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“You used me.”
For some reason, the words don’t come out as angry as Childe hoped they would.
They come out quiet, weak, soulless. Lacking the cold, dangerous bite expected of Tartaglia.
They are words that come out broken, forced out of his throat like bile.
He hates it.
He should be angry. He is angry. Being angry at Zhongli was only natural, after all that had transpired. Being angry was how Childe coped.
Anger made sense. It was how he solved his problems, how he pretended the other feelings didn’t exist—the ones that made him feel things he would rather forget—ones he stamped out like dying embers and pushed deep down inside. He is Tartaglia, Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers. The clean, lethal arc of a dagger across the throat of an unsuspecting enemy, a volley of arrows raining down onto an unsuspecting camp of Hilichurls—that was how Tartaglia coped.
Tartaglia is not hung up on the trivialities that were emotions. Tartaglia would burn everything that stood in his way.
Anger had never failed Childe. It was a scapegoat he turned blindly to whenever anything became too much for him to bear.
So, now, lying here in the rain with a man he was supposed to hate, why did it all feel so wrong?
Curse you, Zhongli, for what you’ve done to me. Curse you for ruining me, for living inside of me, for meaning so much to me.
Childe scrubbed furiously at his eyes, hating the burning pressure against the back of his eyelids. His body ached, bruised and battered from yet another meaningless fight against an opponent—perhaps the only opponent—he’d never wanted to fight in the first place.
He felt Zhongli shift against him, and Childe wondered what the other man was thinking.
“Why don’t you hate me?” Childe asks, his voice devoid of any emotion. He hardly sounds alive, his words lifeless to his own ears.
Zhongli doesn’t reply, his hands still rubbing soothing circles into Childe’s back. Childe wants to punch him, to wrap his hands around the former Archon’s throat and scream.
Instead, he pushes his head into the crook of Zhongli’s neck with a strangled noise, digging his fingers into the other man’s back.
He doesn’t know why it hurts so much. Anger has never been something that he’s had to think twice about. Anger has never hurt Tartaglia like it does now.
“You should hate me,” he says.
But I know you don’t.
He can’t see Zhongli’s face, but, somehow, Childe knows exactly what expression he wears. The sorrow radiates from him in waves, an inexplicable pain for the other he holds present in every little movement he makes—from the tightening of his arms around Childe’s waist to his uneven breaths against Childe’s ear. It makes Childe ache.
Childe has always used anger as an escape. The emotion is his to control, an unpredictable animal that he has learned to tame.
He never thought it would turn on him.
He never thought it would hurt so much.
“Tell me you hate me, Zhongli.”
But I know you won’t.
When Ajax first learned of anger, he was eleven years old.
Of course, he’d known much about anger beforehand. The victim of one too many unfortunate lectures from his parents after doing something reckless, or the one on the receiving end of shouting and tears when he returned home with a cut lip or a bruised body, Ajax knew anger well.
What Ajax did not yet understand was how anger was born.
The sky was a white blanket stretching from one side of the sky to the other. Low-hanging clouds obscured the craggy mountain peaks in the distance, and soft flakes of snow drifted lazily to the ground, carried along by a chilly breeze. It was a typical Snezhnayan afternoon on the frozen ocean, a perfect day for a trip to fish on the miles of open ice. Ajax had been delighted by the prospect, for winter trips to fish with his father had been his favourite.
That particular trip, however, had gone a little differently.
Ajax and his older brother had been tasked with watching over his little sister, Tonia—only a mere five years old—as she played near the permafrost-covered shore.
It was no secret that Ajax adored Tonia. He thought she was the cutest thing, blundering around in the snow with a crimson scarf obscuring nearly her entire head. His sister had been insistent on coming with them to the sea, and he’d been happy to watch over her, helping her dig up shells, frozen crabs, and bits of sea glass in the snow with a smile.
It would have been a fond memory of his, had the next few moments played out differently.
