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Zhongli wears a shirt. It has a gentle smell of cologne that isn’t his. But it’s Childe’s. A decent fit. They are around the same size, Zhongli being a little smaller.
Slightly large (the cuffs hang over his wrists strangely). Somehow scratchy fabric.
No. It was definitely Childe’s. Zhongli fiddles with the cuffs, sighs and lays on the bed. Again.
He had been going through the same actions that got Zhongli through life without Childe. Maybe it is overdramatic when phrased like that. Sometimes it was a few weeks, maybe months. But Childe always came back.
He had a simple routine for most days:
- Wake up.
- Eat.
- Contemplate.
- Clean.
- Repeat steps 2 to 4 twice.
- Sort mail (optional)
- Sleep.
For a while, this routine was enough to sustain himself. To get through the days that melted together.
A cream coloured envelope with ‘To the family of Tartaglia’ on the front and closed with a black seal of Snezhnaya. Within it was the words that would seal him away forever.
The letter lay in his hands.
Dead?
Not like this. He can’t be dead. He mustn’t be.
He had received the letter a few hours ago, but hadn’t paid much attention to it since a lot of mail came through often - although, maybe as not many with a wax seal.
Here he is. Curled up on his their bed, sobbing his guts out. A painful emptiness fills him, welling up and spilling over without any sign of stopping.
‘Gone’, this word circles around his mind mockingly. The letter and its crumpled words scrunched up in his hand. Clenching his fists, Zhongli gets up and reads the letter. Again. And again. Searching for something that can prove he’s not dead. Anything.
He can’t find anything. Staring holes into the wall doesn’t help. He looks at the unfolded letter in his lap. They had both expected it at some point. He even warned him of this exact situation.
( “If I ever die on a mission, I don’t want you to-”)
The realization hit as the tears hit the page. He would go through the same acts continuously. Forever and ever. Until death.
He falls into the cold embrace of his bed. Again and again. Sobbing over the same sequence of events, like a cursed loop.
He might’ve gotten over it at some point, if he did he’s not sure when. He stayed in the same miserable state for a while. Maybe a decade or two. Probably more. Refusing to move house, to see anyone about the consuming grief, only going out for necessities and fresh air.
In a way, the grief was like a prison.
Rumors floated around the town close by about the widowed man who lived in the small house in the suburbs.
Probably died because he couldn’t deal with the aftermath of Childe’s, the Harbinger’s, that Fatui’s and a man of other pseudonyms, death (a bit difficult to do so but he’d try if he could).
Or maybe the bills piled up high enough that the poor man couldn’t cope with it (thank you but he was surprisingly fine financially).
Or maybe he just went through that same routine endlessly.
He’ll find a way to cope one day. After all, he has an eternity to figure it out again.