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The Guili Plains are beautiful this time of year. A gentle spring sun hovers over the slopes and hills of the grassy green below, its warm embrace touching every last leaf and blade. In the afternoon breeze, the sea of glaze lilies which stretch as far as the eye can see sways and swirls, not a care in the world.
In the middle of this sea, humble people go about their humble business. There is a village, an oasis among the flowering expanse. Well-trodden dirt paths cut between cozy stone buildings, leading into sprawling farmlands. Within its heart are colorful businesses and busy stalls, buzzing with activity. Above it all, the Guili Assembly rests, a powerful bastion in the midst of a lively town.
In its heart, murmurs float through the air. People churn about a busy street, mumbled rumors hopping from one mouth to the next, sharing glances that are an equal mix of furtive and awestruck.
At the center of the whisperings sits the origin of these hushed conversations: two gods, carefully seated at a streetside restaurant.
One has a breathtaking radiance about her. She sits carefully, delicately, both ankles crossed over each other beneath a long pale blue dress with billowing sleeves. A translucent shawl the color of dust is draped carefully across her shoulders, accentuating her every movement with an elegant and flowing grace which matches the delicate features of her face. Her eyes are darker than the night sky, but a comforting warmth seems to emanate from her gaze. Long white hair is swept carefully over one of her shoulders, a few stray strands pinned back by a flower.
The other absolutely radiates power. He sits rock still, legs splayed and leaning slightly backwards, as if lounging. A white hood casts shadow over dark bangs and a set frown, but it does nothing to hide the piercing glow of amber eyes which seem to cut through one’s soul. Heavy arms are folded against his chest, dark as bedrock and laced with veins of cor lapis which end in glowing orange hands. His white cloak flares out around his legs, trimmed in an elegant gold.
Guizhong and Morax, the founders of the Assembly, were occupying a completely mortal business. Though between the two of them, it is Guizhong and—
“Zhongli.” When she speaks, there’s a gentle and coaxing lilt to her voice. “You seem so tense. You can relax in this place, you know.”
He tilts his head, as if carefully considering her words. After a short pause, he shifts his shoulders, loosening them. The harsh expression on his face remains.
Yet the other seems happy enough. She offers him a small smile. “Better, right?” As she speaks, she reaches a hand across the table to place it against Zhongli’s arms, tugging one gently to get him to unfold them. He obliges, resting his elbows on the table. Still no smile, but his eyes have a new twinkle to them.
Now that his hands are between them, Guizhong places hers over them, touch gentle. “I promise that this is nothing to stress about. Just follow my lead.”
“I am not worried,” he responds, voice stiff, “nor do I have any reason to distrust you. It is merely that…” He trails off as amber eyes sweep the streets around them. Those caught in his gaze seem to startle, then walk a little faster. He only tilts his head, curious. “I fail to see how such a frivolous practice will lend itself to our duties.”
Guizhong sighs, clicking her tongue. “Someday, Morax, ” she stresses, “I’ll get you to understand how important the small things are in a mortal life. Little rituals like this are precious things, and become important bonding experiences between people.” Her eyes shine as she speaks, voice saturated with fondness. “And it’s helpful for a defender to understand those they defend, yes? This is a small step in that direction.”
“But—”
“Zhongli,” she interrupts, voice sweet. “Don’t forget who here is brains and who here is brawn.”
Zhongli seems to shrink a little at that, stony face momentarily flickering to betray a tinge of embarrassment.
In that moment, a waiter slips between them, head bowed as he hurriedly places down a plate before darting off with a squeaked out “thank you.” Before Guizhong can respond, the boy is gone, Zhongli staring off in the direction he vanished.
“He seemed to be in a hurry,” he observes, oblivious.
Guizhong can only laugh in exasperation as she looks down at the dish before them. Ginger tofu, by her request; she preferred not to eat meat when she could avoid it. Zhongli stares down at it, inquisitive.
“You’ve never had tofu, right?” she asks, knowing the answer already as she grabs one of the sets of chopsticks resting on the edge of the plate. Zhongli does not answer, knowing Guizhong is already well aware.
Instead, he watches with unusual intensity as she positions the thin sticks in her right hand… and then proceeds to ignore the pair on his side entirely, reaching out a hand to grab one of the little squares.
Guizhong gasps, appalled. “Zhongli!” She uses her free hand to bat his away, to which his frown deepens. “You need to use the chopsticks.”
He scoffs. “And what purpose does that serve? Sustenance is sustenance, is it not?”
Her hand falls as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’ll need to be adept with chopsticks to really appreciate Liyue’s culinary arts.” Her answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him, if the crease in his brow is any indication, so she presses on. “It’s a matter of principle. Food is made with love, and care, and time. And the food here is designed to be eaten with those.” She sweeps a hand at his still-untouched pair. “It’s important to pay respects to that commitment. Every meal is a work of art, shared between people.”
