away from them.
When he runs home, the neighbour’s apartment has lights.
His bed is lacking one pillow.
“Hey.” He sits on the chair next to Aether in their art class and the other looks away. It’s the only time he can reach him outside of the ten missed calls and no reply on all texts. It’s the only time they’re in the same room. “Please, can I talk to you?”
“We’re in class.” The blond retorts and something shoot cold in his veins. Childe doesn’t know what he has seen — but he has a clue, a clue and it’s sickening in his guts.
“About last night, please I can explain and—”
“Will you leave me alone so that I can focus?”
He blinks and everything drops. Warmth has run out of Aether’s sunlit tone and winter bleeds. The other doesn’t even meet his eyes.
Words minced. “Alright,” is all Childe managed to breathe out.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: The other night.
Greetings Ajax,
As you have shown inappropriate behaviours during our meeting, I have to regretfully announce that we will no longer be interested in funding you. Attached beneath is a complaint of your sexual misconduct that will be sent to the Board of Directors, and all of your current projects will be on hold until further notice.
Best wishes on your journey,
Tsaritsa Queen, Ph.D.
Distinguished Professor,
Department of Biological Sciences, Celestia University.
He leaves a letter. Aether doesn’t read it.
He leaves a note. The blond doesn’t take it in.
He leaves another voicemail and, ‘this number isn’t available.’ Which is as well.
His eyes sting and the other is still somewhere beneath these hallways with posters and a broken heart. Not in his kitchen, not in his bed, nowhere near his skin ever again so Childe closes his eyes and locks the door.
The point is moot.
“You’re not coming to class.” Signora stares down at him like it would gloss over the way they just broke in his place at dawn. Scaramouche is already making himself at home despite how much he dislikes Childe’s taste in decorations. “So the boyfriend and I wanted to check up on the condition of your deceased body.”
“Not boyfriend.” Scara corrects with a scorn. “But yes, what the fuck happened to you?”
Flopping down on the edge of his bed, both of them orbit around his world and this feels like being nineteen in his freshman year again.
“I got the lab.” Childe wipes a hand over his face. He’s also covering half of his chest under this white sheet and damn, they really should have called. “Also lost it. All in one night.”
“Shit, Ajax.” Scaramouche blinks. Processing. “But aren’t you the most semi-competent in our group? How did it happen so fast then? Didn’t Dr. Tsaritsa look out for you like she promised?”
It’s an irony, he wants to say.
Truth be told, I’m not proud that the one person I respect in this field sexually harassed me and then filed a complaint against my non-existent conduct.
There were signs. Stupid, loud sirens from the way she went to the dinner alone to the restaurant she picked. It got worse with her dress that pushed up her cleavages and the way I thought a rat was tugging against my shoes.
Then, cherry on top, really because she kissed me in the parking lot and my boyfriend of one month caught the entire thing. Or didn’t and he just found out he hated my guts over something else, which would make sense. Which would make a lot of sense.
Honestly, I want to rip myself to shreds and eat the leftover pieces before science experiments on my body and make a mutant out of these hands. And if I was destined to be operated on, I don’t trust either of you guys to do it.
“That’s a really long pause, kid.”
His eyes glance up to meet Signora’s gaze. “Yeah. Really don’t want to talk right now.”
“Then don’t.” Scaramouche gives him a shrug.
In the years of knowing the guy, Childe has learned to pick up on his nuances.
“You look ten times less stupid when your mouth isn’t running, so rest up.” Means I care about you even when you look horrid right now so please don’t use more energy. “We’ll be back in an hour with something more edible than the ‘sad spinach art student stuff’ you got going on here.” Means your food is inedible and fine, I’ll buy the soup from the Pavillion place up north rather than whatever the cafeteria a walk away can get. La Signora is only coming with me because she is the only person who has a car and my driving license is still locked since my last road rage. “Oh, and I hate you. A lot.”
He smiles, feeling a bit less lonely to pick himself up again.
“I love you too.”
It’s around his tenth sip of Signora’s pain-numbing cocktail that Childe shows them the email and stops Scaramouche from giving a few pieces of his mind back.
“You can’t intimidate a professor with a drunken ‘sent from my Android,’ Scara.”
“Watch me.”
“No.” La Signora holds him back. “Let’s think of it rationally, boys. A rude email would only have you both in the red zone for the rest of the board and I need you to be in the clear for our own project. I will not go through hell and back to get another focus group with that same diversity again, Scara.”
