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They come back from their hunt with wasted bones and smarting joints that make Zhongli feel more alive than he's often felt in decades.
He loses himself more than he would care to admit, often finding himself the favourite subject of his husband's gaze. It lingers, sharp-sighted as it slides across him, looking with love, but also for the cracks that weather him away. Childe is no fool, spending their moments both intertwined and an arms length away, never knowing whom he will find himself with in that moment. Zhongli, Morax, Rex Lapis—
Zhongli has lost himself again, it seems, teetering in that in between where the bits and pieces of his visage that are left still mingle.
Childe sits by the window of their modest room at the inn, cast in the orange glow of the fireplace, sharpening a length of steel that is beloved against a belt of leather. Scrape, scrape. Zhongli closes his eyes and counts those strokes, the way he might count the chime of a clock, or the times that Childe says that he loves him. One, two, three. Scrape, scrape, scrape—
"Zhongli?"
It is always Childe's voice which pulls him from the precipice, that needle-sharp edge of his mindscape, a platform that just barely remains but is brittle and busted, bowing easily under the heavy weight of his erosion. Zhongli blinks slowly, turns to his husband, and apologises. "I'm sorry," tumbles from his mouth faster than an explanation can, but Childe in his infinite understanding doesn't falter.
He doesn't even look up, still honing that blade of his against that hard belt of leather. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Zhongli feels himself slowly coming back together—for this moment, at least. Their hunts often do this, stretching Zhongli thin and wispy. He doesn't tell Childe, doesn't admit that it's worse, but with every even-keel frown that finds its way on his husband's face, Childe must know.
Childe has learned a lot in these decades they've shared; when to speak, when to stay silent, when to let Zhongli stew in his thoughts, watching from afar instead. When Zhongli needs a grounding touch, the slide of his fingers across his shoulder, a face pressed against his nape to trail kisses along it.
He remains quiet now save for the sound of that blade against that damned belt, and as grounding as it is, Zhongli would prefer his husband's words. Their hunt was hard, gruelling, long hours that bled together with little to speak of as far as an end result. They've tucked away for the night and will start fresh again in the morning, which picks at Zhongli's brain, making him wallow in self-pity and count those strokes as if they mean something.
"Zhongli," says Childe finally. Scrape, scrape.
When they meet gazes Childe is both worried and loving, caught between going to him and letting Zhongli parse out his own demons. It is of Zhongli's own making. He is the one that sinks so deep and finds it harder and harder to pull himself from that never-ending grave But Childe—
Oh, his sweet husband, with his bright auburn hair and youthful idealism, even now when he should have none. Sweet, summer-like kisses against his brow, heavenly praises whispered into his silken, charcoal skin until Zhongli thinks of nothing else.
Childe makes it easy at times. Other times it is hard to be lost under the crashing wave of this love because there are moments when he does not remember. And Childe does.
And even when he forgets forever, Childe will still stay.
Zhongli's gaze drops to that leather belt where Childe's hands dance like death. He would prefer it by his hands, he thinks. He's told Childe so, and it is a duty that his husband both accepts with honour and pestilence. Still.
Scrape, scrape, scrape. One, two, three, counts Zhongli, swaying to that effervescent song of theirs that keeps him dancing, the two of them together, hands curled, palms together, and Childe's laughter making music in his ears.
"That blade."
Childe's hand finally pauses and Zhongli's gaze dips to the glint of metal concealed by his fingers. A razor, its handle well-worn and grooved from Childe's fingers over the years. The blade is yearling and sharp, carefully honed by masterful fingers because Childe is still a weapon, even when retired, even though he spends his days roaming with Zhongli, bringing evil to its knees.
What better a thing to yield to than white-hot metal sharpened needle thin, forged in a dragon's flames with love? It is a razor that speaks volumes, a heavy weight in Childe's hand and Zhongli's eyesight. For them, it means different things. For Childe, it is dedication and loyalty; he hones this blade like his feelings, reining them tightly and wielding them with deadly force. For Zhongli, it is a promise for he wishes his end to be swift and by Childe's hand, a simple sweep across the throat that sends his lifeblood spilling.
