Chapter Text
With a barely audible rustle, the brush glides along the scroll, leaving behind a track of aqueous black ink. Perfectly manicured fingers dip the brush into its gilded inkwell and return, in one fluid motion, to swirl color into the folds of the painted hanfu.
With his hair pulled up into a high silky ponytail and his face bathed in golden light of the afternoon, Zhongli appears ethereal, regal, even. He may be an archon no longer, but Childe looks at him now and sees nothing but the prime adeptus lounging on his golden throne, the gnosis hovering in his outstretched hand in a gesture of generosity and dismissal alike. He can practically see the horns curling from the hickory waves of his hair and the onyx of his arms hidden beneath translucent fawn sleeves.
“Just a little longer, baobei,” Zhongli murmurs in his soft baritone, and Childe is returned to the reality of the small civilian apartment, though the beauty of his lover, of course, remains unchanged. “I am nearly done with your hanfu. All that remains is the small detail on the fabric and the archery ring.”
“Who knew posing was so tedious,” Childe complains in a small voice. He’s already lost count of how long it’s been since he decided, very recklessly, to model for another of Zhongli’s inkworks. This is a small leisure the two of them have taken up; on hot days with nothing better to do, Childe sits on the couch or the bed, drapes himself in one of Zhongli’s many garments, and tries earnestly not to lose his mind with impatience. The end result never disappoints. Each new painting shows him in a different light, as if Zhongli’s aim is not just to recreate him on paper but highlight something Childe means to him — not the bold and arrogant harbinger most people know, but the Ajax only Zhongli is allowed to see.
“I shall stop the moment you tell me to. I do not wish to keep you still for so long,” Zhongli hums, dipping in the brush once more. In — out. Watching his hands glide along the scroll is nothing short of heavenly.
Guilt floods Ajax whole, even if it’s over a minor thing like posing for a painting. “I’m kidding! Don’t stop. I don’t want to ruin a beautiful artwork.”
“You look restless. Are you sore? I do not wish to insist —”
“Eh… sort of? It doesn’t matter, keep going, I’ll hold still.” Fighting the urge to wave his hands in an expressive manner, he breaks into a brilliant awkward grin, then clears his throat and clears his face back to neutrality. All for the painting’s sake. “It’s worth the wait, xiansheng.”
Zhongli’s shoulders droop as he sighs, and Ajax’s eyes trace the curve of his bottom lip as he bites it, slightly, in concentration and leads the inkbrush to a final stop.
“Finished. Please, take a look.”
Ajax storms from the couch in an instant, kicking away the pillows, and cranes his neck, resting his chin on Zhongli’s shoulder. His eyes widen at the sight of himself, looking far more ethereal than he really is, with glowing skin and pure blue eyes, swathed in white and blue cloth. “Oh my — Xiansheng?? This is beautiful, what the fuck? I — you didn’t have to make me look like one of your adepti, I am not this handsome!”
His cheeks and the tip of his ears burn with both satisfaction and embarrassment. The room is suddenly so hot he feels like he’s going to explode , and hastily undoes the top layers of his garments with sweating fingers. Who would have thought the 11th Harbinger is this easy to fluster… If Scaramouche knew, he wouldn ’ t ever let him live this down. Zhongli chuckles. “Why, Ajax, I merely painted what I saw with my own eyes.”
His slender finger snakes under Ajax’s chin and tilts his face towards his own. With a flutter of long ginger lashes, Ajax’s eyes snap open; his breath catches in his throat. “My, you are adorable when you blush. Would you like to add a tinge of pink to your cheeks? I would like to believe it is only right that the subject of an artwork leaves their very special mark on it.”
He motions invitingly towards the scroll and the red inkwell resting on the table beside it.
“Me? Hah, I don’t dare touch this until it’s dry, much less add onto it. I’ll ruin it,” Ajax throws his hands up and giggles. His voice turns higher, riddled with embarrassment. He can’t think clearly when Zhongli holds him like this, and his hand… if he grabs the brush right now, it’s probably going to shake and splatter ink all over the precious scroll.
