Archive of Our Own

The eleventh son of eleven siblings was honestly less than ideal in many ways. The first of which was getting stuck with the nickname ‘Childe’ for basically all of eternity. He assumes it started off as a kind of joke but when on his seventh birthday his mother literally couldn’t remember his name and one of his siblings supplied ‘Child’ it was kind of set in stone. He often added the ‘e’ if he had to write it down, only a vague disguise of the label he’d hated when he was younger, came to accept eventually, and now found the hilarious joy in watching other people get confused when he gave it as his go-by.

Being the eleventh also had its benefits, however, namely the blank check to the massive fortune his family owned. Unlike his older siblings, the expectations that he waltz around in business were minimal. He still managed to make himself the black sheep by only doing the bare minimum and on the occasion messing it up (on purpose). He was a real ‘jeans to a black tie’ kind of person, at times.

Really, he was just as capable of buying out a small business or coasting through a marketing scheme and price inflation as anyone else, but it didn’t suit his personality. That’s how he ended up working part-time contracts doing whatever the fuck he wanted to, wherever he wanted to and only sometimes feeding he lead back to his family. Really, he wouldn’t even do that but he’d had enough awkward family get togethers with older sisters breathing down his neck.

Besides, he was certainly on board with the one thing all eleven siblings agreed on, gain the majority of their father’s corporate empire and then watch him befall. . . an unfortunate accident. Childe could never say he was entirely a good guy, but he wasn’t really that bad of a guy either, mostly.

If he were being honest, Childe would have to say that the construction jobs were his favorite. But he particularly liked the outdoor theater ones. Somehow he’d fallen into a chain of contracts for them, setting up stages and lights for outdoor theater in ridiculous places like the top of parking garages and arboretums. Casual, not too dirty, the satisfaction of watching a structure rise before his eyes. Not quite hard construction work -- he’d done those jobs too and while they weren’t the worst (and certainly better than being in a conference room) it was not nearly as fun.

And, people thought he was impressive. It wasn’t that he was a narcissist or thirsty for attention, but he found that most people couldn’t just scale up the scaffolding for the projector with the speed and grace he did. The crews found him charming, liked to joke around, trusted him with any of the ‘more difficult’ tasks. It was comfortable and preferable to trying to tie himself in knots and imagine how many imaginary dollars were passing imaginary hands in the world of imaginary finance. (He had learned that actually, all money is basically a metaphor for the rich and none of it really existed).

Life was fine. It was often good.

And then Zhongli hit his world like an earthquake.

Childe loves the farmer’s market. It’s way less stuffy than specialty stores, people don’t really care what he wears or who’s money he has, as long as he has it. There’s something hilariously charming about the wares and foods. He doesn’t quite get it, the difference between the small pocked ‘handpicked’ apples at the farmer’s market and the perfect waxy ‘handpicked’ ones at the supermarket, but he doesn’t care either.

Also, he meets the most interesting people.

“That’s two dollars.” An older woman selling handpies informs a tall man near Childe. The man in question is way too well dressed for a casual Saturday at the market. His expensive shoes and crisp suit are so out of place Childe can’t help but linger, to listen. He half expects the man to pull out a hundred dollar bill and be told it can’t be broken at the stall.

Instead, the man pulls out a credit card -- black with a gold edge, Childe knows exactly what kind of card that is. It’s the kind of card Childe used to buy his car.

“Ah, we’re cash only.” The woman states. Her voice is flat, a bit exasperated. The market has a ‘cash only’ sign on the entrance and it’s well known to be cash only. There isn’t an ATM inside the market area either, something about predatory banks and interest charges or something -- Childe had read the market’s stance on it once, but hadn’t committed it to memory.

“It seems I have no cash.” The man replies.

The woman stares at him.

The man evenly looks back, expectant. Childe knows that look, he’s seen it on so many people over the years. It’s tempting to let him struggle.