The crease in his brow softens, though he still looks skeptical. “You are saying that facilitating consumption with… a pair of sticks… will aid in my understanding of humanity.”
“Ah, something like that. Please, just trust me.” She frowns at him with a slight pout.
One second passes, then two, then three, before he sighs, closing his eyes. He has never been immune to Guizhong’s particular methods of persuasion. She smiles triumphantly as he reaches to pick up the chopsticks, stone against wood making the slightest click.
“There we go! Now, watch, you hold them like—”
She’s cut off by a loud thud that shakes the table, causing the plate to clatter. For a moment, she’s unable to find her words, mouth opening and closing a few times before she finally manages:
“Zhongli, you aren’t supposed to stab the food.”
“Ah.” He frowns at the mangled piece of tofu hanging impaled on one of the sticks. “It did seem rather fragile.”
She can’t help it at this point. First, a giggle slips through her lips. Then a snort she can’t quite contain. Before she knows it, she can’t stop, her pealing laughter filling the space around them as bystanders watch the spectacle in cautious bewilderment.
Her laughter eventually peters out, and she turns to Zhongli, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, with an apologetic smile—
Then gasps when she sees one of his own, small but genuine, growing across his face.
“Zhongli!” she whispers at him, voice brimming with energy. “This might be the first time I’ve seen you smile in a place like this.”
It grows, ever so slightly. “I am thinking, Guizhong,” he muses, shaking the tofu off the chopstick, “that perhaps you were correct in your assessment of this practice as a bonding experience.”
“I’m glad.” And she is, really. This is much more than she was expecting from this outing. “But here, let’s resolve your form first…”
She sets her own chopsticks down before reaching out to fold her hands over Zhongli’s, the latter startling with a small and very un-wargod-like sound. Carefully, she adjusts his form. “First, make sure this finger is here…”
“...And then, Childe, pinch the top one with your thumb and forefinger. With the bottom one supported, it offers much more control.”
The Fatui Harbinger furrows his brow in concentration, painstakingly positioning his fingers where Zhongli is gently directing them… and trying his best to ignore the sensation of the man’s gloved hand folded so snugly against the back of his own. A nervous bout of laughter bubbles from his mouth, grip fumbling.
“How’s that?”
Zhongli lets out a low hum as he settles back into his own seat across from Childe. “It is an improvement. With practice, I am sure you will master it.”
“Guess I’ve got to, if I’m gonna make good use of this gift.” He smiles, genial, as he clicks the chopsticks together; the same ones he had received as a diplomatic gift not long ago. As he carefully pinches a chunk of roasted boar between the sticks, he thinks to himself that maybe Xiangling would be proud to see his improvement.
He holds the little morsel up triumphantly between the two of them, beaming. Zhongli, over the lip of his teacup, offers a small smile. “Excellent. Now let’s see if you can do that for the entire meal.” That smile shifts into a smirk, and Childe lets out a mock gasp.
“Is that a challenge, sir?”
“Mmm… perhaps. If you’re able to, I’ll see about getting Wangsheng to foot this bill instead of the Northland Bank.”
“Oh, it’s on.” He shakily guides the meat to his mouth, smiling when he manages to catch it in between his teeth, before reaching out to pluck another.
But as he looks up to catch Zhongli’s eyes with a challenging glare, something makes him stop. Zhongli is staring with incredible intensity, but there’s no heat to it. Just a strange and foreign sort of warmth.
“Ah…” Childe coughs, quietly, which seems to startle Zhongli from his reverie.
“My apologies,” he starts immediately, setting his cup down. “Watching this has brought back some memories, that’s all.”
“Oh?” He’s curious now, he won’t lie. He leans forward, folding his free hand under his chin. “A mora for your thoughts, Xiangsheng?”
“Merely that you are learning chopsticks faster than I did.” He smiles, and it’s so full of warmth that Childe has to flit his eyes away. “Is it strange of me to say that I feel a sense of pride?"
It sort of is, Childe thinks to himself, but he doesn’t voice this. Instead, he waves the chopsticks in the air between them. “Don’t worry about it. Still, you always struck me as the prim and proper type. Weren’t you the one who said—”
“—That you will need to be adept with chopsticks if you are to truly appreciate Liyue’s gastronomy?” he finishes, tilting his head with an innocent blink. “I suppose a statement like that would give a cultured impression, wouldn’t it?”
“Exactly. So…”
“That sentiment was actually taught to me by an old friend.” He taps his fingers against the table between them, drumming a surprisingly loud rhythm. “She was the one who taught me the finer points of dining. And now, I am passing that knowledge on to you.” The tapping stops as he raises his hand again, gently wrapping his fingers around Childe’s wrist. “Be sure to put it to good use.”
The chopsticks slip from his fingers, right as Xiangling pokes her head around the corner to check in on their meal.
Ah.
Once again, Childe finds himself footing the bill.