Zhongli sighs endearingly and reaches towards the brush anyway. “Well… allow me to entertain the motion still. You are certainly going to enjoy it.”
His surprisingly soft hand wraps around Ajax’s and inserts the brush in his. It feels so strange, so foreign to be holding something so slender between his scarred and blistered fingers that have seen nothing but weapons and blood for many years on end.
He tightens his grip on the brush obediently. Not a weapon, just a brush . As always, even in a matter as mundane as painting , he trusts Zhongli with his life.
Zhongli nods, guiding his arm up to the scroll and towards Ajax’s painted face. “Careful. Yes, like this.”
With his eyes squinted and the tip of his tongue stuck out in ultimate concentration, Ajax brushes the ink along. In two meticulous strokes, his milky white skin lights up with a blush that is so similar to his own. Ajax’s grin grows triumphant, and he pulls back to admire his work. “Well, at least it looks a tiny bit like me now.”
“It looks every bit like you, baobei ,” Zhongli amends in a tone that knows no objections, as if lecturing a child. He lets go of his hand to move the inkwells aside and, without warning, pulls Ajax into his lap. Ajax yelps in surprise, but he’d be lying to himself if he thought Zhongli didn’t make for a good seat, so the yelp dissolves into giggles.
“Every bit like you, because I believe those brilliant parts of you deserve to be brought out more,” Zhongli continues, placing a hand on his shoulder, where a shivering kiss soon follows. “Your honesty and enthusiasm and sheer joy that such a select few get to truly see. I am eternally grateful,” — kiss — “To be the one,” — kiss — “To witness them firsthand.”
“Y-you flatter me,” Ajax teases, or at least tries, too distracted by the trail of pecks along his skin.
“Do I now? Would you like me to stop?” More kisses pepper down his shoulder and neck.
“I have business to do,” Childe protests weakly, more of a teasing objection than actual refusal. “The Northland Ba - ah - nk — oh, damn it, keep going.”
The clock on the tower outside their window strikes one, and Ajax opens one eye, looking every bit irritated. Zhongli, with a laugh, brushes his hand through Ajax’s dampened curls. “You seem to be in a hurry.”
“I have to go for real now,” Childe whispers, curling into the touch with the smirk of a content, well-fed cat. “Ekaterina’s going to butcher me if I don’t show up.”
“Ekaterina’s temper astounds me,” humming, Zhongli clicks his tongue. “Her profession requires stone-cold patience, and yet she seems to be the most irritable mortal I have heard of. You have authority over her, do you not?”
“I do, but she’s threatened to report my spending if I don’t, and I quote, ‘stop squandering Mora without good reason’. It’s not like she can scare me, though! Nothing’s going to stop me from spending all of Snezhnaya’s funds on you, xiansheng.”
Shaking his head, Zhongli smiles warmly. “Haha, you are too silly. Reckless spending is detrimental to one’s welfare, as well as that of one’s nation. The consequences of such lavishness could be most disastrous.”
“You’re one to talk,” Childe giggles, “Throwing Mora down the drain like you can still mint it in your hand.”
“I do not throw it down the drain, ” Zhongli amends softly, twirling the ginger curls fanned over his chest. “I spend it with good reason. Each little trinket I purchase holds meaning rooted deeply in the history of my nation. Likewise, each gift is an extension of my generosity. I am no longer the Geo Archon, and I may have lost the ability to mint Mora at my own volition, but the fondness and sympathy I have for my people and their struggles shall never fade into history.”
“I know that, xiansheng,” Childe replies with a grin and cranes his neck to look up, meeting soft amber eyes. “I just find that particular feat of yours very adorable.”
“I love you,” Zhongli hums, smiling mischievously. “Do let me know if her attitude becomes too audacious. I shall find a way to deal with the matter swiftly.”