“. . . I’d like all of your pies, then?” The man seems to come to the decision that actually the problem wasn’t cash but that the items he wanted were not in a high enough quantity to be paid for.

The woman, and Childe who was not-at-all-eavesdropping, choke in unison.

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse me,” Childe and the woman speak at the same time. Childe just keeps his words going, however, while the poor woman gapes a few more times at the other man, “I happen to have two dollars with me, if you don’t mind me covering the initial purchase. I’m afraid I don’t have enough cash for all of your pies.”

“One is sufficient.” The other man agrees.

Childe feels a laugh bubbling up in his chest. He somehow manages to restrain himself long enough to slide two dollars over the stall counter and turn away before exploding in laughter. He laughs so hard his sides hurt and his breath comes out in wheezes.

By the time he looks up, the stranger has finished his pie and is folding the wax paper it came in into a small perfect triangle.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry, it was only two bucks, but really. All of her pies?” Just thinking about it sends him into giggles again. He’s not even sure why, exactly, maybe it’s just that the whole situation is ludicrous and Childe hasn’t seen a man dressed like that so . . . mentally disheveled in a while.

“They are quite good. The recipe has been landed down her family for generations, I’ve been told the secret ingredient might be nutmeg. A surprising choice for a savory pie with a red sauce, rather than a cream sauce. Though, red sauce would be a disservice, as it isn’t like marinara at all.”

Childe feels himself gape for the second time in a minute.

“Nutmeg itself recalls a time of celebration, the winter months and holiday foods. A typical aromatic to sweets and drinks, it’s no wonder that these pies have a nostalgic taste to them.”

“. . . and so you wanted all of them.” Childe manages to get out.

“I suppose, that might’ve been excessive.”

“A little.” Childe gets his composure back and shakes his head, the laughter is gone but he can’t stop smiling. “So, now that I’ve paid for your food should I make this a proper pickup, what about a drink as well?”

“Yes, that seems fine.”

It’s honestly the most lukewarm reply Childe has gotten in a long time. Usually people are ready to flirt back or reject him outright. He doesn’t mind. It isn’t like he actually wants to date around or have a one night stand with everyone he meets, it’s just a good icebreaker and he enjoys a good drink and conversation.

“Names and introductions first~! You can call me Childe,” he offers his hand.

“Zhongli.” Not only is the reply unexpectedly short, but then he presses a business card into Childe’s hand.

And the business card simply reads:
Zhongli
[email protected]

Childe hasn’t been handed a business card since he was fifteen. He holds it dumbly in his hand for a moment before stuffing it into his back pocket (which, incidentally, was the same thing he had done at age fifteen, much to the aghast of his family).

“Nice to meet you, now, pick your poison.” Childe sweeps his hand towards the exit of the market area, where the restaurants and bars are.

Zhongli’s lips quirk, slightly. Childe waits for something like the Jade Chamber or Dawn to Dusk to be named, something expensive and obscene. Usually, people fall into two categories when it comes to this kind of thing -- milk it for all its worth, and try to be moderate.

“The Harbour, if it’s agreeable.”

And instead Zhongli names the diviest dive bar that Childe’s ever been to. It also happens to be one of Childe’s favorite bars -- people are rude and rowdy, he’s gotten into more than three bar fights there and the bartenders all have heavy hands.

“What a strong poison indeed,” Childe grins and makes a gesture for Zhongli to lead the way.

As expected, Zhongli stands out like a very well manicured thumb. And yet, he doesn’t act like it at all. Someone in the back of the bar is singing with the radio that is more static than music, so in turn the singing is more drunk mumbling than singing, but it’s all part of the atmosphere. The place is famous for letting people shell their own peanuts and throw the discarded remains on the floor, so every step has a soft crunch beneath their feet. The chairs have been reupholstered more times than they should have been and there’s a cluster of tables designed just for standing in the corner. The best tables in the bar, as they’re the least used.