Bittersweet and idealistic. Without the scraping of the blade against the leather Zhongli cannot count and his mind begins to wander again.
"You made this," says Childe, hesitantly, and though his voice does not waver, there is a wariness to the way he speaks, as if he walks on eggshells and Zhongli is ready to crack.
One, two, three. He won't. Zhongli waffles for a moment but he comes back to the sound of Childe's voice and he feels more solid than the moments before. He stands on aching heels to cross the room.
"Of course," he huffs, gently offended that Childe would think him so gone that he wouldn't remember this, their love, forged by his hand. Layers upon layers of steel, folded over and baked in his fire until unbreakable. "A testament," murmurs Zhongli then, plucking the razor from Childe's hand with equally deft fingers. "My promise to you, so cleverly crafted to last the aeons that we won't."
Then, Zhongli sits upon Childe's lap as he dances the blade across his knuckles, showing off masterful control as if he hadn't just been nearly lost. For the moment, Zhongli is himself again, and it is a good moment full of mirth as he grins at Childe.
"You seemed tired."
"You are tired," replies Zhongli, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed as he regards Childe with a haughty look. "And yet, you sharpen this as if there won't be another opportunity."
Childe laughs a sound that is like the stars that glitter against the bitter-black canvas of the sky. Zhongli cups his face then, turning it from side-to-side, watching him with worn and ancient eyes. "You need a shave," he says then, thumbing through the days-old scruff that coats Childe's chin.
His husband prefers a clean edge and smooth cheeks to offset the rest of his face that is mangled. That touch lingers near the edge of the eyepatch that hides Childe's shame—his words, not Zhongli's. I fought with the law of the world and lost, he'd said the first time he donned it.
Celestia was cruel in her defeat, snatching away whatever she could, which included half of Childe's face. But his husband is more handsome than ever, ageing like fine wine that stains Zhongli's tongue, mingling tastes and scents that meld into a perfect person—
Zhongli has never been more in love.
"Let me take care of you." His request is whisper-soft, like he's afraid the universe might hear and that this pocket of time they've tucked themselves into will come to an end. Childe smiles and says nothing, just takes Zhongli's free hand and tugs it to his mouth for a kiss, chapped lips meeting calloused skin, and split and broken knuckles.
Zhongli has forgotten to heal himself. Childe kisses each knuckle sweetly, each divot between them, each groove between Zhongli's fingers, and every scar that he left etched into his skin as reminders that he's a survivor, that even gods be humbled and marred, and still live to tell the tale.
The trust that Childe has in Zhongli is palpable, filling the room with heady warmth that lingers against their skin like a warm embrace. There is already a kettle of water, steaming, an empty bowl, and a clean towel from the room's water cabinet. Childe was planning to do this himself as Zhongli dozed on the couch, depriving him of the intimacy they both crave.
It is a simple matter of wetting the boar-bristle brush. One, two, three, counts Zhongli as he swirls it over the soap bar, the lather coming away thick and rich. Sandalwood, bergamot, the salty ocean, Childe, Childe, Childe—
The scent of comfort. Zhongli folds it against Childe's skin as he sweeps the soap over his chin, coating his face in warm foam. His husband honours him with this. Childe would never be so careless with a razor, let alone anything sharp enough to pierce skin, and yet he willingly puts his life into Zhongli's weathered hands.
Zhongli tests the blade edge, nicking it against his thumb. Blood wells, a tiny smear of vermillion that he licks away. Childe watches him with a hawk-like but warm gaze. His one good eye wrinkles around the edges, softened by age and laugh lines that spin a story of life.
He moves effortlessly, the blade carefully balanced in his fingers as the metal scrapes across the rise and fall of Childe's skin. Across the arch of his face, down the hollow of his cheek before chasing the curve of his jaw. Zhongli takes his time, smoothing his thumb over the soft, wet skin, chasing the kiss of the razor with the pads of his fingers as he marvels.
"What are you looking at?" asks Childe eventually.
"You." Zhongli's thumb trails every freshly-shaved inch of Childe's face he reveals. Slowly, his husband comes back to him with every layer that's peeled away with every swipe of the razor.
