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Childe steadies his rifle against the window frame.

His chin aches where the butt of the gun pushes against bone, and his leg cramps because of the way he’s crouched. He waits. The target will exit the casino any second now — some bigshot arms dealer with a pretty bounty on his head for ‘selling big guns to bad people’, as his boss puts it. In his earpiece is his assistant, Ekaterina. She says this should be an easy one; no guards, security, or cameras. In and out.

A minute passes. Childe stares down the scope of his gun. Two minutes. Three. Six stories below, neon street signs glow purple. Thin rain hits the pavement. Faint laughter and a pungent fried candy smell invade Childe’s hotel room. Nobody leaves the casino across the street.

“What’s going on? Why isn’t he coming out?” Childe asks as he watches the street. Did their intel leak? Was their tip mistaken? Can’t be–Ekaterina confirmed the target’s presence in the casino via security footage.

Through his earpiece, Childe hears frantic tapping of a keyboard then a heavy sigh. A chill wafts through the window. He hopes this isn’t what he thinks it is.

Ekaterina hesitates before breaking the news. “The job just closed,” she says. Childe wants to slam his head against his rifle. “Apparently, he’s been dealt with.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Childe knows exactly what it means, but he asks anyway because optimism is among his best qualities.

“Somebody else was in that casino.”

For fuck’s sake. “Which agency?”

A pause, and Childe already knows.

“...Wangsheng.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” He bites. The gun slides out of Childe’s defeated grip and hits the floor with a dull thud. Not this again.

“I-I can double check.” Ekaterina stammers. “I can email HR and-”

What’s the point? Only one asshole employed under Wangsheng would have the audacity to encroach on a claimed booking like this. Fucking Morax. Has the asshole no sense? This kind of reckless arrogance ignites turf wars, and it’s now the fourth time he’s swiped a job in Fatui territory. Childe has never even seen his face.

“I swear, I’ll hang that fucker if I find him,” Childe curses as he removes his scope and suppressor and folds the rifle’s bi-pod inwards. He spent good money on these parts, and that’s all that keeps him from chucking the accessories across the room.

Morax will die by Childe’s hands, turf wars be damned.

“I’ll book your flight home.”

The day Childe turned fourteen, he watched his father die.

It happened outside the family home. One shot, then he was gone.

Thirty minutes before, they sat opposite each other in a quaint ice cream store. It was a sort of tradition, to celebrate Childe’s birthday over chocolate waffles and cheap birthday candles, even if they hadn’t done so last year, nor the year before that. They ate in silence. Three unexplained months had passed since Childe last saw his father, and perhaps that was also tradition.

Thirty minutes later, Childe was an orphan.

He couldn’t eat nor sleep for days. It’s said that the first shot one hears plagues them for life. The first shot Childe hears, he also watches go through his father’s head.

The revolver his father’s masked assailant used was dated and weaved with intricate gold design. His father’s subordinates found it in their garden bushes. When Childe’s tears dried, he locked the gun that killed his father in his childhood safe and vowed revenge.

The Tsaritsa personally recruited Childe when he was fifteen. She attended his father’s funeral, dressed in rimy white, and that was when Childe discovered his father’s legacy among the Fatui ranks.

All the villagers knew Childe’s father was of questionable trade. Bruises littered his arms and gun silhouettes were obvious under his clothes. Childe hopes Tonia, Teucer and Anthon don’t remember those days.

When Childe was sixteen, he killed the man that murdered his father. Revenge wasn’t as cathartic as Childe hoped it’d be, but the man begged beautifully for his life as Childe pressed the golden revolver to his temple.

In the grand scheme of things, it was an insignificant matter. Since then, Childe has participated in the demise of hundreds, mastered the use of all firearms, travelled to eighteen countries and burned through countless identities. He doesn’t even think about his fourteenth birthday anymore.

When Childe was twenty-one, a police-issued newspaper declared him Snezhnaya’s most prolific assassin. Serial killer, they’d worded it, but Childe denounces the title because it’s terribly insulting. Murderers are blundering and emotional. Childe is a professional, and there are rules to this game:

Money makes the world turn round. If a kill hasn’t been claimed in twenty-four hours, the payout doubles.
Citizen involvement should be avoided at all costs.
Upon the occurrence of a coincidental double booking, may the best assassin win.
And if you know of someone else’s job ahead of time, keep your fucking hands away from the prize.

