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When Childe walks towards Zhongli covered in blood, neither of their steps falter.
Perhaps this ending had already been preordained, somewhat parallel to how all soldiers are meant to rest after their last battle. They have earned rightful rest, the opportunity to close their eyes forever and catch their breath in the act of giving it away. The natural course of events, like rivers returning to ponds and the seasons turning like clockwork.
The end is barreling towards them, hurtling past any and all flimsy barricades like hope and wishful thinking, so Zhongli doesn’t bother trying to hold up a hand in protest. Instead, he notices that Childe’s hair has paled.
It’s a shade lighter. His clothes hang off his distraught skeleton, bunching around the puncture wound. The spear is wedged in between his sternum and right shoulder. As he walks towards Zhongli, he leaves behind rusting footprints.
His delusion has sucked the colour out of him. Now everything matches his eyes, devoid of energy and that childlike sparkle.
“Xiansheng.” When Childe’s legs give out, only then does Zhongli break his even stride to catch the falling boy before he hits the Guili plains. “Xiansheng.”
Zhongli straightens his spine to hold up the both of them. Childe is hunched over him, a hand shaking and wrapping itself around Zhongli’s back. A broken embrace, if you will.
“I didn’t mean to—” A cough gets stuck in Childe’s throat, rattling around his ribs. “I didn’t mean to give up so much.”
No one ever means to. No one ever knows they’re giving too much, until it’s too late.
“I didn’t mean…”
His words trickle off, like a broken radio. Zhongli holds Childe’s head, holds his warmth and his eccentric love, holds the one he didn’t expect to fall for.
“I didn’t mean,” Childe says roughly, and then corrects himself. “I don’t want…to leave.”
“You won’t be alone.”
“I don’t want to leave.” Death does not care what he wants, or what anyone desires. It is apathetic about fulfilling its role of being the flip side of life.
“It’ll be alright.” Is that a lie? Zhongli cannot be sure.
“I don’t want it to be alright.” Another cough, one that sends a tremor through Zhongli. “I want to stay. With you .”
“It’s time to move on,” Zhongli says softly. That’s no secret. How could it be, with both of them so aware this is the last time they will hold each other?
“Don’t say that.” A fist hits him weakly in the back.
“Childe.”
“It was a mistake.” His words are slurring. “I didn’t mean to give so much.”
Zhongli pulls him in tighter and the harbinger winces.
The consequences someone with a delusion has to bear are ruthlessly demanding. He knows of the gruesome stories of the Abyss, of the horrendous creatures his own destruction from the Archon War have spawned. The unfortunately necessary actions did not come without downfalls. He knows Childe will tip the scales in his favour during a fight no matter the cost, and he knows Childe is constrained by mortal bounds.
He knows all of it, and still—
Love and contracts do not mix. Romance and such feelings are rather trivial and cannot be quantified, whereas contracts demand absolute terms and ultimatums.
“It’s alright,” Zhongli says softly to Childe. He is quite aware years of fighting cannot be measured by the same degrees as peaceful ones are. Childe sacrificing the remainder of his life to win a singular battle might be worth much less than one would think, or curiously, the opposite. Perhaps he has already lived the life of an immortal in his few mere moments upon this earth. His life has not been easy.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s alright,” Zhongli repeats.
Another half sentence.
“Rest.”
Doctors would serve no purpose here. As red stains Zhongli’s hands, he wonders if it would be so bad to pass with Childe.
In the past millennia, he’s read and heard endless tales of the afterlife. Some of them are painted gracefully, portrayed as enticing adventures. Many myths humour ideas such as boarding boats to cross lava rivers, falling until Celestia catches the passed, waiting for alligators to determine if their hearts or souls are worth eating. Most of his Liyuen people believe death is simply an extension of life as we know it. A continuation, a hypothetical stepping stone towards a true state of being.
Painful? Not to his knowledge. Cruel? No. Everything must come to an end.
There are days when Zhongli feels as if death is hovering on his doorstep, seeking a place to stay for the night. The visitor does not feel like an intruder, rather a long-lost friend who is also acquaintances with Guizhong and Skybracer. With old Liyuen customs and traditions dying out to welcome the future, Zhongli wonders if his time has passed. Liyue’s future is bright. Contracts are still honoured, history is respected, and his values will be preserved. Loyal people and fond memories—there is not much more an immortal can wish for as a legacy.
“Xiansheng.” Childe’s chin digs into his shoulder. Their chests are pressed so tight together Zhongli can feel it when Childe’s breathing becomes shallower.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Zhongli shakes his head once. “There is nothing to be sorry for.”
To win that fight, Childe had required his life force to tip the scales. There had simply been no other adequate method
“I should have conceded.”
“No,” Zhongli says. “You made the right decision.”
If Childe had conceded, if he had lowered his head and bowed to the Tsaritsa’s fickle power, perhaps he could’ve lived. Perhaps Zhongli’s hand wouldn’t be red with another lover’s lifeforce; but alas, all entities must return to the earth. And if Childe had thrown a fight, that would not be the man Zhongli fell in love with.
This end was inevitable. Is, inevitable.
Childe is doomed to destruction, and Zhongli is doomed to love him.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Zhongli repeats, holding the back of Childe’s head. “Rest.”