Childe huffs softly but Zhongli feels his mouth twitch into a smile against his palm, which becomes a hazard as he begins to shave around it. "Careful," he warns, as he dips the razor into the bowl of warm water, washing away soap and stubble.
"You won't hurt me."
Zhongli's hand pauses at that, wavering slightly. He doesn't mean for it to but it's easy to lose his bearings when Childe so blindly trusts him. He returns to work, the razor raised at a forty-five degree angle as he scrapes and scrapes.
The intimacy is divine, Zhongli settled into Childe's lap, his husband bared and vulnerable. An open book, chest rising and falling as he breathes, utterly relaxed underneath the blade that Zhongli drags across him. When Zhongli guides his face Childe goes, letting himself be manhandled with a gentle touch.
"I've missed you," he says when he's done, rinsing the blade for a final time.
"I haven't left."
Zhongli gazes at him warmly, drying Childe's face with a featherlight touch that lingers. "This," he says, tugging at the eyepatch. "Off."
"Zhongli—"
"Let me see your face," requests Zhongli and Childe does not stop him. He is insistent as he frees Childe's face, thumbing over the grooves at that wicked scar that stretches too wide and too long. "There you are, darling."
Childe leans into it with a soft sigh like he's chasing rain on a summer day. He lets Zhongli do his exploring, head tipped back as the ugliness is explored. A kiss to Zhongli's palm, and then his wrist as Childe holds it there for a nuzzle.
Time stands still. The towel drops to the floor in a forgotten heap as Childe pulls him closer. Zhongli's pulse rages, a steady thump-thump under Childe's lips as he kisses it again.
Zhongli moves to cradle the entirety of Childe's face between his palms, a grounding touch that drags a soft whimper from the back of Childe's throat. Vulnerable. Pliable in Zhongli's fingers. Zhongli moves to straddle his lap instead and dips close, their breaths mingling as he waits and watches.
When they finally meet in a kiss, it is a needy thing that grips both of them, pulling each undertow like the sands drawn beneath the ocean. Zhongli opens up greedily and moans. Tips Childe's head back for better access, the kiss turning from sweet to sordid in a matter of seconds.
Too intimate, like the fire that flickers in the fireplace. There is only the two of them in this room, coddled in privacy, warmed by that roaring crackle of the logs, and the heat that they breed. Childe is hot too—hot against Zhongli's palms, his skin, his mouth as he bites into his husband, and it doesn't matter if it's heated or rushed, Childe follows along at Zhongli's pace, easily keeping the tempo.
That scrape, scrape, has turned into Zhongli's fingers against his scalp as he pets Childe's hair. A soft whimper cuts through the night as Childe chases his lips, kiss after kiss that blooms heat in Zhongli's belly.
Childe's hand explores Zhongli's side, mapping out the length of it as if it's new terrain, fingers slipping beneath his shirt to squeeze at soft soft flesh. Their hips roll together, pleasure flaring, and Zhongli is dragged to another edge, this time one of his own making as their bodies slide together.
His cock aches in his trousers, thick against Childe's own arousal, twitching as Zhongli's eyes slip closed, thinking of Childe's calloused hands washing over him, underneath him, pressing inside. A fever-dream, one that clouds him in mind-numbing pleasure, the sort he'd happily lose himself in.
"Tend to me, my husband." The command is bold, his tongue tipped with heady desire, which Childe is drawn to like a moth to a flame.
"Yes," he says, mouth latching onto Zhongli's neck, teeth sinking in for a bite. He doesn't break skin, doesn't risk it, but Zhongli groans all the same, wishing that he would, wishing that this was carnal, that Childe would just take and take and take—
"Husband," he repeats, this time his voice deep and raspy with desire. "I said tend to me."
And Childe must take that hint because he smiles into his nape, those dangerous teeth sinking back in to suck mark after mark into Zhongli's supple flesh. Across his throat, at his pulse, over the line of his shoulder, and to his collarbone where Childe pulls the collar of Zhongli's shirt open; nothing is left untouched.
"This is my shirt," he mutters, fingers searing hot against Zhongli's back as he holds him there.