Childe is pretty certain Zhongli’s shoes cost more than the alcoholic cabinet behind the bar, but he walks over the discarded peanut shells without second thought.

They get the same drink -- a double of whatever well whiskey there is, and the bartender provides the obligatory bowl of peanuts. Childe leads them to the standing tables, the one with the least wobbly legs and starts breaking into the peanuts.

“So, you come here often?” Childe asks.

“No, hardly ever.” Zhongli replies evenly.

Childe watches as Zhongli picks up a peanut and puts the entire thing into his mouth. Shell and all. He stares, losing track of whatever other mundane conversation topic he was going to bring up as Zhongli’s lips move slightly, as do his cheeks and then with a completely somehow dignified turn of the head, he spits out the peanut shell onto the floor.

If he starts laughing again he’s going to choke, Childe knows, so he tries to not laugh so all that comes out is a strangled hiccup.

“Childe?” Zhongli asks. It’s probably not an accusation of malice, though Childe is completely unable to read tone of voice through his own gasps. After a few deep gulps of air and a hefty swig from his glass he finally answers Zhongli.

“Okay, show me exactly how you did that.”

The rest of their time at the bar is spent with Childe buying drinks, Zhongli not at all explaining his peanut shell trick and Childe dissolving into laughter so many times his face hurts by the time they part ways.

“I’ll email you sometime,” Childe says, as they head their separate ways. He says it jokingly, because really. But Zhongli nods.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Zhongli is a prodigious writer of emails, Childe finds. Childe’s own style of emailing tends to be fast and loose, particularly when he emails with family (much to their displeasure) but overall he lets autocorrect drive, why not.

Zhongli’s emails may as well have been written in calligraphy.

Childe sends: Saturday’s drinks were pretty good, up for another round?

Zhongli’s response: Saturday was nice. While I’ve heard of the history of the Harbour that was my first time experiencing it. For an establishment that has stood for over twenty years, the original foundation is remarkable.

I’m glad to hear you enjoyed our time together, I was somewhat worried you were being held up from other matters. May I suggest a less noisy place for our next meeting? I believe that I’m the one who owes you a beverage.

-Zhongli

Postscript: It is unclear to me if you find trivia appealing, but since you seemed interested on Saturday night, I feel obligated to provide some more. It takes about 540 peanuts to make a 12-ounce jar of peanut butter. The growing cycle of a peanut is somewhere between 4 and 5 months. The technique of consuming a peanut and discarding the shell with no use of hands is more like that of eating a chicken wing in one bite than that of consuming sunflower seeds.

Childe, foolishly reading his email while balanced on a platform above a rose bush with one hand on his phone and the other on the lightning rig nearly falls off and only barely manages to not drop the rig onto a coworker.

Zhongli is right, Childe does enjoy trivia but particularly this kind of idiotic inane rambling that had no place in any sort of ‘higher society’. His reply to Zhongli’s email is just as short as his initial send: Talk trivia to me, Zhongli ;) Fourteen messages later, Childe can’t say he regrets opening the floodgates, but that he does regret reading email on the job.

“Is this really how you flirt?” Lumine asks him. The video call is open but she isn’t in frame and he can hear her hammering away at her keyboard. The summer is almost over which means she’s probably working on winter articles. She and her twin are traveler writers, what started off as a humble blog really took off. People are big fans of the dry and unexpectedly snarky commentary on big tourist places and -- Childe is certain -- the fresh faced twins themselves.

“I’m not flirting.” Childe replies, he’s only barely in his own video camera frame. For him it’s mostly to save him the embarrassment of her catching him (once again) hitting himself in the face with the cord he’s trying to string on a bow.

Why a bow? There’s really no reason in particular and Lumine is familiar enough with his hobbies, the mess of whatever temporary home Childe is staying in to be covered in half-finished challenges he sets himself. But building the recurve bow is definitely the most difficult one yet.