While Tonia was very entertaining in her own right, Ajax was, unfortunately, prone to distraction, especially when it came to his father. All it had taken was a triumphant shout from his father—signalling a successful catch—and Ajax had scampered over, momentarily leaving Tonia to her devices.
Ajax had been observing his father’s newest catch in fascination when he heard the scream.
His father had moved faster than he could even breathe, and by the time Ajax realized what had happened, his father was already shouting at his older brother, gesturing wildly and holding onto something—no, someone—fumbling with sodden clothes and tiny limbs.
His voice was panicked, angry, and when Ajax ran over to him, what he found almost knocked the breath from his lungs.
Little Tonia, soaking wet and freezing cold, clung to his father’s arms. Her teeth chattered so hard that Ajax could hear them.
Moments later, he would come to understand that while he and his father had been occupied, his older brother had been acting carelessly, recklessly. Fooling around, pushing Tonia out onto the unstable ice by the shore, where it had cracked, and she had stumbled and fallen in.
The frigid water would have been a shock to anyone’s system, but a toddler’s? Needless to say, Ajax’s father had been frantically running to shore in an attempt to warm his daughter’s small body, both his sons and fishing gear forgotten.
His older brother had looked rattled.
Ajax, on the other hand, was enraged.
He was angry at himself for leaving Tonia alone, but mostly, he was angry at his brother.
His brother could have killed Tonia. She could’ve died on that day, swept under the ice. The icy water was deadly, and even a few moments spent in the sea at this time of year could be fatal.
Perhaps it was that realization that made him snap.
“Why would you do that?” He’d shouted. Adrenaline had coursed through his veins, but for some reason, he had trembled. His brother had only stood there, apparently too numb to react.
Ajax had balled his hands into fists, face twisting in pure, unbridled anger. He’d wanted to punch his brother right there and then, send him home with a bruise the size of an orca whale’s head…
But he didn’t know why. And somehow, that bothered him. It was like a persistent itching in his brain, a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Why was he so angry? His sister had been in danger, his sister had almost died. His brother had been irresponsible. Anyone would be disappointed, scared, but was that truly enough to warrant such rage?
It had taken him a long time to understand the truth behind his anger.
Childe is a Harbinger. He’s used to leading others on, used to lies, fake smiles, and deceit.
He is used to working with vipers, lying in wait, searching for just the right moment to strike. He is used to using others, not being used himself.
Perhaps this was how it felt to be on the other side.
He can’t blame Zhongli. As a servant of the Tsaritsa, an agent of chaos, Childe knows that one must seal away all distractions—all emotions—in this particular line of work. Childe had never had any reservations about tricking and using others, and Zhongli certainly hadn’t seemed to have any reservations about using Childe. It was only fair.
But for some reason, Childe has a hard time swallowing that pill.
The rain patters down around them, steady and gentle. It would’ve been grounding if not for his heart thumping erratically in his chest. Childe breathes in the petrichor air, but it does nothing to release the tension in his frame, nor the pounding in his skull. Zhongli must feel it, as he starts to rub the Harbinger’s back again. A tender gesture not fitting of the situation. It is just them, just Childe and Zhongli, alone in each other’s arms.
It doesn’t feel right, not after what just happened.
Red blooms in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t know why he notices it, but something compels him as he reaches out to touch it, his hand brushing up against Zhongli’s neck. The skin is warm under his fingers.
“You’re bleeding,” Childe says, softly, hesitantly.
Zhongli pushes himself back just a little, just enough. He looks… tired, his Cor Lapis eyes brimming with sorrow. Childe’s heart twists painfully.
“As are you,” Zhongli responds, bringing a hand to Childe’s own cheek.
“Doesn’t matter,” Childe mumbles, pushing probing fingers away. “I got us into this...” he pauses, gesturing to the grey skies above them and to the bloodstained sand beneath their knees, feeling hollow. “Situation. Again.”
“Childe...”