Yes, yes, it is. Zhongli often wears his things to drown in Childe's scent, using them as a way to always come back to him. They move against each other in a flurry of motions, well-practised dance moves that match their specific beat.
Their cocks are freed quickly. They don't bother to fully undress, Zhongli just kicks off his trousers and presses their lengths together, curling his hand around them in a chokehold. Childe gasps. Bites at Zhongli's neck, teeth sinking into the soft flesh there. Licks across those sore spots as he pants into Zhongli's ear, already gone at the most minor of touches, Zhongli's hand slick as he strokes their cocks in tandem.
"Mhmn, Zhongli." Fingers dive into the cleft of his ass, pressing against his hole, slick with cold Hydro.
"That damned party trick." Zhongli grins ferally, fangs on display as Childe leans back in the stiff-backed chair. "Go on. Put it to use."
They are both desperate to be lost in each other. Zhongli parts so easily, his hole sucking in Childe's fingers greedily, wanton and hungry, begging for more. Too few fingers, not enough of his cock; Zhongli keens as he reaches back and bats away Childe's hand.
"Zhongli," breathes Childe in a soft murmur as Zhongli shifts forward, pressing the tip of Childe's cock to where he needs it most. "Zhongli," he gasps as Zhongli snaps his hips down, taking his length in one fell swoop that leaves them both reeling.
Too quick. Not quick enough. Zhongli's mind is full of nothing but the heady scent of his husband, spiked with arousal, which makes him feel drunk. Childe's cock fills Zhongli with stinging pressure that pulls him back. Zhongli rides him as if he might die today, as if Childe won't rise to see another tomorrow, and this is the last time he'll feel the slick heat of his skin slide across his own.
"Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli—"
Heat sparks in his veins at the call of his name. Childe breathes it into his skin, against his throat, a mantra that tumbles from his mouth as he worships Zhongli as the god he once was.
"Ajax," he says sweetly, cupping Childe's face once more as his hips slow to a languid roll that has his husband red-faced and sputtering. Childe's fingers dig into the meat of his ass, guiding him, pushing and pulling at him like the damned ocean tide he is, which Zhongli happily rides. "Ajax, I love you." A soft murmur against Childe's mouth which he chases—and then they're kissing again, and again, and again—
Zhongli length twitches. Childe's cock is heavy and thick, filling him to the brim, carving its way through his insides and staking claim. How can he forget this? Zhongli cannot, he will not, he will never. Even in the worst of his erosion, this will be the one thing that he will remember, that will pull him back from the edge time and time again. He clings to Childe, hips undulating as he forces his length deeper, feeling the bulge of it underneath his navel with a palm pressed flat to his groin.
And then Zhongli is gone, saying just that—Ajax, I love you, I love you, I love you—his own mantra as he spills white-hot between them. Untouched. Full of love. Drunk on his lust, and his husband's cock that grinds deep.
Childe fucks him harder, faster, until Zhongli's cock twitches again, half-hard, threatening another orgasm. "Yes," says Childe, biting at his neck again, and Zhongli thinks of all the scars he's left on him over the years, and how his husband loves to kiss them.
Later. After all of this, the love-making can truly start, slow and sweet as they lose themselves in the bedsheets. But here and now, it is fast and swift, the chair legs creaking underneath both their weight as they rock together.
Childe says it next, whispering I love you's and You're all I ever want's as he spends himself deep, Zhongli's insides painted white as he comes with a groan.
Everything is a hair trigger, on a razor's edge, like that beloved blade that was tossed to the side in favour of each other. Their love is keen, carefully honed, perfectly sharpened to last for eternity, and that's what Zhongli whispers to Childe as he cradles his face, riding him through his over-stimulation as he comes again.
I love you, I love you, I love you, he says, counting each utterance—and, for the moment it is easy to forget that even old gods weather and waste. Zhongli's pleasure is red-hot, orange like the vast sunsets they watch whilst they drink tea, dark like the night stars that twinkle, and purple like the early morning haze just as the sun rises.
Zhongli doesn't think of how even the sharpest of blades dull and rust, he just thinks of Childe, and their life, and everything they've carefully moulded together. Clean-shaven, like his husband's face, given to him with trust. Childe scrabbles against him, fingers scraping over every inch that he can find, mapping every corner and kissing every bend, taking care of him, just the way Zhongli did with him not moments prior.