Childe brushes his hand along his cheek and up to his eyes, to the streaks of smeared red liner. “Do to her whatever you want, just don’t take apart the whole bank, I beg of you.”
“I shall try, but no promises, baobei .”
Childe climbs to his feet, reluctantly letting go of Zhongli’s hand to slide his shirt over his head. “Well, I’m going to go. We can always continue at another time~”
“So we shall. When will you be back?”
“I don’t know,” Childe shrugs, pausing in the doorway. “I promise I won’t be too long. If I don’t return, feel free to assume she has indeed butchered me.”
Zhongli’s smooth laughter follows in his stead as he shuts the door. He wanders out of the sultry hallway and into the street, swinging the ornamental door shut behind him.
Ekaterina is less than pleased with him — as much as she is allowed to be, as an agent, of course. Childe doesn’t exactly enforce iron discipline amidst his subordinates as long as they don’t cross any boundaries. At this point, the two of them banter on the topic of finances nearly every other week. She lectures him, as usual, on the matter of carelessly wasting resources of the Fatui given to him generously to sustain his rather lavish living in a foreign land.
He makes ten false promises to be less careless with his spending and five to read Pantalone’s writings on economics, which he hasn’t bothered to pick up since his departure from Snezhnaya all those months ago. He’s out of the doors of the bank in seconds, a mountain falling from his shoulders when he realizes he has the whole evening to spare.
It’s a splendid thought that makes his stomach sink a little in anticipation. With a whoop that’s a little unbecoming for someone of his rank, he slides down a railing and turns toward Chihu Rock. There’s still something he’s got to do, a little surprise to bring home.
Within seconds, and way faster than normal, the sun retreats into its abode behind the clouds, and a rainy darkness settles over the harbor. With water guiding his entire life, Childe doesn’t necessarily mind a light shower, though he certainly wouldn’t mind Zhongli’s slender hand throwing open a red umbrella, either. He dips his hands in his pockets and skips over the wet cobblestone, kicking at puddles and sending splashes flying like he would do in rainy summers in Snezhnaya.
He’s met by curious gazes from underneath canopies which he returns with winks and waves, whistling a tune to himself, as he heads towards the little florist kiosk ran by an elderly couple.
The rain stops as suddenly as it began, though the sky doesn’t clear. It appears purple instead. Roiling violet lightning streaks the clouds, thunder crashes above Mt Tianheng, and with it comes something strange, an electrical hum in the air. His ears fill with cotton, like being locked in an isolating glass dome with no contact with the outside. He’s deaf, with muscles impossibly tense and senses heightened so badly he fears that if anyone touches him right now they might lose their head.
And then there’s a whisper.
Heretical teachings in a language long forgotten that he, in his mind, somehow understands.
Ajax.
Come back. Forget what you know of the mortal world. Your origins await.
The silence shatters like glass around him, throwing him back into the patter of voices and distant thunderclaps. He tears himself out of the trance, hoping he wasn’t the only one that heard it, but his hopes shatter when he sees the few passersby getting on with their afternoon activities. Sweeping the floors, sipping tea, calling out to customers. Dread sinks in his stomach.
Such mundane things. So impossibly mundane. A level which he, a boy raised into a weapon of war, will never be able to achieve.
He overuses his Foul Legacy form, that’s for sure. It whispers in his ear all right, close to driving him mad when it incites violence. But since he was fourteen, no matter what he did or how hard the tried, he’s never heard the Abyss itself.
Even so, he instantly recognizes what it is.
No peaceful life with Zhongli by his side can ever erase the fact that inside him is a monster from a forgotten dimension, wanting nothing more than to be let loose.
The voices dim in his mind, but they’re not gone completely. Looking at the rain-stained ground, he sees a ghostly purple trail materialize, taking him out of the city and beyond, and the voices nudge him to go.
The florist is forgotten. He must investigate. Must find out what they want with him. If it’s a portal, or a monster spawn, or anything worse — he’ll deal with it.
Childe latches onto the trail like a sniffer dog.