She pats rhythmically down Scaramouche’s back and since her nails look like they’d hurt, Childe straightens his own back automatically.
“The complaint is most likely to be peer-reviewed, so we need to combat that first to keep Tartaglia here. It would be counted as an off-campus physical contact of a sexual nature if she wants to keep her story straight, hence the respondent — him — needs to make a good case if we want to bring this up to the Board Of Directors.”
“And how are we going to do this?”
“Lots of research, sweetheart. The thing we’re best at anyway.”
During the seven nights of being ignored, Childe finds himself struggling to concentrate on anything at all. At least he can send in his parts for group projects and the study on one thousand billion glial cells in different drastic conditions is done, but eating and remembering to breathe get harder after a while in the dark.
Would it be desperate to camp out here and die on his doormat?
Yes, the sane part of his mind replies.
It’s about an hour of him standing outside on the balcony when he hears a low curse. Catches Aether by his doorstep, groceries heavy on both hands.
“Hey neighbour.” He begins with a soft joke and “Oh good grief.” The other blurts at his sight. “I can’t do this.” Aether shakes his head and a few objects fall off onto the ground.
Apples, Childe thinks. He can’t make much out in this flickering darkness of their hallway, but the almost circular objects roll and he stops a few with his left foot. This would have been a cute gesture if he isn’t so far gone off the best boyfriend list for the past week.
“Fuck. I really can’t do this right now, Ajax.”
There lives a beat after his name and he stands perfectly still away from Aether, frozen in his step. Body breaks on the same gravitational pull that leads him here, Childe blinks, and the other continues to speak.
“For God’s sake, I am a mess. I have a missing sister. I have four paintings due this week and sure, I don’t know what I want in my life at this point. But I sure as hell don’t have time for any of this mess where we’re dating but not and you kiss a professor you’ve always been looking up to. Love or not, goddamn — I want none of this, please.”
Childe tilts his head.
In front of him is the most vulnerable Aether has ever been.
“Let me help you.” He leans down, lifting up one bag. His tone is quiet and the words don’t register to the other’s ears as well. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
“What?” Aether winces.
“Let me—” He breathes in, lifting it slower. “—help you.”
“Why?” His eyes slide down and Aether is chewing on his lower lip. “Why would you want to do this? Everybody said it’s a waste of time — Even I know it too, so why would you ever want to do this?”
A pause.
Suddenly it’s not about the apples bruised on this floor, but something else. He blinks and the bag he’s picking up has a few rolled-up posters the other has yet to glued up around here.
Ah.
Ah. He sees.
The other stands, broken and he sees his soul with clarity.
“We’re not together anymore, so why would you even care about this?”
Because I care about you.
Because I liked you from the first moment you walked over and shouted at me how much you disliked me. Because I like you more, every day since. And I care about you, still, even when you’re angry and hurt and we’re nowhere close to being in love anymore. I care. I care about your causes because I love you. Because I love you and I still want to see where this will go. Because I don’t want to lose something special to fear and stupid things like this and even if I do, I need to know you will be okay. Because any minute spent away from you is a moment wasted and you can’t even comprehend how much I love you. Because you deserve happiness too, even when I’m not in the picture — ever, by your wish.
Don’t you know it?
Nothing matters at this very moment, except you.
“Because — I lost someone close to me too.”
He blurts and it seems to settle the air, the anger.
The sentence kicks whatever have been stuck at Aether’s throat away and his beautiful eyes are glazing, melting but at a slower pace now.
“I’ve never told you about this but, my brother passed away when I was seventeen.” Childe continues, calm. His fingers are laced together to keep him from shaking. Which works, sorta. “He is the reason why I’m here for school. The reason why you caught me with Dr. Tsaritsa at dinner the other night, asking her if I could do my research on childhood pancreatic cancer at a better lab. The same reason why I walked home empty-handed after she kissed me and I turned her down.”
There lives a gasp, quiet.
The realisation sets in and he takes it as a cue to go on.
“I didn’t cheat on you. Even when she kissed me, I didn’t.” He exhales. “It’s — complicated and I think she’s going to get me suspended or kicked out soon.”
His mouth twitches.
“Ajax, I —”
“No, no. Please let me finish.” He holds up his hands. It’s a lot to ask but please, he needs Aether to let him finish.
The other gives him a nod and his heart calms.