“Just preparing to go on Jeopardy then?” She deadpans and her face swings into view briefly. “How do you even get dates.”

“I’m wounded, I thought you were my friend,” Childe laments. She is, his friend, sort of. They’re more like acquaintances that talk too much together. Lumine has made it explicit that she doesn’t trust him, but is quite willing to let him buy her plane tickets or food. Aether, her brother, is much the same. Childe can’t blame them since their first meeting had been a little . . . unfortunate to create good impressions. The twins are the people he speaks to most, four times as often as he speaks to his family and they’ve outlasted any other relation friend or romantic he’s had in years.

“You don’t have friends,” she points out with zero sympathy.

“Oh how my best friend is cruel to me.”

“You would have more friends if you stopped moving around so much. And also were less terrible at flirting.” That statement is a little kinder. Despite Lumine being a travel writer, childe moved around far more than her. He went wherever the job took him, whatever interesting advertisement popped up on his feed or wherever (on rare occasions) a sibling requested him to go.

Getting attached isn’t really his thing, and it’s a wonder that the twins stay in contact with him at all.

“You already discovered my nefarious Jeopardy plan,” he replies solemnly, “Though I’m thinking maybe I should just get him to go on Jeopardy for me and then rob him of the winnings.”

“I’ll give all of your siblings your cell phone number.”

“Is this the thanks I get for financing your next trip?”

“You would do it anyway.”

“Ahhh, you’re really too good at this. . .” The bow string snaps and Lumine catches a view of it hitting his cheek and leaving behind a welt. He makes a face and she raises an eyebrow.

“Maybe try a tutorial video.” She says, and the soft ping from his computer tells him she’s sent something in the text chat, most likely a link to either, a tutorial on making bows or a guide on something like ‘how not to extort and abandon your friends 101’. In his defense, he’d never extorted her.

He may or may not have set one of his brothers down the path of almost obliterating the twins’ rise in popularity through outbuying and manipulating all of the SEO related to their blog, however. It hadn’t entirely been an accident but he had been fairly up front about it, mostly.

It worked out in the end. It’s fine.

“Don’t you have a deadline to meet? You could be writing instead of bullying me.” He doesn’t even bother to try and put on a faux-lamentation, Lumine can’t be swayed by such things.

“If you put an eye out with that string, I’m sure Mr. Trivia Man won’t date you,” and that’s her farewell as the video call ends.

Childe stares at the snapped bowstring and far too curved stave and sighs. He opens up the thread of emails with Zhongli (embarrassingly now in the 75 sends at least half of them being trivia): Know anything about making bows?

Childe’s gig only lasts six months and he unfortunately spends most of them sending emails with Zhongli, going out to dinner with Zhongli and generally not-dating Zhongli. It’s only during the last week of the job (deconstruction, the shows were over and it was time to take everything down) that this occurs to him. Usually he counts down the days to an end, finding that wherever he’d ended up bores him after a month or two. People’s company sours, interactions are just dull transactions and all of his hobbies come to a stop. You’re the weirdest mix of a workaholic and a slacker I’ve ever met. Aether had said to him, probably not in complete seriousness but Childe can’t help but take it to heart.

The email thread with Zhongli now reaches over 300 in its chain and Childe hasn’t bothered to delete or archive it. Instead, every time he opens his inbox it’s there at the top. They never start a new thread just keep replying to the old one, under the subjectline (Saturday) which at the time, somewhat hungover Childe had simply called it, so it was a miracle that Zhongli had replied at all.

It is, in fact, two days to before Childe will call a moving company to just pack up what’s in his house and move it. . . wherever. He hasn’t picked out a new job yet but typically he doesn’t until the very last moment, because why not.