Childe closes his eyes, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. “I’m such a mess, huh?” He laughs, breathless and glassy-eyed. To any onlooker, perhaps he would seem almost crazed, teetering between despair and acceptance, pained and angered.
“Surely anyone else would’ve just left by now. Any of the other harbingers would’ve just…” he trailed off, eyes coming to rest at Zhongli’s throat, then his chest, where his Gnosis once rested. His golden-mahogany coat is damp, stained with the dirt and blood of their fight. Guilt momentarily steals Childe’s breath away.
But it is quickly replaced by anger.
He shouldn’t feel guilty. He shouldn’t feel this way, like a hollow shell, a broken starconch washed forlornly to shore, stripped of purpose. He shouldn’t hurt this much.
He hates questioning, hates having to think so much. It’s not his style. Sure, he considers himself a clever person, he knows he’s a clever person (a harbinger has to have some brains, after all), but really, he was never quite cut out for the sort of quiet, cold mastermindness that the other ten harbingers practiced. That is the Tsaritsa’s role, for she is the cunning, calculated ruler, and Childe is her humble servant.
Thinking, feeling, hurting—those were things of the past. Things that were far more Ajax than Tartaglia.
Zhongli always had brought out the Ajax in him, he supposed.
“Maybe I should just kill you,” he laughs coldly, looking up to meet Zhongli’s troubled gaze, “What do you think, Zhongli? Would that be payback enough for what you did to me?”
No. It never would be.
“You played me like a fiddle, I’ll admit,” Tartaglia chuckles, jaw set, “Didn’t you, Rex Lapis? I suppose it’s only fair, after all, I am a harbinger, sent here to take your Gnosis. What we shared, what we were… it was only for show, was it not? A lie.”
Except it wasn’t.
When Ajax was barely fifteen, he learned how it felt to hurt.
He was no stranger to pain, especially of the physical kind.
A cut, a scrape, a broken ankle—he’d seen it all.
But the sort of pain he’d felt on that somber, chilly day in Snezhnaya had been something entirely different.
When Ajax had climbed out from the darkness—from an otherworldly crack in the earth—after three months in the twisted and hellish world known as the Abyss, he’d known he wasn’t quite right.
He’d stumbled through the woods, unsure of who he was, but somehow more sure of what he wanted to do.
He wanted to fight. He wanted to kill.
He wanted to be strong. Stronger than anyone before him.
He wanted the world.
Ajax wasn’t Ajax anymore. He didn’t feel like Ajax anymore. Ajax may have been his name, but Ajax was not who he was. He’d fallen into the Abyss, he’d stared death in the face and laughed, and he’d come out… changed. Altered, not quite himself, as his mother had put it. He hadn’t missed her pained expression as she’d said it, the way her words came out quiet, cautious, unsure. The way his father’s smile hadn’t quite reached his eyes, or the way his hearty pats on Ajax’s back seemed to falter.
But as different as he was, Ajax had known that they still loved him.
Perhaps that was why it had hurt so much when they’d sent him away.
He’d smiled through it all, waved off their apologies and tears, even as he felt what was left of his fragile heart twist, snap, and break into a million pieces. He told them it was fine, tried to condition himself into believing it was fine.
He’d blamed himself, for a time, for what had come to pass. But he would not cry. He did not regret his time in the Abyss. He would pick up the pieces, guard his heart and bury his hurt deep, deep down.
When he’d finally put himself back together, he had believed there was not a bit of Ajax left. Ajax was the boy with the kind, soft, modest heart of the past. He was Tartaglia now, and Tartaglia’s heart was hardened, cold, and set on nothing but his ambitions. He did not need love, for love had only hurt him in the end.
He would show his siblings love, he would show his parents love, but no longer did a Childe let himself be loved. He was not worthy of it, he knew he was not. Childe was his Tsaritsa’s, and his Tsaritsa’s alone. He lived to serve. He lived for the thrill of battle, the exhilaration victory promised. He’d slaughtered innocent people, laughed with blood on his hands.
Childe was a monster—and no one, not even a god, could love a monster.
