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When Signora leaves, she leaves the sour hush of betrayal in her wake. It’s only them, now, and the silence of the empty room is aching until the creak of the door shudders through the air.
“So, dinner, huh?” Childe breaks the silence, keeping his voice light despite the stabbing pang he feels in his heart. There’s displeasure in the way his eyes narrow, hidden cleverly with a smile. “I’m paying again, aren’t I.”
Zhongli glances at him without turning, the rouge bright as it traces the edges of his lashes.
“That would be appreciated,” he says, almost demure, the setting sun haloing the edges of his form. Childe grits his teeth with a sigh and rubs at his temple. Archons , he thinks, still disbelieving, he had been is so utterly smitten with this rock of a man that he still cannot believe that Zhongli is — was — the fucking Morax that had been right under his nose. The thought sends another unpleasant jolt through him. “I believe you wanted to discuss negotiations with the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor as well?”
“I want to discuss a little more than that,” Childe mutters, half under his breath, but Zhongli’s stare is inquisitive as Childe turns and marches out of the open door and into the Liyuen streets. He absolutely refuses to look at Zhongli when the other man follows easily, matching his stride.
They end up sitting at the simple tables of the Wanmin Restaurant. It’s empty around them, no doubt because of Osial’s recent scare, and the only witnesses left are the songbirds and the wind, watching as Xiangling clatters plates in front of the two.
“Eat up!” she declares, her cheeks red from the flames of the stove, “It’s one of my specialties!”
“Your specialties,” Childe repeats, then decides against whatever he was planning to say. He shakes his head and offers a smile, instead. “Looking forward to it.”
It is, unsurprisingly, delicious — despite the possible choice of ingredients. Childe gives up on trying to use the chopsticks after dropping a dough-wrapped roll for the third time and opts for picking it up with his hands instead, wiping his fingers clean on the napkin beside his plate.
He still hasn’t looked at Zhongli yet, but he notes the way the consultant hasn’t even touched his food. Instead, he sees a shift of brown and gold as Zhongli leans forward in his seat.
“You’re angry,” Zhongli says, almost curious. Childe snickers a little, but the thorn of betrayal sinks itself a little deeper into his side. “Is it because of me?”
“Brilliant observation,” Childe replies, sing-song, and then, taking a little pity on the once-archon, “Yes. I’m furious at you, Zhongli.”
“In that case,” Zhongli’s fingers shift over; he pries the chopsticks gently from where Childe stuck them in the rice and places them gently over the top, “I would like to rectify it. Bad relations between us would be detrimental to our factions, would they not?”
Childe finally meets Zhongli’s gaze with his own incredulous one. Zhongli’s expression is steady, unflinching. He thinks about the same steady gaze his parents had levelled when they told him, plainly, that they’d given up on searching, the same steady gaze they had sunk into the floor when they offered up Childe’s freedom to the Tsaritsa. Was that all he was, in the end? A ghost made to serve? He forces the thoughts down, but part of him wants to scream at Zhongli for the way he stares on still, uncaring and unknowing. But all that falls from his lips is:
“That’s it, Zhongli? Really?”
Zhongli blinks at him. “What else is there?”
It doesn’t click. It doesn’t click and the realization hits Childe harder than he thinks it should, the revelation so stunning that it knocks a crumbling and bruised laugh from his lips. He turns away even as his smile stretches wider.
“You don’t understand , Zhongli,” Childe says, something finally cracking in his voice. His eyes are empty when he tilts his head back and looks up at the moon, like all those years ago when he’d left his child self a hundred feet under the dirt in the onyx corridor. “Do you have any idea of how it feels to not know what the truth is? If everything was a lie?”
His smile turns bitter as he backs away from the once-god of Liyue — somehow, he’s on his feet, standing on the cobbled stones of the Liyuen streets, the birdsong thrum of his heart throbbing through his skull. “Tell me the truth , Zhongli. Because if you don’t, then who else will?”
Zhongli’s on his feet now, too, and he takes a tentative step. For the first time Childe has met him, the god’s expression looks so very human, his eyes wide and almost a little lost.
