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He realized Zhongli had a problem the day he walked into Zhongli’s apartment and found a sea of takeout boxes. He stood in the doorway, squinting at the greased paper and oil-spotted bamboo. Zhongli was slightly flushed, though whether because of the Harbour’s heat or embarrassment, Childe couldn’t tell. He only watched as Zhongli dug through dressers, searching for a new hair tie after the original had been lost.
There was a maternal instinct to clean up. It was an impulse his mother had gladly cultivated, what with her house full of rowdy children and a husband who came home just enough to eat, sleep, and leave her with another child. Ajax had been her little darling, Childe knew—the apple-cheeked boy who stayed by her side. He hesitated before sighing. There was nothing for it. The greased containers were unpleasant beneath his gloved hands, but they were easily disposed of.
“Do you eat often?” he couldn’t help but ask.
Zhongli glanced up. “Is it not something mortals do?”
“It is, but I find it hard to believe you live like this.”
“I have been quite busy,” Zhongli said, still flushed. “It has been difficult to take time to clean up.” He looked over the mess. “… I apologize for the condition of the room.”
“I’m not offended,” Childe said, “but I am concerned. What exactly are you eating?”
He was being like his mother. Zhongli was six thousand years old—new to mortal life, yes, but he didn’t need Childe henning him. Zhongli smoothed his hair, tying it back into a neat queue.
“When work at the Parlour finishes,” Zhongli said, “my coworkers insist on stopping at a certain stall for a quick supper. As I feel relations with them are already strained due to my awkwardness, I have chosen to not refuse.”
That was… a lot of money wasted. “Do you cook for yourself at all?”
“The occasional small breakfast.”
At best, it was youtiao and porridge. “How much do you need to eat?”
Zhongli looked a bit flummoxed. “I survive on Geo energies, Childe.”
“Yet you eat breakfast.”
“It’s a mortal habit, isn’t it?”
Childe frowned. “Do you know what happens to mortals who eat like this, Zhongli?”
“I imagine there would be some consequences.”
“They become sickly.” He squinted at Zhongli. “This can’t be doing anything good for you.”
“I apologize,” Zhongli said after a moment.
Childe really had become his mother, but things were about to get worse—because what kind of a person would he be if he castigated Zhongli for his eating habits and cleanliness if he didn’t help? He gathered more boxes, slipping them into each other. Zhongli had kept them confined to a single table, as though to remind himself to throw them away. For someone as fastidious as Zhongli, it was concerning.
“Come to my home this evening,” Childe said. Zhongli raised a brow. “You’ve been eating poorly; I’ll fix that. Then we can go for a walk or take in a performance, if you’d like?”
“… I confess I am a bit puzzled by your behaviour, Childe.”
“Take it as friendly concern.”
That only seemed to puzzle Zhongli further, but if Childe’s plan was to work, he would need to leave now. He gathered the last of the boxes, patted Zhongli on the shoulder, and left.
There were signs to battle weariness and melancholy. Childe knew himself immune—one could not tire a thunderstorm—but Zhongli was not Childe. Zhongli had given away his gnosis, watched Liyue move on without him, and now worked a tiring job that demanded his constant attention. Under strain, things gave. The ever-tidy Zhongli became messy. His diet worsened. Zhongli had hid it well, but Childe had seen enough soldiers fall apart with a smile to know the signs.
You’re acting like your mother, he thought again as his hands diced vegetables and minced meat. She’d done the same for his father the week after Ajax had returned to Morepesok. Ajax had started a fight with the blacksmith’s sons: he’d won, but his father had been enraged. It was the fourth fight in five days. His mother—his sweet mother who loved birds and had dreamed of seeing Zapolyarny Palace—had been silent as she cooked. Ajax had sat in a side-room. He’d been starving: he’d skipped breakfast in his manic need to find a fight, and supper had been taken from him in punishment. All he’d been able to do was patch coats and trousers as onions caramelized and rabbit fat rendered in a pan.
His thoughts were, he realized, no longer in Liyuen. Snezhnayan had returned. Was he truly so nostalgic for home?
He discarded the idea. No, he wasn’t nostalgic for home. There was nothing there for him any longer. What he missed, instead, were the simple motions of domestic work. They demanded the same muscle memory as a fight, even if they lacked the sweetness of blood.
Barring any spectacular mistakes, of course.
The sun crested over the Harbour. The morning he’d spent shopping with Zhongli passed to an afternoon of kitchen-work, interrupted occasionally by his subordinates. Most gaped at him. A few looked amused. Only one seemed to understand why he was doing this. He commanded them all not to cause any trouble in debt collection that night. It would be unfortunate if Zhongli spent the evening enjoying himself only face the Harbour’s panic in the morning.
By the time the sun’s light sparkled off the ocean’s waves, his apartment felt like a sauna. Desperate attempts to cool the rooms had forced him to open windows and doors. When Liyue’s lanterns were finally lit, his Vision’s soft blue joined them as mist cooled the kitchen.
Zhongli did not knock. His skin was a bit wan, as though from exhaustion, but his clothes were neat and his bearing proper. “Are you sure it’s wise to leave your door open?”
Childe shrugged from where he stood in the kitchen. “It’s all Fatui around me. Anyone who comes in to steal would have a horrible surprise besides. Sit at the dinner table; I’ll serve.”