Zhongli looks pained.
Childe scoffs, shoving the other man away from him. He pretends he doesn’t feel the way his body cries out in protest, pretends he doesn’t immediately crave Zhongli’s warmth and contact as soon as it’s gone.
“Tartaglia, I—”
Childe chooses not to hear him. He doesn’t want to hear what Zhongli has to say. He refuses to look anywhere but the coppery sand below him, refuses to give Zhongli the satisfaction of knowing he’s made him hurt. He aches, burning with a fierce, agonizing desire. He feels as if he’s being split in two. Where was the steadfast Tartaglia, Ajax reborn and reformed from his time spent in the turmoil that was the Abyss? Where was the young Harbinger so sure of himself and his place in this world? Where was that certainty now? He tries to stand, but his knees give out beneath him. He hisses in pain, hands flying to his sides.
“It was never my intention to hurt you, Ajax.”
Childe turns, blue eyes blazing with pain, anger, longing.
“But you did, Zhongli,” He cries, slamming his fists into the ground. Sand slides over his fingers, burying the grey of his gloves in the sand. His eyes burn, his head pounds. “You hurt me. You used me. You told me you loved me, and I…” His voice falls impossibly low, “and I believed you.”
He looks up at the former Archon, smiling in a sad, twisted sort of way. “I should’ve known it was too good to be true, after all, how could anyone ever love a monster like me?”
He is about to bolt, injured or not, when Zhongli grabs both of his hands, holding them gently in his own. It’s a tender gesture, something he’d used to do often, back before everything changed. It’s enough to give Childe pause.
“You are not a monster, Ajax.” Zhongli whispers.
Childe laughs, shaking his head in exasperation. “Do you really know me at all, Zhongli? Do you know the things I’ve done? The people I’ve killed?”
“You know I am no stranger to death, Childe,” Zhongli says solemnly, carefully. "I have seen gods die, nations fall, the world burn. I have slaughtered countless souls in my quest for power without a shred of remorse. I have lived, loved… and I have lost. Like you, each day I wake with blood on my hands. Each day I live and breathe knowing I have denied others that very right.”
Childe is silent, eyes glimmering wetly. He is mortified to realize that he has forgotten Zhongli’s history, forgotten that he, too, has suffered like Childe has. He has forgotten that Zhongli was once Morax, once a ruthless god who battled his way out from the bloody depths of the Archon War, not unlike how Childe had battled his way through the Abyss. He wants to laugh; how could he have forgotten what they shared? How could he have forgotten what brought them together?
After a moment, he squeezes Zhongli’s hands tightly, forcing a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes.
“Ha. Then I suppose you and I are one in the same, wouldn’t you say?”
Zhongli pulls him closer again, and for some reason he will never understand, Childe lets him.
“For a time, I believed that to be true. I still do. I am truly sorry, Childe.” Zhongli’s voice wavers, a rare crack in the man’s usual flawless composure. “Again, I… I never wished to hurt you.”
Childe doesn’t reply. Exhaustion tugs at him, his body aching and his heart bleeding. He doesn’t know what to think, what to say. He is someone who has always been quick to speak, to quip and to jest, but now, Childe finds that he is lost for words.
Tartaglia no longer knows what his purpose is. He no longer knows who he is, what he’s meant to do. Perhaps his assuredness had only been a facade, a false security gifted to him by the delusion of the Abyss.
He’d wanted the world, but if that world was one without Zhongli, one where he only felt pain, was it even a world worth taking at all?
He barely registers Zhongli picking him up, hoisting him into his arms to carry him bridal style down the storm-swept shore.
Childe wants to struggle, to demand that Zhongli put him down right this instant and that he goes somewhere Childe will never have to see him again, but he doesn’t. How could he?
Instead he lies limply in the other man’s grip, head lolling against Zhongli’s chest. He wonders distantly how Zhongli can pick him up with such ease, how strong he must be.
