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Shafts of light showers over the streets of Liyue. The nation bustles as it greets the morning sun, locals starting their day early, lively already. Splashes of a golden glow seeps between the curtains of Zhongli’s window, poking his eyes unceremoniously. Not long after, the man stirs awake with a short yawn, eyes bleary as he opens them, adjusting to his surroundings. Zhongli isn’t impervious to the common feeling of being tired, gnawing at his back and settling as an added weight on his shoulders. He has seen far too much—he knows all too well the strong, unavoidable need to simply close his eyes and succumb to a moment of rest, even for a short second. One he never grants himself.
It’s different, now that he’s no longer an unreachable god watching over an ever-growing piece of land. Exhaustion comes at him all the same, a beast he can’t run away from, but the overwhelming pressure he had grown used to lessen with time. Sleep, he finds, is quite the healer in itself. Gradually, he’s starting to assimilate into mortality. He’s well aware of humanity’s shortcomings, glaring demands that he’ll need to fulfill simply to live. But in his eyes, that may be why humans are able to tuck themselves into bed and close their eyes after a pat on their own back, the day’s struggles finally behind them. They can switch their brain off, lay their thoughts to rest and relish in the warmth of their blanket wrapped around them.
The warmth of someone in their arms.
By his side, there’s a gentle rustle. A familiar face peeks out of the blanket, half buried into a pillow. Zhongli had half a mind to open his window, welcoming the sun’s radiance into his home. Seeing one of the fatui harbingers, ruthless and undoubtedly capable of destroying the foundation they’re residing in should he choose to do so, looking so at peace, almost child-like in the way he responds to whatever dream he’s having, breathing even and soft—Zhongli doesn’t feel like casting his gaze away, not yet. He watches, blinking only when he should, like a lover over his beloved. His fingers hover over Childe’s cheeks, then his hair, before he decides to take in the view before him with his eyes alone.
Below the blanket, Zhongli notes the way Childe’s chest rises and falls. The merciless fighter scrunches his eyebrows, moving slightly under Zhongli’s watchful eyes, revealing more of his young, tranquil face. Childe’s lips part then, releasing a hushed breath—Zhongli’s stare lingers there, focus shifting. And then, Zhongli wonders. Like the blank slate of a person who just morphed into the world, he’s flooded with insatiable curiosity. What, pray tell, is this unpredictable and bloodthirsty warrior envisioning in his head as he’s laying in someone else’s bed? How, should the opportunity arise, would this seemingly defenseless man react, if Rex Lapis himself decides to wake him up with a tender press of lips?
Tartaglia, a gluttonous combatant, a dangerous man—how would his lips feel against Zhongli’s?
These thoughts arise without warning; how human , Zhongli tells himself.
Whether Childe sensed Zhongli’s thoughts from the deepest depths of his slumber, or the glaring sun had finally proven too much for the other, he is now slowly waking up, cracking one eye open before another follows. Childe doesn’t try to blink away the sleepiness, returning Zhongli’s insistent stare with his own drowsy one, although Childe doesn’t seem to realise that Zhongli isn’t looking back at Childe’s eyes. Neither of them speak for a moment, content with the comfortable silence in the air. Zhongli thinks Childe will fall asleep in a matter of minutes, but eventually, Childe greets him first. “Mr. Zhongli… You’ve been awake awhile?”
Zhongli finally raises his gaze to meet Childe’s. “Not exactly. I awoke not too long ago, myself. I was still collecting my bearings.”
Childe stifles a yawn, shifting to sit up before he’s facing Zhongli once more. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Not that I mind sleeping like a baby on this fluffy bed, but shouldn’t you be ushering me out by now?”
The events that lead to the young man staying over were a blur in Zhongli’s head, although he’s certain it isn’t as bothersome as Childe seems to believe it is. His room is spacious, more than enough for two people. “You’re free to stay for as long as you like. I would quite appreciate your company, in fact. But I suppose you’ll have to leave when I do.” As much as Zhongli realises he’d like to, he doesn’t have the luxury to observe every small twitch Childe’s lips make as the other steadily rouses from dreamland. He wonders, again, when was it that he started finding fascination in another man’s miniscule reaction.