Zhongli presses their foreheads together to relish this, the feel of him, the sounds that tumble from Childe's mouth unbidden, and tries not to cry in both happiness and pain.
Good night, Zhongli had said, in the languid pull of a quiet evening lost in the intimate darkness, his voice the rolling hills beneath the shattered sky. Until tomorrow, he whispered between gentle caresses, fingers in his hair tracing the curve of his ear, mapping the distance from today to the break of dawn. It is their dance and ritual unchanged for over a decade, yet with each passing year, tomorrow seems at once too far and too soon, the mornings now mired in anxious moments as Childe discovers which husband will wake in their bed.
Once he met the young god freshly named Morax, unrestrained by responsibilities and equally unrepentant in demanding this shameless mortal kowtow for daring to lay with his lord. Never mind how beautifully he flushed from his cheeks to his chest, his hands clenched in the sheets pooled around his waist as if unsure whether he should summon a weapon or not—such juvenile embarrassment was a delightful novelty until Childe realised this wasn't roleplay, and the dread came racing through his gut as twisting as the fright reflected in golden eyes.
It only lasted a couple minutes, a drop in the river of time they've been together. Childe washed his face in a nearby basin to hide the quiver in his breath, and by the time he turned around to meet Zhongli's stricken gaze, he asked, bright as the sun, for Zhongli to tell him more about his early years, and could they try something new the next time they wanted a bit more than sex? Being made to call Zhongli lord certainly had its appeal, and by the soft huff and prim sweep of his hair, Zhongli thought so too.
The pensive conversation that followed, a week later over wine in the shade of a great wisteria, spoke of erosion like the passing weather, the change of seasons, the stream of time, inevitable and absolute. By a stroke of serendipity, Zhongli's sentimental disposition and stubborn desire to remember all that has happened has, through sheer force of will, delayed the illness he's seen so many of his peers succumbed to and turned strangers at the end. So long as he has a reason to remain on Teyvat, he'll last alongside Childe, and two hooked pinkies sealed the promise as sure as any vow.
But this morning is different, a far cry from clamorous and awkward youth, further still from the quiet dignity of a being who witnessed the birth of his nation. Where the sun cuts through the blinds of their small inn room, it splashes across open palms, and Zhongli stares at some inscrutable spot between his heart and life lines.
He doesn't answer the first time Childe says his name, immovable as a statue, barely blinks at the sound of his titles, numerous and heavy. Even the incense Childe lights with haste has no rousing effect despite its potent fragrant mixture of sandalwood and Fate's Yearning.
It's rare for Baizhu's medicine to fail, though the longer Childe watches the empty gold mirrors set upon his husband's face reflect drifting motes uncountable as sand, the more he understands that serenity is a blink away from apathy.
He tries one more time, a crook of his finger resting at Zhongli's temple, close enough to feel the heat of his breath, a trembling xiansheng lodged in his throat. He's older now, older than he thought he would ever be, the first greys slashed through his fringe hiding the patch that obscures the lacerated half his face, but no matter what horrors he's seen, what horrors he's survived, there is nothing that can prepare him for the excruciating void of being forgotten.
"Come on, Zhongli, let's get you cleaned up. The demons can wait another day."
Childe of course refers to their hunt for evil that has taken them to the far corners of Teyvat where poison from old gods still soaks the land and ghosts linger trapped in worldly attachments. Yesterday's demon was a fitful one, lamenting a life filled with regrets best forgotten, crafty and wild in its tricks. It escaped somewhere into the mountains after their encounter, though Childe supposes, with the immediate danger to civilians out of the way, what was the harm in delaying?
He fetches a wooden basin and fills it with fresh water, drawing circles upon its surface until steam rises. A maid from last night had left a tray of small towels outside their door, and Childe drops a handful of coins in their place. Discretion is something he's come to prize more than flattery, so for her thoughtfulness, he leaves an extra gem the colour of midnight blue.