He feels himself inching ever closer to oblivion, to the darkness that threatens to pull him under, but one final question dances on the tip of his tongue.
“Where… Where are you taking me?”
He feels Zhongli’s amber gaze burning a hole through his very soul. “Home.”
Something changed when Childe met Zhongli.
At first, Childe had been less than enthusiastic about his newest assignment. The distance between Liyue and Snezhnaya was nothing to laugh about, and it had hardly been a month since his last major trip out of his snowy homeland. Of course, he was honoured to have been given such an important mission, for he had dedicated his life to serving his majesty the Tsaritsa—and he would do everything in his power to lay the seven stars of Teyvat at her feet—but as always, a new assignment meant more time away from his siblings and his home, and that was something Childe wished to mitigate as much as possible.
He had been in Liyue for a total of two months when Zhongli quite literally crashed into his life.
He’d almost tripped over the man stopped in the middle of the stroll, making his way through Liyue’s bustling marketplace without a clear destination in mind.
A muffled “My apologies,” had been thrown his way, and Childe had gone to shrug it off, but whoever he had expected to see upon looking up was certainly not who he was met with.
He’d known immediately that there was something different about the elegant, regal man in front of him. He stood out from the rest of the crowd like a goldfish out in the ocean—only one without fear of the sharks. His very presence seemed to command attention, otherworldly golden eyes drawing him in, and Childe couldn’t seem to look away.
And that was all it took for Childe’s curiosity to take hold.
They started off as simple acquaintances, just a foreign diplomat and a funeral consultant discussing trivial affairs.
However, as one would expect, it didn’t take long for Childe to grow fond of the enigmatic man (and his strange tendency to forget mora at seemingly every occasion). Their business lunches quickly became daily ones, and their purpose strayed from work to simply spending time in each other’s presence.
In what felt like a blink of the eye, it was like Zhongli had always been there by his side.
The dark-haired man made his stay in Liyue just a little easier. His endearing forgetfulness always brought a smile to Childe’s face, and, admittedly, his company took away the constant pressure of prying eyes and disapproving glares he received (not that he would ever admit he was mildly irked by them), for Zhongli was well-known and well-versed.
Playful teases and elbows to the side slowly became warm looks, fleeting touches, and warmth that bloomed in Childe’s chest whenever Zhongli was near.
It became such a familiar routine, their lunches and strolls and talks, that many of Liyue's merchants became accustomed to seeing the two of them together, to the point of questioning the other’s whereabouts when one of them wasn’t around.
Childe was no fool. He knew he was hopelessly in love with Zhongli.
It had been a long time since he’d felt this way about someone—or anyone, really. Frankly, it was exhilarating. Empowering. It made him feel lighter than he had in years.
But it also scared him.
For the first time, he was made to question what he would do if forced to choose between his mission—or Zhongli. He had opened up to someone for the first time since his enrollment into the Fatui, and it had felt… good. Refreshing, like a weight removed from his shoulders. It was nice to indulge, to rely on someone besides himself again, even if that was dangerous. Even if there had always been that underlying sense of not knowing quite everything. He had faith that Zhongli would never hurt him.
He found himself wondering more and more… What would it feel like to just be Childe? Not Tartaglia the Harbinger, just Childe. Maybe even Ajax, if he was brave enough. Ajax of Northland Bank and the funeral consultant Zhongli. Two ordinary lovers living somewhere in the secluded outskirts of Liyue Harbour, sharing sneaky kisses and scandalous secrets. Something about that particular idea made him smile.
He realized he would have to leave soon, to carry out his mission and return to his Tsaritsa, but he dared to hope that someday, when he had repaid the Archon who had shown him such kindness, that very dream would become reality.
Everything fell apart when he learned that the man he loved was the very man he was meant to destroy.
Rex Lapis. Zhongli was the Geo Archon and oh, had Childe been stupid. He’d had his suspicions, thinking perhaps Zhongli was an Adeptus or the like, but never had he expected this. The prime Adeptus himself, Liyue’s late god, the God of War. The same man he’d held and kissed and loved was Morax, the god who’s Gnosis he had come to take for his majesty.