“Childe?” he says, very softly, and Childe hadn’t known Zhongli could ever sound like that. Gentle and almost cautious — it makes him furious.
“Don’t you dare,” he warns. He can barely hear himself over the rising beat echoing in his ears, the ocean of his heart about to spill over the dam. “Don’t you dare fuck with me, Zhongli.”
Zhongli stops. A beat passes, two, and then he leans back on his heels and exhales softly. Silhouetted by the Liyuen buildings and the vast constellations of the night, he looks so small.
“Childe,” he says finally, the regret in his voice unfamiliar and but genuine enough to make the tension in Childe’s shoulders fall. “I apologize for distressing you. I… had not realized that keeping it between the Signora and I would affect you so greatly.”
“You didn’t realize,” Childe echoes, but something in him finally snaps and he buries his face into a gloved hand, hysteria welling up in his throat. “You didn’t realize — of course you didn’t, Zhongli, you’re so fucking oblivious.”
Zhongli’s hands on his shoulders are hesitant and so, so warm.
“Please,” he whispers, “do not cry.”
“I’m not,” Childe mutters; and yet, he can feel the warmth pooling under his glove and spilling past his lashes, the way something buzzes in his head and threatens to drown him. He brushes Zhongli’s hands from his shoulders, backing away. Somewhere, the sound of crackling flames and clattering pans echo through his skull.
“Gods like you,” he breathes out before laughing, the sound more like a broken sob, “gods like you will never understand. Do you know how it feels —,” he stumbles a little and Zhongli moves to steady him but he flinches away, the words blurring past his lips and spilling out, “— to walk out after three months to find out it’s only been three fucking days , and your entire family’s given up on finding you? When your siblings look at you like you’re some kind of ghost , when your parents don’t even recognize you anymore and think you’re better off fighting some kind of war ?”
He laughs again but this time he’s openly sobbing, his hands catching the tears before they spill as he tilts his head up and drowns in silver instead of gold because he cannot bear to face the archon, not now. “Do you have any idea how it feels to live your entire life as a lie?”
In the corner of his periphery, he sees Zhongli’s hands hovering uncertainly over his shoulders, the way his expression wavers and softens.
“Tell me it wasn’t a lie,” Childe confesses, and this time, he doesn’t move when Zhongli pulls him into, quite possibly, the first hug he’s ever had since the day he had trekked up those never-ending stairs and out of the sea of red and madness. It’s so warm. “Please.”
“It wasn’t,” Zhongli murmurs against his hair, his lips pressing a fleeting kiss against his temple and Childe buries himself closer before breathing in the scent of mountain air and incense. “I promise you. I am Zhongli, consultant of the Wangsheng parlour and acquaintance of the Fatui. My contracts — my promises — they are absolute.”
And finally, finally, Childe lets himself bury the body of the child who had been so, so afraid, the one who had walked into the darkness and never looked back, and he nestles himself into the safety of Zhongli’s arms and openly cries.
It’s pathetic, part of him thinks, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Zhongli is so very warm and so very real. It’s real.
“Xiansheng,” he mumbles into the lapel of Zhongli’s suit. The archon’s arms shift in response. “Did you just kiss me?”
Zhongli doesn’t respond, but Childe lifts his head and leans up, pressing one of his own against the corner of the consultant’s mouth; it leaves Zhongli blinking owlishly at him. This time when Childe smiles, it’s small and genuine.
“Had to return the favor,” he says. His heart feels light in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time, and Zhongli’s eyes crease in the barest of smiles. He reaches out and clasps their hands together, and when he does, there’s something solemn stirring in those golden depths, his expression open and sincere in the way that Childe remembers — this is the man, Childe realizes, that he’d fallen in love with under the Liyuen sun.
“Swear to me, Zhongli,” he says, inhaling deeply and wiping away any trace of his tears. “You’re not lying, and this is real.”
“I swear it,” Zhongli says, honest in the way that only he can be.
Childe looks back, drinking in the deep amber of his eyes, before squeezing Zhongli’s hand and agreeing, softly:
“Okay.”