“You know, Mr. Zhongli…” Childe starts, plopping himself back down onto the bed with a huff. “I’m trying to maintain my manners here, but if you say that, I might just take you up on your offer and doze the morning away.”
At that, Zhongli chuckles. “In that case, shall we make a contract?”
“Oh? What are you going to get out of me?”
With a single kiss, I could extend your stay for an hour . Zhongli looks off to the side, as if truly pondering over the ramifications that’ll come once he forges a contract with a fatui harbinger. “Would you mind if I put you up to hard labour, then?” He jokes, though his flat tone says otherwise.
Childe hums. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to get me to give you more Mora?”
A tiny smile graces Zhongli’s lips, one that reveals nothing. “I wonder.”
Come to find out, the morning stretches a little longer, like it’s accommodating to the two of them. They stayed in bed longer than they intended to, lost in mindless conversation and petty, friendly banter. Childe makes note of the time out loud at one point as he listens to one of Zhongli’s monologues, causing Zhongli to pull the blanket away from their (almost entwined, much to their surprise) legs. When Childe questions him with an eyebrow raised, Zhongli merely replies that he has an appointment with a rather troublesome director of a funeral parlour. And yet, he makes no move to direct Childe towards the exit of his own home.
To Zhongli’s amusement, Childe doesn’t take the chance to leave, either.
“Oh, Mr. Zhongli… I’ve never seen you with your hair down before. You look kind of different.”
Zhongli glances at the fatui harbinger from the mirror before him, then to his hair freely draping over his shoulder. “I’ve been told that it’s necessary to keep up with appearances, so I try to brush it every morning. It’s quite the hassle, I sometimes wonder whether I should follow your hairstyle.”
Childe shakes his head, taking a step closer. “That’d be such a waste! You should keep it this way.” Without any sense of personal space, he lightly runs his hands through the archon’s hair, marveling at the golden ends. “It’s softer than I thought,” he mumbles, eyes locked onto the way the strands of Zhongli’s hair gracefully tumbles from his fingertips. Childe’s touch is light, as if Zhongli—a being once immortal, capable of destruction with a wave of his arm—is not at all immune to withering beneath his calloused hands, rough from countless battles.
“Say, will you let me do your hair, Mr. Zhongli?” Childe asks all-so-suddenly, voice faint with reminisce. “I’m pretty good at it, for your information. Tonia said so.” He laughs a little, shifting to pick up the hairbrush on the dresser without waiting for Zhongli’s verbal permission. Zhongli finds no qualms, really.
“If she said so, then it must be true,” Zhongli replies. And that’s enough to get Childe started.
Settling on his seat, Zhongli tries to keep still as Childe loosens the knots hidden along his locks. Zhongli suggests getting himself tea as he waits, but Childe whines and says that Zhongli will be moving too much that way. So, the consultant merely stays put as he had been asked to do, complying to the wishes of the man who unleashed chaos onto Liyue without nary a thought. The irony of the situation doesn’t go over Zhongli’s head, but regardless of what destruction Childe had in mind, Zhongli is certain that Liyue will still stand tall and proud. That is how Liyue was always meant to be, with or without him.
Once Childe decides that Zhongli’s hair is smooth enough, making sure by running his hands through Zhongli’s hair once more, he sets down the hairbrush and takes out a hair tie. “Hm, you’ll give me free reign on what I do with your hair, Mr. Zhongli?”
Zhongli raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning anything concerning that’ll cause me to take that back?”
Childe laughs once more, the sound is far from unpleasant. “No, not yet. I just want to braid your hair.”
“Then be my guest.”
Zhongli hears a snort. “I am your guest, right now at least.”
The idle chatter ceases for a moment, replaced by subtle humming of a song Zhongli doesn’t recognise. The piece sounds ragged and a bit out of tune, though Zhongli can’t quite say for sure, because it isn’t a melody he’s accustomed to, certainly not from Liyue. He concludes that it must be from Snezhnaya, where harsh winters persist longer than it should, a nation littered with snow—a place that Childe calls home. And then, Zhongli wonders once more. What’s playing in Childe’s head as he’s intricately braiding another man’s hair? Is he thinking about his little sister, wishing it was her instead? Is he recalling the tender way she’d thank him, or the way she’d pick at what he’s doing simply because that’s what siblings do?