It was like a punch to the gut to find out that La Signora had been in on the whole thing. That it had all been an elaborate ploy, an intricate performance designed for Zhongli to analyze, set on the stage that was Liyue with poor, oblivious Childe used as nothing more than a pawn.
Zhongli had held Ajax’s heart in his hands, and ultimately chose to break it in two.
Childe had never felt more hurt. Betrayed. Never in all his days as a Fatui Harbinger had he felt more used. It would have been easy to walk away, to brush away the deceit like a bothersome fly if he’d kept his distance, stayed cautious, careful, skeptical, like he was supposed to. It wouldn’t be a problem if Childe hadn’t gotten so stupidly attached.
But he had. He hadn’t been careful, hadn’t been smart, and he’d paid the price for it.
Regardless of whether or not he was partially at fault, he hadn’t been able to forgive Zhongli. Even after all was said and done, an ancient demon defeated on Liyue’s shores, a hidden agenda revealed, a gnosis given up, Childe had wilted on the sidelines, drowning in self-loathing and hatred. Zhongli had come to him, again and again, reaching out and pleading desperately for him to listen, but Childe wasn’t interested in the former Archon’s empty excuses.
They clashed, fought time and time again, hurting both their bodies and their minds in the process.
But for all his pleading and regretful words, never once did Zhongli beg for his forgiveness. He only looked upon Childe sadly, watching him depart from yet another meaningless brawl. His Cor Lapis eyes followed Childe down Liyue’s shores as he left, burning holes into his back. An uncanny feeling, a shiver sent up his spine.
Don’t look at me like that, Childe would think, pushing the urge to turn back and reclaim what he’d once had deep down inside.
When Childe lay awake in bed at night, he could never escape the image of Zhongli’s pained expression, full of hurt and longing. So raw and open, nothing like the usual image he kept up. Nothing like the way a god was supposed to act.
Childe pretended he didn’t notice the way Zhongli would reach for him as he turned away, the way he’d look at Childe like he still loved him.
Zhongli could not love him. Someone who had used him such as Zhongli had could never look at him with such pure intentions again. Childe had been a fool to think he was ever worthy of love in the first place.
Childe only remembers bits and pieces of that night. Warm water, hands in his hair, soft, sunshine eyes, and soothing words whispered comfortingly in his ears.
When he wakes, he finds himself in a bed, wrapped in bandages and sore all over. A mild headache makes itself at home in his head, throbbing in his temples as he blinks blearily, his surroundings slowly coming into focus.
His head is cushioned by an impossibly soft pillow. Early morning sunlight filters through the blinds next to the bed, and lilting birdsong trickles in from outside. He realizes belatedly that this is not, in fact, the Fatui’s temporary headquarters, nor his office in Northland Bank.
The second thing to come into focus is Zhongli. The man is sitting next to him, staring at the floor, an unreadable expression on his face.
He looks beautiful, Childe thinks. The soft, amber light illuminates his long, silky hair, bringing out rich browns and dark umbers, colours Childe had never noticed were there. The angle at which he sits makes it so that a halo of light seems to rest around his head, an impossibly ethereal sight. Childe must make a noise, because Zhongli turns to look down at him, bathed in gold and looking like a true god sent down from Celestia. He wants to scream at the other man, punch him, kiss him, hold him. His mind is a war zone.
Childe feels his heart ache, fierce and painful.
Childe doesn’t know why, but the first thing he says is:
“Did you ever truly love me?”
Zhongli turns slowly, dark locks falling over honey eyes. His expression changes into one Childe can’t decipher. He reaches out cautiously, gently, brushing his hand against Childe’s cheek.
“I still do.”
There is a long pause after that. Childe lets the memories of the night before flood in, steadily filling his mind, somber reminders of what he had done, what he had said.
He closes his eyes.
“Who am I to you, Zhongli?”