Unfortunately, the newest email in his inbox is surprisingly short for Zhongli, but includes an attached pdf with a ticket to a baseball game of all things. Neither Childe nor Zhongli, as far as he knows, are into baseball. Childe has a passing interest in competitive sports, but mostly individual ones and while Zhongli is a well of information Childe has yet to see a single sport team paraphernalia item on the other man.

Normally, Childe would just ignore this email and not think twice about moving on to the next place. Lumine’s accusations are in fact, always true.

Can’t, but thanks for the offer.

Would love to, but I’m moving.

Save them for a cute girl ;)

Do you even like baseball?

All of the replies he types he deletes after a moment. The thought he has, ‘what do friends do when they suddenly move without warning’ floats through his head but rings false. He’s fairly certain they aren’t friends. It isn’t at all like the ribbing he has with Lumine, or the transactional relations he had all throughout school. There’s no casual hanging out -- simply because Childe can’t let his guard down around Zhongli. The moment he relaxes the man does or says something that makes him explode in laughter, or just grin ear to ear. He’s had more fun the last six months than he’s had in several years.

How ridiculous.

I won’t be available then, sorry! :( Dinner tonight, though? My treat and your pick. He ends up sending. Tomorrow will be full of phonecalls and last minute plans, so he may as well end on a good note tonight.

For the first time ever, Zhongli’s response is short and simple: Yes.

“Sorry for wasting your prepared baseball trivia,” is the first thing Childe says to Zhongli. No hello needed, not when he already waved while crossing the street. There’s an unfortunate air of serendipity in the wind. Zhongli had chosen A Farewell to Wanmin, the foraging offshoot of a popular restaurant. The kind of new modern establishment where every dish was unique and made from local ingredients picked by the chef herself.

“It is a most impressive history, if you’re interested even without a game on the horizon,” Zhongli offers in reply.

Childe laughs, lets Zhongli have the seat closer to the wall on their table for two and then also seats himself.

“I’m not that interested in baseball trivia, actually.”

“Only fencing trivia?” Zhongli studies the wine menu with an intensity that Childe envies. There’s something direct about Zhongli that is in fact so direct he is opaque.

“Well, you always seem to know the funniest things.” Childe flips through his own drink menu with little care. He’s not drinking alcohol tonight, or, he intends not to. “Where did you learn all of those facts anyway? Are you some kind of sports trivia savant?”

Zhongli raises his gaze from the wines, “I read it.” And, after a breath, “An acquaintance of mine was a fencing champion for a while as well.”

“Wow, if all your trivia comes from ‘acquaintances’ you must know a lot of famous people.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“And then you just go out and say it. . .!” Childe finds himself laughing, but it lasts shorter than usual. A pang of guilt lances through him, especially with how Zhongli’s eyes haven’t left him, haven’t returned to the drink list.

Zhongli clears his throat. “There’s no use in hiding it.”

“You could have kept it to yourself. International man of mystery, Zhongli. You could tell me that you’re a super secret spy.” Childe nods along with his own imagined story for Zhongli.

“Ah, is that something you’d find more interesting?” Zhongli finally drops his gaze to the wine menu again.

“Please, no. That would just make you boring.”

“So, you find me exciting.”

Childe almost falls off his chair, but Zhongli’s tone and face haven’t changed. In fact, he’s still browsing the wine selection. The drink menu is quite deep, after all.

“Interesting, you’re definitely interesting.” Not quite a correction, but Childe can’t bring himself to agree. He’s fairly certain his earlier self-reflection that they weren’t friends is correct, but that brings up something much larger and intimidating. Especially on such a short timeline.

“I’ll take that compliment then.” Amicable. A beat and then, “Do you know anything of calling cards, Childe?”

“Is this . . . serial killer trivia now?”

“No, but if you’re interested in that, I’m sure with some research. . .”

“Then I definitely don’t know anything about calling cards.” He cuts Zhongli off, wondering if his initial idea that Zhongli simply knew things to bring up on all of their outings is incorrect. Though it seems more than a bit ridiculous that Zhongli would research before going out for a beer.