The last is an unwritten rule. One that most follow if they know what’s best for them. Before Morax, Childe had one kill stolen from him. An ex-girlfriend turned ex-colleague decided to hijack one of his missions in order to get back at him for cheating, and Childe missed out on eighty million mora that day with his reputation irreparably tarnished. The story is the primary reason why he separates his work and personal life.

Morax has cost him enough money to buy a penthouse apartment in Fontaine. Because she hailed from a smaller company, his ex-girlfriend was blacklisted after the incident. Because Morax is practically assassin gentry, blacklisting is out of the question.

No matter. Childe loves a challenge.

Kamisato Ayato is Childe’s current boss.

All orders, job offers and paychecks are delivered to Childe via the head of the Kamisato clan. Managing the Liyuean branch of Fatui workings is an interesting side hustle, but the pay is splendid and proximity to the underbelly of society is an invaluable tool for the powerful and wealthy.

Though Childe defers to Kamisato Ayato, his true boss is the Tsaritsa. Back when Childe worked in Snezhnaya, she would hold meetings in a glamorous bar similar to the one Childe currently sits in, with glass walls and tables adorned with icy jewels. The last time Childe drank in that bar so was also his first. Before that, the Tsaritsa deemed him too young to drink but strangely, old enough to commit murder.

Ayato sits beside him, but he doesn’t entertain a drink. Childe’s martini sloshes with the heavy bass. In their private room, a faint thrum of music and laughter bleeds through the walls.

“Imagine inheriting all of this,” Childe muses. The Komore bar is adjoined to the Komore Hotel, both luxurious establishments with elite clientele, and it all belongs to one man. The unattainability of such generational wealth makes the leather chair feel softer and the diamonds brighter. “If I were Ayaka I’d never work a day in my life.”

“Ayaka has a lot of work to do before she is fit to inherit my empire,” Ayato says simply. He pauses. Sighs, then looks a little more human. “She’s too soft.”

Childe almost laughs, but Ayato would probably strike him where he sits for doing so. Sweet, innocent Ayaka will never be able to assume the role of commissioner in her brother’s stead. Ayato did not raise a leader. She has a lifetime to learn to serve the consequences of betrayal with a glinting blade – she’s barely sixteen and Ayato twenty-two – but in these parts, young men die just as well as old.

“That’s what happens when you act like you can talk things out with cheaters.” Childe laughs. He sees that he oversteps but he blunders onwards. “If you could, Ayato-chan, you wouldn’t need us to do your bidding.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but Childe already knew that.

“I will raise my sister how I see fit.” Ayato says, in that short clipped tone that tells Childe his teasing has reached its limits. Before the mood sours further, Childe orders another martini.

A few minutes later, the door opens and a man dressed in an extravagant suit enters. Ayato beckons him to sit. There’s gold in the man’s clothes, gold around his eyes, gold plating his jewellery. The man’s long brown suit jacket is bound with golden pins. The lapels of his coat are rimmed in a sort of gold, the same goldish-brown that colours the intricate detailing on the hems of his trousers and jacket. Gold even paints the ends of his hair. He wears a white tie, embellished with an earthy jewel that lies at the knot. Very expensive taste. A client, perhaps.

“Good evening.” The man says once sat beside Ayato. His voice is tantalisingly deep and Childe’s stomach lurches with interest. He nods at the man in lieu of a greeting. The man bows his head slightly in return.

“Meet a colleague, Childe,” Ayato says and points at the man with an open palm. “This is Zhongli.”

Zhongli. An elegant name for an elegant man. When Ayato asks if the man would like anything to drink, he orders black tea. By the time it arrives, Childe is on his third martini.

“You a client?” Childe asks, sipping from his glass.

A shake of the head.

“Sponsor?”

Another shake.

A hint of a smile teases Zhongli’s lips. “I’m an agent.”

“Holy shit,” Childe breathes. Well, he’s pleasantly surprised. “I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but-” He gestures at Zhongli and all of his gold, “you’re not what people picture.”

Zhongli shrugs. “It pays well.”

Now that Zhongli’s admitted his occupation, it’s obvious. When he arrived, he looked over each cutlery set and Childe now realises that he was counting the knives. He never takes off his coat, even as the temperature climbs. When Ayato knocks over a fork, he catches it with impressive speed. Childe wants to compare Zhongli’s reaction times with his own personal record.