Zhongli doesn’t hesitate. “You are Ajax. You are a caring brother, a loving son, a protector of dreams…” he trails off, his thumb tracing the contours of Childe’s face lovingly, gently. Childe’s breath catches painfully in his chest. “And you are everything to me.”
Childe laughs softly, a poor attempt at disguising his inner turmoil. He reaches for Zhongli’s hand. “That’s nice of you to say. But… Am I not Tartaglia? The Eleventh of the Tsaritsa’s harbingers? Am I not the one sent to steal your Gnosis and wreak havoc upon your homeland, Liyue?”
Zhongli threads his fingers through Childe’s, working the question over with careful consideration.
“You are, this is true. They are one in the same.”
Childe watches him, silently willing him to continue.
“You told me that you are a monster, but how can that be?” Zhongli asks with a seriousness that demands Childe’s full attention. “How can the same man who loves his family and his home, the man who gives so much of himself to others with little restraint, the man who consoled me, taught me how to live and how to love… how can that man be a monster?”
Childe doesn’t notice the tears gathering in his eyes until he laughs wetly, a badly disguised sob. His hands are shaking, holding onto Zhongli with fervent desperation. He doesn’t speak, too afraid to ruin this moment. Too afraid to push Zhongli away again.
“I will not ask for your forgiveness, for I could never hope for so much. But I would propose to you a contract… if you would hear me out.”
“I’m listening,” Childe whispers, dizzy with a hope he hadn’t known he possessed.
Zhongli takes a deep breath. “I would ask that we could start anew. Not as Morax and Tartaglia… but as Zhongli and Ajax.”
The words hang in the space between them, daunting and raw. A simple question, one that carried the weight of the world.
Childe thinks of little Tonia. He remembers her wide eyes, her frozen limbs, and his brother’s terrified face.
He thinks of the Abyss, and he thinks of the Fatui. He remembers the looks on his parent’s faces, twin expressions of horror that he would never forget, whispered words and empty reassurances.
He remembers how he used to be. A boy of carefree nature, reckless and bold. How he used to live freely, to love freely, to give himself to others entirely without fear of hurt.
Finally, he thinks of Zhongli. Of light, and laughter, and love, of things he believed he would never feel again.
Zhongli is a fool, he thinks, if he believes Childe would never forgive him.
“I agree to your contract,” Childe says, cocking his head to one side with a watery smile, “If you’re still willing to put up with me, consultant.”
Zhongli’s shoulders fall, a sheer relief so clearly visible in his eyes that it momentarily shocks Childe.
Then, suddenly, he’s kissing Childe, and Childe is kissing him, and he feels his signature crimson mask slipping from his head, falling, clattering down somewhere below them. He wonders fleetingly how it had even stayed there, propped on his tousled hair throughout all of this. He wonders if Zhongli had put it there.
He pulls Zhongli closer, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can learn to be okay again. That he can learn to love, let himself be loved. Let himself be Ajax, if only for a time. If nobody else would ever understand him, he knew Zhongli would. The man had made that clear from the very beginning, but Childe had been too blinded by hurt to realize it.
Perhaps a part of this new contract, this new him, was to learn and to move on, to forgive and to forget. To let go of pointless anger... to let go of Tartaglia. No matter what that would entail.
He wonders fleetingly where his loyalties now lie. What would become of his responsibilities? His obligations? What he owed to his Tsaritsa? It was all so much. But it could all be sorted out in time. Childe had never been one for overthinking things. For now, all he wanted was to feel alive again by Zhongli’s side. To let that fanciful dream of a life with the one he loved be reality.
Finally, in a foreign land, far from the darkness of the Abyss and the cold, icy eyes of his Tsaritsa, Ajax finds himself.
And even though it was never asked of him, he feels as though there is one last thing left to say.
“I forgive you,” He whispers.
Zhongli smiles against Ajax’s lips, gentle and soft, and Ajax feels as if he could stay right there for eternity.