A mystery—Childe is a puzzle, with his contrasting sides and his connection to the abyss; Zhongli doesn’t want to solve it so hastily, he’ll take his time to take Childe apart and inspect the darkest depths that even Childe doesn’t know about.
When his eyes catch the way Childe’s narrow on the mirror, concentrating intently with a glint of something Zhongli can’t quite name, eyebrows crease like he’s thinking about something more than just braid patterns. Zhongli wonders whether the fatui harbinger harbours the same thoughts. Childe raises his head then, and their gazes meet—the comfortable silence extends into something tense, burning embers simmering, heating where they make contact. Like a moth attracted to fiery flames, Childe gently lifts the newly woven braid to his lips, not once breaking away from Zhongli’s fierce stare, drowning in glowing golden pools. Zhongli takes the sight in and more, drinking whatever Childe is graciously offering him. Childe places a soft and innocent kiss on Zhongli’s braid, not at all aligning with the cavernous hunger behind those eyes.
Something dangerous ignites within Zhongli. This is when he realises he doesn’t just want —he needs , desperately so.
As sudden as the change in atmosphere comes, it dissipates when Childe breaks into a grin, dropping Zhongli’s hair onto his shoulder. “Done! What do you think? Pretty, right?” Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Childe nods to himself, answering his own question. “Now you’ll look extra beautiful for your meeting with that director of yours.”
Zhongli closes his eyes. “I see. So you think I’m beautiful?” He doesn’t need to open them to know that he caught the young man off guard, even if for a short second.
“I mean—To be honest, I’d be a bit surprised if there’s someone who doesn’t think you are.” This time, Childe’s honesty surprises Zhongli, and he looks at the other only to spot red dancing across Childe’s cheeks. Zhongli summarises that red is a wonderful colour on one of Tsaritsa’s brutal soldiers.
“Childe,” Zhongli calls out, paying attention to how Childe turns almost immediately, blinking with curiosity. “Do you mind if I try this on you?”
“What… braiding?”
“Precisely.”
Childe laughs, knees buckling. “Wow—To have Morax himself braid my hair… but it’s not long enough for that, you know?”
“Ah, you are correct. That’s rather unfortunate, but I can still brush your hair, isn’t that right?”
Before Childe could come up with any other complaints, Zhongli swiftly pushes himself off of the chair and moves behind the other, guiding Childe to take a seat with his hands on Childe’s shoulders, followed by a squeeze meant for comfort. He doesn’t miss the way Childe gulps, amused at how someone so vicious on the battlefield can act so nervous at the prospect of having his hair brushed by another man. Zhongli doesn’t dwell on that matter for too long, taking the brush into his hand and starting his work. It’s easier, it turns out, when it’s shorter.
Come to find out, many things about Childe feels easy .
Childe has his hands on his own lap, shaped into fists. He doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he’s watching Zhongli as closely as he can through a mirror, lips parted in a daze. Although Zhongli’s fingers falter whenever he tugs, a trace of clumsiness in his pulls, there’s an air of poise in the way he’s learning, experimenting with something as trivial as hair brushing. Unsurprisingly, Zhongli is a quick learner, a feat that comes when you’ve lived for years upon years. To Zhongli’s levity, Childe leans into Zhongli’s hands, eventually closing his eyes as he goes back to humming the song from earlier.
This man, neither friend nor foe with an endless thirst for blood—currently, he’s compliant in Zhongli’s hands; vulnerable . Buried deep inside Zhongli, a switch flips. When he tugs on Childe’s hair a little harder, it isn’t because he lacks control. When he does so to draw out a strangled whine from Childe, he doesn’t feign innocence. He wants to see more of this duality, be a witness to every aspect of the unforeseeable Tartaglia, who brings along trouble that Zhongli welcomes. Zhongli yanks Childe’s hair once more deliberately, this time harsh enough that both of them wouldn’t be able to deem it a pure mistake. Another sound leaves Childe’s throat, his eyes fluttering open, meeting Zhongli’s turbulent gaze.