“I could help.”
Childe smiled. “You could, but I’m not letting you. What would you like to drink?”
Zhongli went with baijiu. It was a fine vintage that Childe had picked up at Zhongli’s directive months back. He’d needed to entertain a Liyuen merchant, though she’d developed cold feet about aligning herself with the Fatui. At least someone now got to enjoy it.
There was much to enjoy the drink with too. There hadn’t been enough time for a full banquet, but he’d managed the basics. A serving tray of small pancakes and caviar waited on the table for Zhongli. When Childe glanced over from plating the veal-stuffed pastries, it was to see Zhongli prodding a particularly large bit of roe with a finger. Suspicion wreathed his features, but it was high quality caviar—quality enough to not taste fishy, but instead fresh and salty. At least Zhongli seemed to realize that by the time Childe carted out the solyanka.
“You made this,” Zhongli said.
Childe pursed his lips. “I don’t have fairies in my kitchen to do it for me, Zhongli.”
“You have servants.”
“I do,” Childe said, “but that wasn’t the point of this, was it?”
Zhongli seemed to consider that. Childe interrupted the contemplation when he pulled a loaf of sourdough from the table breadbox and began to hack off twice slices. “That bread is darker than the Chasm.”
Childe paused in his sawing. “Is that bad?”
“No,” Zhongli said, “but it is unusual. Molasses?”
“Rye too.”
“You made it from scratch?”
“Baking’s good for releasing stress.”
“I thought that’s what fighting was for?”
“A well-adjusted person has multiple outlets.” He plunked a dense slice onto a small plate and slid it over to Zhongli. “Unlike you, who has none.”
Zhongli coughed around the spoon in his mouth. “Childe—”
“Swallow before talking.”
The only thing sourer than the look on Zhongli’s face was the solyanka’s broth. The mushrooms seemed to huddle between chopped vegetables, their little caps hiding their curious eyes. Childe ripped a section off the bread and tossed it in his mouth as he waited.
“I have ways to deal with stress,” Zhongli said.
“Tell me ways that aren’t shopping with me, working, or eating takeout.”
Zhongli opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked down. “Those are good hobbies, aren’t they?”
“As much as I enjoy shopping with you,” Childe replied, “I’m not sure any of those qualify as hobbies.” Zhongli’s skin flushed a delicate rose. It was almost cute, if not for the subject matter. “You traded away your gnosis and dove into life as a mortal. I appreciate the gusto, but I’m worried for you.”
“I was living as a mortal before.”
“Yes, but you were still an Adeptus. You were still Rex Lapis. There was always an escape route—there was a driving purpose. Now you’re Zhongli and Zhongli always.” Zhongli still wouldn’t look at him. “… I like you. I wouldn’t be here after Osial if I didn’t. But part of liking you is realizing when you’re drowning too.”
“I don’t wish to burden you,” Zhongli said softly.
“Burden?” Childe leaned back in his seat, assessing Zhongli. The ruddy pink was still on his skin, but there was a more weathered unhappiness now. “If it was a burden, would I have invited you to my house to talk about it?”
“That does not make it less of a problem.”
Zhongli was dignified, reserved, and shrewd. He did not like to do things on impulse or without reflection. Childe sometimes wondered if it reminded him of times past, when the world was far more dangerous and the gods more wild. There was a comfort to be found in control, and Zhongli had become accustomed to having it.
“I haven’t cooked in years,” Childe said. Zhongli looked up. “I learned from my mother, but the Fatui never let me do it. I was too valuable on the battlefield.”
“Do you enjoy cooking?”
“Quite a bit,” Childe admitted. “It reminds me of gentler times, when my family still liked me.”
Zhongli’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Was that a burden for you to hear?”
“… No?”
“Why, then, would your problems be a burden for me?”
“You are a Harbinger. You have better things to be doing than listening to an old man’s regrets.”
“I spent an afternoon cooking from scratch,” Childe said dryly. “I don’t think I have much going on.” Once again, Zhongli looked flummoxed. “Talk to me, Zhongli. Tell me what’s haunting you.”
“I have a thousand ghosts, Childe.”
“And I have all the time in the world to get to know them—or take your mind off them, if you’d prefer.”
“You being you is enough.”
“It isn’t.” There was an impulse that lingered at the back of his mind. He turned it over like it was a fine gem, looking for flaws behind its glimmering facets. “Would you like to make a contract, Zhongli?”
“Only if it is fair.”
Childe gave a crooked smile. “Eat with me twice a week. Any day—your choice—and the subject will be what stresses or worries you.”
“And in return?”
“Your company isn’t enough?” Zhongli gave him a flat look. “Fine, fine! I suppose a fight is out of the question?” A smile almost broke through Zhongli’s scowl, but he still shook his head. “Take me to Jueyun Karst, then. Show me the world of the Adepti.”
“I won’t allow you to fight any of them.”
Childe feigned a put-upon sigh. “Then you can tell me the stories of the Adepti at the very least.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Zhongli. “And if we happen to see any of the Adepti, I’ll be good. I promise.”
Zhongli pursed his lips. “… Let the contract be sealed, and all that break this covenant suffer the Wrath of the Rock.”
All around, Childe mused, a win-win for him.