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She wakes up alone, gets ready alone, puts her clothes back on alone.
This is nothing new. Childe never stays, and maybe once upon a time, she might have wished that he did stay, but now…
Now, she feels nothing. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself.
Why should she feel anything for a man who has made it clear, from the very beginning, that this is no more than a physical relationship? That his responsibilities lead him away from her; that no matter what they do, at the end of the day, they’re walking down different paths.
She is here only for her brother. While he’s here for…whatever it is the Fatui are here for. It does not matter to her.
Lumine fixes her dress, running her hand through her hair before her gaze narrows in on the faint bruise right above her clavicle, towards the left of her neck.
She sighs, pulling her scarf a little higher. That ought to conceal it.
Childe has been getting increasingly careless lately. He’s the one who suggested that they keep their affair a secret, but the marks he leaves on her body are anything but hidden.
Her shoulders sag. She’s tired. It’s another day of commissions and nothingness while she waits for news of her brother. Another day that spreads into emptiness and desire, into a cold, aching want for things she cannot name.
She thinks of Childe, his blue eyes gleaming in the sun, his hand stretching towards her, and she shakes her head.
Perhaps she ought to avoid him today. Just so she can get these seething emotions under control.
She lied.
Childe offers, as usual, to accompany her on her commissions, and as always, she accepts. So much for avoiding him.
She perches on a log, staring at the back of his head as he idly shoots at the nearby birds, humming each time his arrow finds its mark.
“Stare any longer, ojou-chan, and you’re going to burn a hole in my skull.”
His carefree words startle her, and she sits upright, folding her hands on her lap. “I wasn’t looking at you.”
“You weren’t?” He sounds amused, turning back to face her, placing his bow on the ground.
“Liyue has lovely scenery. Don’t flatter yourself,” she says.
She doesn’t tell him that he’s part of the scenery. That's not something he needs to know.
“Well, if that’s what you say. Wouldn’t want you falling for a nasty, ruthless Harbinger anyway, would we?”
She flinches, but thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice, now picking up a nearby stick and using it to prod the campfire. The flames flicker, burning bright and hungry. “Looks like we’re ready to start cooking,” he observes. “Do you want to be in charge of dinner today?”
She shakes her head. She’s been craving some of his horrendous seafood soup lately – to be fair to him, it tastes fine, but the presentation of the dish leaves much to be desired.
Not that he has to know this, either.
Childe tuts. “Lazy. I’ll do the honours, then.”
Her voice feels like it’s lodged in the back of her throat, so she simply nods, wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her chin atop her knee, watching as he bustles about, prepping his ingredients.
It’s too easy to imagine a life with him when he’s like this. Humming, focused on the fire, stirring his soup as he laughs and jokes around.
But they’ve fought at the Golden House. She has seen the sheen of cruelty in his eyes, has seen how far he is willing to go in the service of his Tsaritsa. She knows he will throw her aside the moment he is ordered to do so.
The knowledge makes something twist in her chest, but she refuses to think about it.
“Here.” She blinks as a bowl of soup is thrust before her, large chunks of octopus floating in a rich seafood broth. “Are you okay, comrade? You’ve been spacing out a lot today.”
“I’m fine.” The answer is instinctive, though her hands tremble when she reaches for the bowl.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press the issue, returning his attention to the pot. She scoops up some soup, blows upon it, keeping her gaze fixed on him throughout.
He’s not paying her much attention, focusing on the pot, on the soup boiling merrily away on the fire. She takes the chance to study him – to study his unruly tousled hair, the curve of his mouth, the languid drape of his body across the log; an effortless grace that easily whips into a frenzy the moment he senses a fight.
She thinks about how it feels to run her fingers through his hair or feel his mouth upon her neck. How it feels to have him pressing on top of her, warm and heavy, whispering in her ears.
One wouldn’t think such a pretty mouth capable of such filth. But then, Childe has always been quite the enigma.
“You’re staring again.” He doesn’t look at her this time.
“No, I’m not.” There’s no point saying this; he knows that she’s lying. But he doesn’t call her out, tapping his ladle against the side of the pot instead.
“Want seconds?” he offers. She shows him her bowl, still half-filled, and he laughs. “I suppose not, then.”
“What are we?”
The question slips out before she can stop herself, and her breath catches.
He pauses. His blue eyes, dead in the darkening twilight, flick up to meet hers. She can’t quite read the expression on his face. “What a sudden question.”
She’s already here. She might as well continue. “Answer me.”
He shrugs, leaning back from the pot. “We’re whatever you want us to be, ojou-chan.”
“That’s not a proper response.” And he knows it, judging from the way his mouth curls, from the way he tips his head to the side, watching her.
“Why this newfound interest in labels, hm?”
She glances away, her fingers tightening around her bowl. “I don’t want to waste my time.”
Or her feelings. But once again, she swallows that truth down. She doesn’t want to give him any ammunition to use against her.
“I thought we were quite happy with the current arrangement.” He blinks. “Or was I wrong?”
You’re wrong, she wants to tell him. But he looks too curious, too invested, and something close to fear flickers through her, suffocating her courage. “I just want to know.”
He exhales, shaking his head. “If you want to lie, ojou-chan, then you should do it better.”
“I’m not lying!”
“So defensive.” He laughs, and she glares at him, tempted to pick up a nearby pebble and aim it at his head. But she holds herself back.
“Childe. I’m being serious here.”
He quietens. “So am I.”
She stills as he leans in, the flames of the campfire throwing his face into shadow. “You know the limits of our agreement. But within those limits, we can be anything we want to be. Ah, wasn’t it Zhongli who taught us that?” His lips curve. “A contract might have its terms, but in Liyue, one must be skilled in negotiating and manoeuvring within those stipulations.”
“So if I told you that I wanted something more than sex, you’d give it to me?” The words spill out before she can even comprehend what she’s saying.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Naturally. So long as it’s within reason.” He twirls his ladle between his fingers, and her gaze is drawn towards the ring on his pinkie.
“I see.” She ducks her head, staring down at her soup, her heart thudding. Childe is still watching – she can feel his gaze searing her – but she doesn’t try to meet his stare.
After a while, she clears her throat. “I’ll let you know later,” she says, and he laughs.
“Take as long as you need,” he answers. “After all, neither you nor I will be going anywhere.”
She looks up then, just to see his smile thin, his eyes darkening as he stares back at the pot. She can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.