“In the Victorian era, a calling card as brought to --”

“Excuse me, your order?” Their waiter interrupts. Childe’s pretty sure the waiter just wants to get their table turned faster, considering the only thing to order is drinks, all the food is determined by the chef. He can’t fault the guy though, and he’s even charmed by the almost-rudeness.

Zhongli orders some kind of imported wine and Childe gets an espresso.

“Now, back to calling cards?” Childe prompts once their waiter has left.

“. . . a calling card was brought and left with a servant. The answer would be returned to the caller based one which corner of the card was folded. Most records speak to the correspondences being simple, such as ‘congratulations’ and ‘condolences’. Other scholars have theorized a more complex message behind the corners.”

“Something like ‘can I borrow a cup of sugar I’m making pumpkin pie for the holidays’?” Childe asks.

“Do you like pumpkin pie?”

“Huh? No, just . . .” On occasion, Childe isn’t sure if Zhongli is really that dense or if he’s making a joke. Either way, it makes him grin. “I’m not big into sweets, but cinnamon rolls aren’t bad on occasion.”

“Unfortunately, calling cards weren’t used to borrow cinnamon or sugar.” Zhongli is definitely making a joke now, Childe is sure of it.

“Damn, well, a bagel will work too.”

“I believe bagels were invented before the Victorian age, but it seems unlikely it would be part of their normal diet.”

“So no food then, go on, tell me more about calling cards.”

“It’s been said that secret messages could be hidden within the folds of a calling card. Occasionally, political motivations, but more often, scandalous affairs between lovers. There is one particular tale, despite borrowing from the history of calling cards, it’s rooted in a different mythos.”

“So, more like, a diagonal fold says ‘my dad’s gone for the weekend, come on over’?” Childe grins.

“It would be more like: I have spent all of the morn thinking of you, the stars in the night sky hold no favor over you. I fear our last conversation may have left you with a festering insipid emotion and I hope my words to sway you from this position. When can we meet again? My heart beats only for you. In a fold.”

“Well, you’d never have to leave me one of those. You’re way more fun to talk to than other people.”

“I’m rather glad to hear that.”

Their food arrives and it’s some array of dumplings, each with a different filling. Childe is certain he’s not going to like the electric blue and pink ones, but is delighted to find each one delicious. He eats them with his fingers, unwilling to either pierce them with a fork or drop them with chopsticks. Zhongli says nothing of his disregard for proper etiquette and instead shares some information about the ingredients.

The meal ends too quickly and Childe decides to stall the night from ending by ordering dessert and a dessert wine. A whole bottle. Halfway through the bottle, Childe taking the lion’s share of credit for that he spills the beans.

“I’m glad this is our last night out.” He mumbles. “It’s pretty nice.”

“Your job is done, isn’t it.” Zhongli sounds somewhat thoughtful. He doesn't sound surprised, which Childe takes to be a good sign, even if he feels a bit disappointed in as well.

Childe groans and leans back in his chair, head lolling side to side before he leans forward again, elbows on the table. He drinks more of his wine, the sweetness making it go down easy but also honestly it tastes awful.

“Wrapped up the other day. The place I’m subletting’ll be up soon.”

“And where are you going?”

“Dunno. Thinking I might throw an atlas down the stairs and see what it lands on.”

“If the issue is simply accommodations --”

“Zhongli, please, there’s a reason why I pay most of the time we go out.” Childe laughs. “This kind of thing. . . it’s just for fun, you know? Well, and I like the work. I’d die of boredom if I was a pencil pusher.”

“I must admit to not entirely being honest with you,” Zhongli’s contemplation seems to deepen, “I am fully capable of returning the ‘treat’ of a night out as well. It seemed to give you pleasure to do so, however.”

“Oh man, definitely. It’s hilarious. It’s so much more fun to take you out than just sit on my money anyway. What am I going to do with it otherwise?”