Zhongli smiles, small but fervent in how his lips curl. The consultant’s hand had stopped moving, clinging onto Childe’s hair, brush ignored in favour of having Childe’s hair in between his fingers. Several beats of their hearts pass, like the quick ticking of a clock, loud in their ears. The two of them are searching for something, a desperate chase that they’re prolonging for as long as possible.
The tension grows thicker, so suffocating they’re almost breathless. But Zhongli’s eyes shift, ever so slightly. He closes in on a strand of Childe’s hair, raising an eyebrow. He says nothing, leaving Childe with mindless questions he needs answers to.
“Mr. Zhongli…?” He finally manages to murmur, careful.
“Childe,” he addresses, tone unreadable. “Remind me of your age, again?”
“Huh? Why?”
“It seems you’re already starting to grow grey hair.”
And just like that, whatever tension there was between them breaks like shattered glass.
Childe responds with an exaggerated scream, jumping from his seat to shove himself against the mirror, trying to spot the abomination that Zhongli had pointed out. He can’t seem to find the cursed traitor despite his best efforts, which adds to his distress. “Oh my god, you’re kidding. At this age?” He rambles, heaving out a heavy sigh.
“It isn’t wise for you to fret so much. You’ll only quicken the process. You shouldn’t concern yourself with such details, either. It happens to everyone. Grey hair symbolises the passage of time on your very body, there’s nothing shameful about that.”
Childe turns to Zhongli with pleading eyes, invisible puppy ears somehow on display. “So in other words—I’m growing old, is what you’re trying to say?”
Zhongli can’t quite understand what the problem here is, but he nods regardless. “I’m much older than you, you know.”
“And I don’t see a single strand of grey hair on you!”
“I was an immortal being, you’re more than aware of that.” Zhongli isn’t above bringing up how he managed to fool the other, a smile playing at his lips. “I’ve only recently regressed—ah, no— entered into human civilization. My time will come, maybe soon.” Childe grumbles in response, somewhat pouting, another expression Zhongli hadn’t expected to see.
“That’s reassuring.”
“Do you want me to comfort you?”
Arms crossed, Childe leans back against the dresser. “Would you?”
The spark between them returns, but Zhongli doesn’t fuel the fire this time. He opts for a more factual reply. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, Childe. Your morals aside, your mortality is still intact, and the likelihood that you’ll live a long life increases if you stop seeking thrills from dangerous fights so much.” He’s about to suggest that Childe’s tendencies to push himself in battle may be one of the reasons why a strand of grey hair had shown itself, though Zhongli decides against it.
Childe snorts. “That’s a hard bargain.”
Zhongli merely nods. “I knew it would be, for you.”
“Come on, Mr. Zhongli. You can do better than that, right?”
He can’t tell whether Childe is genuinely requesting for comfort or acting like this solely for—Zhongli’s attention? That doesn’t sound quite right, but to offer reassurance means digging into the root of the problem. “Aging is a part of being human. The older you grow, the more experiences added under your belt, nurturing your maturity. Your body changes physically, reflecting how the experiences you go through changes you within. It’s out of your control, sometimes frustratingly so, for humans like you. However, there are a few things that you can change under your own control, depending on how you play your cards.” Zhongli jabs at Childe’s chest with his index finger, then he gives a short nod. “How you perceive yourself, and how others perceive you.” He doesn’t retract his hand, only inching closer. “No matter how many grey hairs you grow, you could still remain as the ruthless, bloodthirsty fatui harbinger that we all know and—”
“—and love?”
Zhongli takes a step backward. “...and would look up to, or work to defeat.”
“And I’m assuming you’re the latter, then?”
Zhongli hides his smile under his glove. “That’s not my duty anymore. I wouldn’t need to work for that, anyway.”
Childe holds his chest, as if he has been hurt. “You may not want to underestimate me like that, Mr. Zhongli.”