“I know I can find any lab to work at or finish school later, I don’t mind. To be honest, the prognosis for children with pancreatoblastoma was good in my hometown too. One of the top three, even. It’s just — well, it wasn’t fast enough compared to the extension of his malignant tumour then and I don’t. I don’t really want to experience that all over again at home.”
Maybe it has been the words or the tone, the urgency of the situation at hand.
He continues, trailing and for the first time ever, it doesn’t hurt as much to share.
“You know, we sold the house. Which was foolish since Snezhnaya had the kind of weather where you’d freeze to death when you stop moving. But what to do, right?” A dry chuckle. “I started helping mom out at the wet market so we could afford a little food outside of his treatment, which wasn’t as bad of a decision then.”
The memory is clear, crystal and at times, he still struggles to visit these places without prompting it to flood back in waves. The scent, the loud butchering noises. It has been better when he has a cause to overcome them.
“It wasn’t enough, though. We were a family of six and it was nowhere enough.”
He lets out a small huff. Unsure of its nature.
Finds Aether’s hand ghosting on his skin and easing into the touch, Childe doesn’t need to figure out its nature.
“Remember how you found it extremely easy to dislike me when I first moved here? Well, that’s the thing, you’re not the first. I was the kid who got recruited into the army for special benefits at fifteen: They gave my family a shelter and made sure we would be taken care of for as long as I was working in shady stations, even when I got beaten up most of the time over simple consternations.”
“Ajax…”
“It’s fine.” He places a hand over Aether’s grip. Feeling compelled to ground them both, in this moment. “I mean the whole thing wasn’t fine but—at least it bought everyone more time. Bought the kid more time, you know?”
A sharp exhale.
“At the end of his last chemotherapy session, Teucer made it to his eighth birthday.”
Eight is my lucky number, Childe has told him this. Just never expand on it, really.
He finishes the tale and the balcony is quiet.
Breathing muffled by moonlight and the twinkling constellations above, the balcony is too quiet for such a confession to be told.
“I’m sorry.” Aether speaks after a pause. The sentence is short but his tone isn’t clipped or empty of warmth. He says it quietly, akin to someone who has known loss and the sentiment glows around them. “Really am.”
Heartbeats pass, he glances down from the stars to meet his gaze.
“You didn’t know.” Childe smiles.
The next words come softer, more gentle. His hands are on Aether’s bags and the apples are back in place.
“Will you please, let me help you now?”
Doesn’t reply for a long moment, when Aether pulls him in for a hug, melting into his warmth. “It’s all yours.”
He puts the posters down. The wooden door closes shut.
They’re sleeping soundly on the same bed and this is another try.
The thing about being Aether Lampinen’s partner (again) is:
You don’t help him. You think you do but he lets you think you do. Or, in another sense, he’ll only let you when he gets to help you first.
It’s like staring at a sunlit pond — get it because of his name — your reflection is only vivid because it’s rippled by the sun’s warm rays.
“You need to counter her complaint with your own.” Aether blinks and Childe is half-awake. The digital numbers on his clock are only at 3:48 AM, which is not enough rest for his mind to register anything prior to another yawn and a stretch. “No, think about it. The hag is only confident because she thinks people will listen to her due to her reputation in STEM, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“So let’s take her down! She must have used the same trick on a few other students and taken them down the same way she’s trying to do you.” Aether slams his fist against his own palm. A Eureka moment when ochre eyes light up and he shakes at Childe again. “Do you know what this means? Do you?”
He has a vague idea.
“... Are you saying we’re going to compile every person she has filed a complaint on so we can have enough evidence to go against her words?”
“Yes. And?”
There’s more? “And…?”
“And get my stupid boyfriend’s project funded so he can save the world, of course.” The other flop down onto him, nose pressed on the hollow of his collarbone and Childe chuckles back a laugh. “I adore you but I will not be romantically involved with a pre-successful DJ or a pre-launch power yoga instructor. No offence.”
“Mhm, none taken.” He kisses Aether’s hair, gold spun strands that become more of a faded moonlight trail in this light, “Sounds perfect.”
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Revenge is a dish best served cold.
skip the greeting. you already know who i am you nerd.
attached below is a security tape from the restaurant’s parking lot camera, twelve statements of similar situations from the last four years and two more audiotapes of her misconduct caught by some kids named Xiao and Keqing. i think they know your boyfriend or something, but these things are helpful so i will give him that.
signora already drafted the sexual harassment complaint and since she wanted to be included in this, i put her in the cc. (hello old hag. if you are reading this, thanks).
you know who i am.
Sent from my Android.
