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Something drops in his stomach. A heavy thing, cold and scratchy like a frost covered snowball, and it tugs at his guts — the feeling both new and familiar at the same time. And somehow, he knows.
After a short warm winter early spring feels almost suffocating. A gust of wind, a wisp of relief, brings the honeyed smell of lungwort — Zhongli’s garden’s first blooms — and Ajax basks in it to ground himself for a moment. Puts the still damp plate on the kitchen counter. Listens. Catches only a silver jiggle of the wind chime. And rushes to the bedroom.
With great power comes the greater responsibility. Everyone in Ajax’s life seemed to chant this same mantra to him. His mom, his dad, Skirk, The Tsaritsa, even Zhongli. And Ajax always knew that just perfectly fine, for he himself is a raw power waiting to be unleashed, a vessel stuffed with swirling dark abyssal filth.
Hungry throats. Empty eyes. He’s been there.
But dammit, he was not ready for that sort of responsibility looming over him.
Running up the freshly painted stairs, the wood smooth and glistening with varnish, Ajax tries to shake off that nagging, gnawing feeling of his... motherly instinct going crazy, explosions of worry warming his chest. It’s unpleasant, still neither habitual nor really welcomed, and it will not be, not in the next couple of years. These instincts that came along with the power and the responsibility. These instincts Zhongli said nothing about.
These instincts that make Ajax throw the door open even though he does not hear, does not sense anything out of the ordinary; that make him take in the surroundings of their empty, absolutely still and normal bedroom.
A window ajar, the curtains swaying in the wind (was it him who left it open? Yes, most likely, he can’t stand the dusty stuffiness after all); a heavy desk of dark oak (yellowish letters in a neat pile, some paper shreds trembling in the wind, faintly rustling against the wood); a crooked shadow of a gnarled apple branch outside the window hopping on the floor (a quiet growl gets stuck in Ajax's throat); their huge double bed (colorful custom made pillows from Sumeru, blankets made of the finest silk, translucent chiffon canopy, their home, their nest nest nest nest).
And in the middle of it, almost too dark against the reds-yellows-greens of the pillows, almost too small among the hills of blankets and plaids, — the egg.
It’s safe.
Ajax sighs in relief, his claws unclenching the door jamb he didn’t even realize he was squeezing with a death grip and leaving faint pale marks. Zhongli is going to notice right away — Ajax can already picture those disapprovingly narrow pupils of his, but he supposes his dear husband will be way too preoccupied with another matter to scold him. At least he hopes so.
Because even though the cold fingers tagging at his heart do not let go and the feeling of distress does not fade away, either, the egg seems to be perfectly fine. It is exactly as they left it in the early morning — dark brown scales glistening under the veil of pale sunrays, no movement, no sound. Even the trembling snowflakes of dust seem to avoid touching its smooth surface. Ajax knows better than to let his guard down, though.
He approaches the bed. Sits down, careful not to ruin the silk, and tries again. To listen and, hopefully, to hear.
Deep in his chest a dragon rumbles, its soft body curling and uncurling, cold and slithery, within him. His heart is pierced by sharp talons, his mind is a shelter for a coiled snake and with every moment of his breathing Ajax realizes just how agitated he is.
He wants to tear his own face off his skull, let his claws rip up his meat and flesh, let his teeth fall out and grow again, longer and sharper. Wants to lull himself to sleep and let the dragon loose. Yet he cannot. They’ve talked about it, Zhongli and him, after Childe nearly let Lumine flying off the second floor through the window with his nervous tail.
No transforming in the house.
Especially near the egg.
No matter how badly he wants to curl his long body around it, hide it under his belly, and keep it warm, he cannot.
Childe sighs. He hates rules. Yet he adores his husband.
"Your baba can be such a bore sometimes", he grumbles as he lets himself sink into the soft mattress and melt against the incense smelling pillows, never taking his eyes off the egg.
The day is awashed with sunlight — it floats through the window, spreading across Childe’s back as he keeps his little treasure in the coolness of his own body’s shade. He isn’t entirely sure how to handle dragon eggs, neither of them is, but so far the slithery voice in his head had been silent, so he took it as a good sign. So, what's changed?
Childe hums a lullaby under his breath and pretends his fingers don’t shake. Instead, he speaks. Speaks of some nonsense, shares it in a whisper like a secret or a gossip. Everything to keep pretending his fingers are still.
"He is a bore, really", he says, "Head so full of rules and mannerism. It’s not a bad thing, of course, but what turn me into a dragon for? To keep me here, locked up and dying of boredom, feed me vegetables from Qinqce three times a day and make me sleep ten hours per night? Such a waste".
The egg, expectedly, doesn’t answer, yet somehow Childe feels like it’s listening to him. This tiny little creature inside of it, catching every breath of his with its ears, perking up at his rumbling...
It makes his heart swell with painfully sweet warmth.
He still doesn’t know what or who is waiting for him in there, but if there is the highest truth in this world, then it is the genuineness of his love. He will love their baby, no matter what. And Zhongli will, too.
His heart throbs again.
To hide the scratchy trembling that bound his throat, Childe chuckles kindheartedly.
"But you know, принцесса, even though your baba is a killjoy sometimes, he will be the best dad. Trust me, I’ve made sure of that. He just needs to lighten up a little, yeah? He’s worried about you, солнышко, because he loves you just as much as I do. But we will be okay, won’t we?".
Far away, somewhere under the dome of the sky, starlings are calling to each other. Childe knows them, their ringing voices crystal clear in the crisp spring day — they live on a crocked oak near the hill, and for some reason this familiarity brings him peace. Five birds and soon there will be even more. Tiny little hatchlings, mouths threw open in a shrill cry.
Childe remembers being a boy. Remembers the trees near their village, where small eggs were hidden in deep shadows.
His mind slips and dives into warm waters, caught up by the waves of sleep.
They were teal and shiny not unlike turquoise in his mom’s necklace, those starling eggs.
He could only hope his second one will be just as beautiful...