It isn't as if they are hiding, and they most certainly are not running, but after Celestia's grand curtain call and the after parties he missed due to his violent haemorrhaging, something about becoming an obscure wanderer proved most beguiling. Zhongli, having faked his death once already just for the promise of a peaceful retirement, was quickest to approve.
In the years after their marriage near the sea, with blessings from both Childe's family and Zhongli's remaining adepti, times were simple, and the most difficult decisions were about the choices for their evening meal, whether they should sample one cuisine or another. Times now are still simple, though their correspondences with Liyue grow in frequency, and his sworn brother Xiao often sends small parcels of stones and delicacies, trinkets of a storied age that must have taken tremendous effort to recover.
Xiao never admits to the hardships however, much in the same way Childe never tells him how often Zhongli wonders who the hairpin in his hands belongs to, or asks why Childe helps him wear his hair up as if he were a married woman.
Some things are known even if they are not said.
There is one good thing at least, something he tells himself to make the ache hurt less, as he draws a dampened towel over Zhongli's brows. He is beautiful, his husband, radiant in ways no human could ever match—still as warm earth beneath the sun, every blink and curl of his hand deliberate—and in these quiet moments, he is reminded of how lucky he is to be able to say this god is his equal.
He washes Zhongli with a care reserved for no other, cleaning away the night's activities. Zhongli, through it all, remains as silent and unresponsive as when he woke.
Eventually, Childe finishes and sets the soiled towels aside, congratulating himself for not sighing even once. Dressing Zhongli though proves a tad trickier, negotiating with stone-like limbs and manoeuvring silks around his uncooperative body, but he was not the Eleventh Harbinger for nothing, and some small acts of strength and flexibility are hardly any trouble for him at all.
Outside, the sun slips behind clouds, and the sound of hawkers peddling food and snacks for the midday break fill the air. Even after monster attacks, the town is quick to recover to normalcy.
After dressing himself, Childe sits by the open window, apples from the market by one hand, a paring knife in the other. It's a silly thing he saw mothers make for their children, but after witnessing Zhongli's soft smile of amusement, he finds he can do any number of silly things if it means he can bring his husband some joy. With swift and exact flicks of his wrist, he turns the fruits into a ring of rabbits huddled around an apple rose.
He used to hate the stillness when he was younger, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, but faith and experience now tell him there's no sense in worrying when Zhongli always comes back.
Sure enough, by the time he completes two swans to guard the plate of fruit, Zhongli stirs from the bed, blinking away a century's worth of silt.
"Welcome back, Zhongli. Care to join me for breakfast?"
He sees the realisation colour the tips of Zhongli's ears red, then shame and embarrassment in the curve of his frown, gold eyes shimmering with sorrow. The old god straightens his collar out of habit, smoothing his cloth belt where Childe had hung another one of his myriad gifts, a tassel of carved noctilucous jade shaped like the polar star. It seems to ground him, these small movements, so Childe waits quietly, cleaning his knife.
When he's ready, Zhongli schools his face into the familiar control, reconstructing his usual elegance. He asks, "How long?"
Childe, not one to mince words, replies, "Since sunrise."
Zhongli folds his hands into fists, hiding them within his sleeves. He takes a seat across the table from Childe, and with the dignity of a king, he plucks the petals of Childe's apple rose, eating with considered bites.
After so long together, even the most minute flicker of eyelashes does not go unnoticed, though Childe continues to wait like his father had taught him aeons ago at a black hole drilled into white ice.
He sets the knife down, straightening its edge to lay perpendicular to the window sill. He holds his breath, and in the brief moment of silence there exists nothing but his heartbeat to narrate his husband's soundless movements.
After a while he swallows, and Zhongli blinks at the bob of his throat.
Plate emptied, Zhongli finally breaches the surface, says, "It is unprecedented. Not even under the weight of governance during wartime have I ever experienced such loss of time." He places his palm up on the table, and Childe grasps his hand without a second thought.
"I am afraid—if hours can pass by like this, what should happen to me if I wake one day to find a lifetime has fallen away?"
Frankly, the possibility has haunted Childe in those mornings chased by nightmare ghouls, when the earth tilts beneath his feet and the unmoving body beside him could be mistaken for another faceless corpse.