“I’m not,” Zhongli smiles. “Besides, aren’t you getting a bit off topic?”
Lips pursed, Childe sighs. “To be honest, I’m still processing your entire speech,” he admits. Zhongli allows Childe to take his time as he wonders whether it’d be better if he had just tried to reassure Childe with soft touches, like he would a child. Eventually, Childe speaks up once more. “So if, hypothetically, I do grow old and grey, but you’re still—well, you … would you still invite me into your home, and even into your bed?”
The connotations of that question doesn’t fly over Zhongli’s head, although he isn't sure why Childe would ask such a question. It’s a silly inquiry, yet Zhongli already has an answer ready, so perhaps he is just as silly. “Of course, Childe. But I doubt I’d remain in this form forever, appearance-wise.”
Childe puffs, “who knows, you are—were?—an archon, after all. I have no idea whether you’d still like me thirty years in the future, or whether you’d see my wrinkly features and tell me to retire from my job and you.”
“Assuming you’d still be part of the Fatui as an old man?”
“That’s not the point!”
Zhongli chuckles, waving a hand. “Fine, fine. You’re pretty persistent about this topic, aren’t you?” Childe shrugs, providing no real answer, so Zhongli continues on. “I still don’t understand why the matter bothers you to this extent. You do realise that in this form, I’m able to grow old with you. I won’t be watching you wither away, I’d be with you, so—”
Something clicks, then. Glimpses of a possible future, images of an older Childe, visible folds under his eyes, the same bright grin, humming a song he had heard only moments ago, brushing his hair gently. His chest swells with warmth he’s still trying to get used to, listening to figments of Childe’s older voice, slightly hoarse from experience and added age.
Like . The term contains many hidden meanings; it’s light, but peer under and there could be more to it, a concept more passionate. Childe chose the word with thought, Zhongli realises. There’s a heavier word that starts with the same letter, masked and easily dismissible, undeterred until they’re both truly ready. It isn’t enough, they both know this—but for now, it’ll do.
Humans, he finds, are stubborn creatures. They’ll do anything to achieve their goals, fight for what they want, search high and lows to see their dreams become a reality. It’s difficult to put them down, to completely crush their spirits when they have something they crave, something they must have no matter the cost—always curious and hungry to a fault. But humans are running on limited time, their forever isn’t without an end. And so they struggle, transient beings that continue to tussle against the boundless universe.
Everything becomes more worth it when time is evanescent.
“Childe,” Zhongli utters, surprising himself with how enamored he sounds. Childe seems caught off guard himself, arms falling to the side, clutching onto the dresser. On the other hand, Zhongli is reaching out for his braid, twirling it in between his fingers. “I’ve thought about it, since you refuse to drop the subject no matter what I say, and I can conclusively say—I’ll still like you, until the end of time.”
And his words weigh so much more when time is no longer eternal.
Scarlet adorns Childe’s cheeks, clearly having not anticipated Zhongli’s answer. To be fair, Zhongli hadn’t either, but their morning together and the desires he has kept at bay solidifies his case—there is no room for hesitation in the way he delivers his answers. Childe can see this, can feel this. Denial isn’t an option.
“...Now that’s just unfair, Mr. Zhongli,” Childe replies instead.
Zhongli laughs, a faint illumination within the uncertainty of a crumbling eternity. “I suppose so.”
Hu Tao closes in from across the table, a teasing glint evident in her sneaking glances. Zhongli sets the menu down, giving the director a questioning look, silently telling her to just come out with what she wants to say. Hu Tao giggles, chin atop her palm, an interested smirk, one that says she’ll find out whatever it is Zhongli is hiding whether he likes it or not. Zhongli doesn’t care either way.
“Nice braid.”
Zhongli hums, both in acknowledgement and appreciation. As if on cue, his hand wanders off to his braid once more. “Thank you.”
“You seem to be in a good mood. Had a pleasant morning, I’m guessing?”
Zhongli nods, eyes closed as he plays back the events that occurred. He can’t hold back the smile stretching across his lips, nor does he try to. “And many more to come.”