The thing about living on campus is:
You’ll run into people. Get to know them. Build a bond of sorts.
The other thing about having lived with one of the pettiest men alive ever, on campus, is: Scaramouche is not one to be messed with. That somehow applies to the handful of people he cares about too, Childe guesses.
“I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE HER FACE.” His dark hair is a mess and Childe nods supportingly, trying to bring his friend closer to the bed, slightly drunk and crazy. “DID YOU SEE THAT? DID YOU SEE THE WAY SHE TREMBLE? ‘What do you mean I am guilty of these charges, Directors?’” Scaramouche bats his eyelashes repeatedly to mirror their hearing of Tsaritsa. He looks like he has something flying in his eyes, which is as well. Childe wouldn’t know better without context. “IT MEANT EXACTLY THAT BITCH! YOU. ARE. DOWN. TAKEN ALL THE WAY DOWN. LIKE GOD INTENDED.”
“Aaaand that’s my cue of taking this away from you.” Childe laughs, untangling the champagne bottle from the other’s hands. He has a tight grip for someone with hamster-like hands, really. “One more sip and you’ll set someone on fire, little guy.”
“Eh.” Scara manages a shrug. It doesn’t look right since he’s tilting at an odd angle and his face is flushed red, but it’s a shrug nonetheless. “Signora will put me out. She got me, I got her and we got you. It’s a system.”
“It’s a good system.” He nods. “A perfect system.”
Putting an arm over his shoulders as he lays Scaramouche to rest, the party half muted behind these walls.
He shimmers his way to the balcony outside of Scaramouche’s bedroom and Aether is there, perfect. Hair ruffled, the other is as beautiful as the first time they met right here.
“Hey.” He wanders closer.
In the dark, Aether’s eyes bloom a softer glow, calmer and closer to tangerine than a dainty daisy. The light grows, ever so lightly with a crinkle, and “Hi,” Aether greets back. “Funny meeting you here.”
“Ah yes, I heard it’s quite a hot spot in town.” He humours. “Something about a landmark from Mondstats being moved here, a gorgeous piece of art really, did you happen to see where that is placed?”
“Ha ha, very funny.” The other fakes a laugh but his eyes give in. The tone is warm, saccharine where their gaze meets.
“You’re much prettier when you smile, do you know that?” Childe smiles, soft.
“And you’ve used that line before.” Aether points a finger accusingly to his chest but the touch is barely grazing, now. “In fact, I think I know most of your lines by now, loverboy.”
(Blond, same building, probably moving to his apartment soon.
Introverted, like him. Likes painting everything in his monochrome apartment into flowers and kaleidoscope pieces. Would rather have instant noodles than fruits most of the time to save money despite having a scholarship and a boyfriend who can afford fresh fruits. Has a twin sister that no one has yet known of her last whereabouts, but they’re getting closer, he thinks. With the entire bioscience department helping on their search, everything is closer, he thinks.
Beautiful in every sense, there is no scenario in which Childe will ever forget his lips. So, he guesses this is his forever.)
“Your face. Your voice. Your weird giggle when cold water hits your back in the shower and your groan when the tea temperature is just right. The way you study a crab to perfection and still can make the outcome of the dish look like a crime scene. The way you hold your power yoga poses over an hour for me to paint without a singular complaint, but you can’t make it through one movie night without being clingy to me for the entire hour.”
“And?” He chuckles. “How are these lines per se?”
“Because they work.” Aether gives him a light shrug. “They work and I’m in love with you.”
The thing about being in love in your twenties is:
You’ll find that you’re actually more vulnerable than you have ever been at seventeen. Or thirteen. Or fifteen and the girl who brought your family casserole was kinda nice to you at school, so mom joked about you marrying her when you both grew up. But fast forward and she’s now tending after your ex-roommate with so much love in her heart despite how much he hates her cooking — it’s funny.
In hindsight, all the things that led him here at this place shouldn’t be possible, but a lot of miracles will happen when you’re in your twenties. Someone should write a publication on that, really.
It takes him a moment to adjust — like concluding a science report: Revising his thesis and generalising the importance of the points he’s found. Except he doesn’t know much about love, not as much as he would like, but just what he needs in this tangible air.
Paint a scene: The night is young, they’re both sobered, this time, and he memorises the exact moment where the other’s lips cave on his skin. He also remembers where his hands go on the small of Aether’s back as these touches shoot starlights up his brain.
For a couple of seconds — For eternity, really —
Childe never thought he could ever be this happy.