Somehow all the words of comfort he has practised to quell his own demons evaporate when confronted with the fear of one who should be fearless. So, instead of words, he reaches for the straight razor Zhongli had tucked away that night, a gift once bestowed upon the retired Harbinger, now returned to the hands that crafted it. He curls Zhongli's fingers around the folded blade, warm from their shared touch, and speaks before Zhongli can ask.
"Some things we cannot control, but I choose to believe in you. As long as a part of Zhongli wishes to come back, he will always come back."
It sounds so simple, tumbling from the mouth of a herald. Believable. Persuasive.
Zhongli lifts the razor to his lips, featherlight in his kiss. He smiles to say he'll trust Childe on this, and that is the last they ever speak of it.
Come evening light, with their bellies full and their hearts content after drinks and a meal of fresh fish by the lakeside, Zhongli insisted, in his gently unyielding way, they finish the job that brought them to this town. Childe, reasonably, had said no, unwilling to expose Zhongli to any more danger today, but an admonishment and kiss to placate his ego saw them both on the dirt road heading deep into the mountains.
It isn't fair, he said, smile cracking through his feigned frown. To which Zhongli replied it was his right as Childe's husband to purchase favours with his touch.
This repartee lightens their steps, and between conversations recalling the last times they visited family in Liyue—how Xiao misses Childe even if he lies and says he doesn't, how Cloud Retainer quibbles about nothing in particular to delay their parting for just a moment longer—they arrive at their destination nostalgic and invigorated, eager to return home.
The moon is bright enough tonight that they forgo lanterns. It's quiet across the glade, and were it not for the overwhelming oppressive stench of miasma, the small house nestled beneath a great fir tree could be considered welcoming.
Childe takes the lead, slipping easily into the role of vanguard. One hand he readies by his chest to perform the handseals Zhongli taught him, the other he keeps loose at his side to snap a weapon of water into existence. Years have passed since visions stopped behaving as they used to, but Childe has ever been a quick learner, adapting to new techniques like a river drawing sand from each bank.
Behind him Zhongli stays a shadow's distance away, listening for ambush. There is a rustle of leaves and the murmur of a distant brook, the jingle of rusted chimes. It's peaceful until the wind turns direction and with it comes the groan of old wood rotted through, hiccoughs wet and hollow.
They share a glance, expecting any number of horrors hidden behind those innocuous walls, then Childe takes a breath and rests a palm against the door, pushing it open.
Where there is usually a rush of foul energy, a surge of resentment so strong it tastes like iron and ash, only a whisper of malice trickles into the night, pursued by soft sobbing and fractured, rattling moans.
Childe presses his lips into a grim frown, marching dauntless forward. In a blink the situation becomes painfully obvious, and indifference trembles into a shade of pity.
On the ground, amongst scattered jars and their rancid contents, the hunched figure of their mark languishes over an empty cradle, his hands which no doubt used to provide sustenance for his family now withered bones and leather skin, nails beyond blunted from weeks and weeks of futile digging. If he notices them he doesn't show it, too preoccupied in his own misery to care for visitors.
Childe mumbles a quick apology for the intrusion, stepping around shattered clay and torn clothes. Zhongli opts to stand by the door, where moonlight from the far window gives him sight over the whole room.
Even without a word, the god understands what he is doing, searching for answers and a way to grant peace for a tormented soul.
It's not a large place so the search takes only a couple minutes. Childe makes quick work of the shelves and chests, finding remnants of a sickly life, medicines and written prescriptions for ailments as dreadful as the cures are poisonous.
By no means would he call himself an expert in herbology, but having folk like the Harbingers for colleagues made him acutely aware of the dangers and differences between things that appear harmless and things that are actually harmless.
He picks up a ceramic pot no bigger than his palm, sniffing gently at the half-used cream within. With a sigh he remarks to no one in particular, "Do you think he knew it was his fault?"
The crack of wood snapping rips through the house, chased by an inhuman wail. Childe drops the pot in time to catch an armful of raging ghost, though the force of the tackle throws them both out the window.