“-- as I was saying about accommodations, I own a second property you are welcome to use if your sublet will be ending.” Zhongli picks up where he left off.

Childe, for all he’s spent time listening to Zhongli tell him facts, knows startlingly little about the man’s actual life. Where he lives, what his occupation is, when his birthday is even. It’s part of his inherent selfishness to simply take the interaction he enjoys the best and not dig deeper than that.

Well, he knew Zhongli had money, but to have two properties in this city definitely put him in a higher bracket than initially estimated.

“Looking to keep me around because no one else will listen to your trivia?” Childe makes the joke. He also has no idea if Zhongli has friends either, actually. It’s never come up before.

“Yes, I would like you to stay.” Zhongli’s reply is so simple and without fanfare, it seems unfair for the words to weigh on Childe so heavily. Childe hasn’t given anyone the opportunity to say that to him in a long time. And honestly, before that he’s not sure anyone has.

“Jeez, really putting a guy on the spot. . .”

“Do you not want to?”

“I haven’t really thought about it. Job’s over, so what do you think I’ll do? If you’re really the type we could be penpals.” It sounds fairly weak to Childe himself and he deeply wishes he hadn’t drank all that wine, even as he simultaneously wishes to pour another glass.

“I would not be satisfied with a calling card, and I hope you would not be either.”

“No, not really, you’re right. I like working with my hands more than keyboards,” Childe wiggles his fingers at Zhongli in the air, to make a point. He feels unbalanced, and every time he expects Zhongli to spout some incredibly odd but inevitably true bit of trivia he instead seems intent on spouting odd but true bits of Childe instead.

“You prefer the physicality of things, I’ve noticed. Not just your hands.”

“You make it sound so technical!”

“My apologies, then. I understand it to be less analytical and more intuitive,” Zhongli does not sound sorry at all. He says everything in the same matter-a-fact tone that makes everything he says feel both like an assertion, not a question or suggestion or even comment, and also a judgement but one that doesn’t condemn him. “It must be the immediacy of the action that you prefer. Spontaneity at its best.” The nod Zhongli gives along with his assessment sends Childe into a fit of laughter.

“At its best.” He echoes. “You say that, but you’re the one who’s always surprising. I haven’t been able to guess at a single thing that’s going to come out of your mouth since we met.”

“You did not seem to expect the peanut shell.”

“Now you’re just saying that to make me lose it,” Childe accuses between gasps after he’s long lost his breath from laughter.

When Zhongli replies: “It’s true, I enjoy hearing you laugh.” Childe has to flag down the waiter and pay so they can stop causing a ruckus in the restaurant.

They exit quickly, Childe leaving a large tip and because the entire night is one big joke against him, it’s raining. Neither of them have an umbrella, but the awnings that line the sidewalk provide shelter and due to the weather almost no one else is out.

“Sorry, can we go over that again.” Childe leans against the brick wall of some convenience store behind him. Zhongli stands as stiff and proper before him, even with the wind blowing the occasional wet leaf against his expensive pant leg.

“Which part do you need clarification on?”

“We could go back to introductions, maybe. Or maybe even just as far back as the offer for ‘accommodations’,” even that makes him snicker. It isn’t even that odd of a turn of phrase, but by now Childe can’t deny that even simple conversation with Zhongli brings him unusual joy.

“You had said that your sublet was going to expire and if that is your only reason for moving, that can be solved.”

“Did I say I wanted it to be solved?” He isn’t being accusatory, but curious. It’s true that he spends more time than not thinking about Zhongli and this is the first time he’s had real apprehension to move away from a place, but without the excuse of a lease ending it all starts to feel ridiculous.

“No, I made an educated guess.”

“You’re not wrong, I guess, but you know I can fund my own new place to stay, right?”

“I do.” Zhongli’s lips pull into a smile, slow but bright. “You’re not the only one who enjoys treating others, on occasion.”