He tumbles once, twice, head over heels, wrestling the gaunt mass of flesh and bone that has no business being as strong as it is. He—it—whatever this monster could be called—lunges at his face with gnashing teeth, red eyes swimming in too big sockets. Something guttural pours from its mouth, and Childe raises a hydro dagger on decades of honed instinct.
The ghost smashes against a golden shield, and in that moment of reprieve bought by Zhongli, Childe kicks the flailing beast from his body, rolling back onto his feet.
He sucks in a steadying breath, pulling a glaive from the mist, not trusting the unmoving body that still reeks of regret. Sure enough, the wind picks up into a gale as ferocious as the ghost's wailing, its pounding of the earth like the beat of war drums, its screeching the hail of arrows.
It shakes its head, claws at its temples, tears out what is left of its hair. It screams at Childe, then at the sky, then at the forest around them—it echoes through his skull in a language more primal than speech, visceral and choked with self-loathing.
I didn't know I didn't know I didn't know! It's not my fault not my fault not my fault!
The beast within Childe shudders in violent anticipation, thrashing against man-made bonds named self-control. Such abject anguish deserves mercy, and the edge of his blade hums with elation.
Let me go let me go let me go! I don't want to remember!
I didn't kill them!
Shut up! It's not true!
Lies!
Lies!
LIES!
Each beat and cry and yowl and sob cleaves life and joy from leaf and limb. To Childe, the wish—plead—beg for salvation could not be clearer.
Oblivion.
Please.
It comes easy once he lets go, a roaring ripcurrent that starts in his chest, a pulse that grows and grows until it floods him in bursting pressure. It fills him down to his toes to the tips of his fingers, this call of the devouring depths, and in one swift, exacting twist, his light of obliteration shatters the ghost into countless unrecognisable fragments.
One blink and it is over. The glaive in his hand vanishes back into the surrounding night. He bends over to rest his hands on his knees, a couple deep breaths to steady his heart. It's a bit embarrassing how such a move now winds him, but all things considered, life is definitely better in his older age.
He turns around to find Zhongli, no doubt resting nearby with a fond look upon his face, a quip about stamina at the ready—but the god is nowhere in sight, and the glade returns to unstirring silence.
At once, all his worries race back, his anxieties, that little voice that tells him he should have listened better—he swats them away with a firm shake of his head. Zhongli will be fine. He always will be.
And just like that, he spots Zhongli still standing at the threshold of the house, gazing down at something in his palm.
Childe breathes a sigh of relief, says with a tinge of forced normalcy, "Zhongli, I found out why that ghost attacked the visiting coroner.
"Sometime, months ago, he must have learned how his hardwork and dedication killed his fa—"
The scent of fresh blood hits him first, strong enough to make him gag. He claps a hand to his mouth, only to find a wetness leaking through his teeth, splattering dark petals by his feet.
Pain comes next, sharp and acrid, dotting the edges of his vision. In Zhongli's hand, his gift of a razor glints crimson red beneath a blade of moonlight.
He wants to ask how—why—what was going on—but the words don't form without his tongue, and the noise he makes rings wet and hollow.
There's no recognition in those empty gold mirrors, nothing of his Zhongli staring back.
He can fix this. What guilt he knows Zhongli will feel once returned burns a hole in Childe's gut, but that can be repaired—he can learn to speak with his hands instead—right now he needs to get them home, somewhere safe to wait and recover.
That razor though must go if they want any chance of peace tonight. In contests of strength, there is no way he could ever match the god, so he opts for speed and surprise, lunging with a lightning burst of energy.
It passes so fast, soundless and absolute. Barely a step away, just a hair's breadth, just a whisper between them—
It drains from his body in a gushing tide, fast, fast, impossibly fast. It soaks his shirt, paints his coat, drenches the hands that press, futile, at the seam at his throat, a flood of vermilion hopeless, inconceivable.
He should have known. Miasma, desire, desperation—
Zhongli looks as impassive as ever, a beautiful statue, unmoved by worldly affairs.
He thinks, perhaps oblivion is not so bad an outcome, a blessing he wishes he could bestow upon his treasured xiansheng like the ghost he granted mercy.
He can only pray—come morning, for Zhongli to have forgotten a lifetime.