“It pays even better when you’re good at what you do.” Childe leans forward like he’s sizing up his prey. Most people find Childe’s stare uncomfortable, but Zhongli doesn’t look away. “Well? Are you?”

“I’d hope so, because the proposal your boss offered was very enticing indeed.” Zhongli slides a simple business card across the table. Childe doesn’t touch it. “I’ve heard we’re working together, Mr. Tartaglia.”

So, that’s what this is about. And to think he expected a little fun out of this guy.

Eyeing the door like it’ll disappear and trap him, Childe crosses his arms. He’s ready to leave now. “Sorry, I’m not taking partners at the momen-”

Ayato places a hand on Childe’s shoulder. “I apologise for not updating you earlier, Tartaglia.”

In what can only be meant as a soothing gesture, Ayato offers two limp pats before he gives up and drops the act. There’s only so much emotion two hitmen and a glorified gang leader can successfully emulate; comfort is not one of them.

“What’s going on?” Childe asks, more Ayato than Zhongli. A terrible realisation that he’s been kept in the dark settles over him.

“A runaway member of the Lawrence clan has been sighted in Liyue.” Ayato explains. “Enough people want him dead that the bounty has risen to almost triple the usual.”

“And?”

“We need both of you to execute the mission.”

That’s approximately two hundred and forty million mora, or one hundred and twenty million if they split it down the middle. Except Kaeya, Childe doesn’t do partners, but he’ll try anything for the right price.

“Why do you need the both of us?” Childe asks.

“It’s not a simple hit-and-run, I’m afraid,” Ayato sighs. “Wangsheng’s clients want a filmed admission of his crimes.”

“We’re working with Wangsheng?”

“It’s more of a temporary partnership, based on an equal understanding. There’s no need to worry,” Ayato gestures towards Zhongli. He speaks slowly, biding his time. “Morax is good at what he does.”

It takes a couple seconds for Childe to register what he’s just heard. To understand just who he’s sitting with. To realise why Ayato’s been so fidgety.

Something like fury wells in his chest and it’s both freeing and paralysing. After months of directionless anger, he finally has a name and a face to assign his fury. But now that they’re in the same room, they’re bound together by a contract Childe didn’t even get to sign.

“Morax? You’re fucking joking.” Childe says, voice growing loud. “Find someone else. I’m not working with him.”

For once, Childe isn’t joking around. Yes, he’s a professional. But there’s a fine line between being understanding and letting people walk all over him. Ayato knows that Morax has been stealing his kills. It’s unreasonable to expect them to work together.

“There is no one else, Tartaglia.” Ayato shakes his head. “Kaeya’s on leave in Mondstadt, La Signora’s in Inazuma, and the Tsaritsa isn’t going to send another harbinger to Liyue for one mission. Wangsheng are in a similar situation. Rather than letting such an opportunity pass, we’ve decided it best to split the reward.”

“What if I don’t want to—“ Before Childe finishes, Zhongli slams his empty mug on the table and stands.

“I think I'll excuse myself.” Zhongli bows. Ayato stands to do the same while Childe sits, offended by the disruption. “Thank you for the tea, and for accepting Wangsheng’s offer.”

Zhongli barely glances at Childe. Instead, he regards him with the same insignificance a teacher does a student at a parent-teacher conference, like Childe isn’t worthy of courtesy. Professionalism be damned, Childe wants to drag his retreating figure back by the collar and show him what it means to disrespect a harbinger.

When Zhongli leaves, Ayato relaxes a little. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, Childe.”

Childe scoffs. Talk about a fucking understatement.

“He’s been stealing my kills.” Childe says, leans back in his chair with a dry laugh. “How can you expect me to work with him?”

“I brought this up with Hu Tao and according to her, Morax was unaware that you had claimed the targets.”

“That’s impossible.”

Claims aren’t an official system, but work similarly to Unwritten Rule Number Four. When a company and a client make arrangements, it is understood that the kill is now off the market. If a client withdraws from discussions with other agencies and stops advertising, the competition assumes that the kill has been claimed.

After he flags a waiter down for a glass of water, Ayato shrugs. “If their support team is lacking, it’s possible that they didn’t care enough to inquire.”

“What kind of idiot doesn’t request a background check?”

This kind of recklessness is shocking, even to Childe.

Ayato cracks a smile. “An asshole, or someone with unreasonable confidence.”

“I swear when I get my hands on him-” Childe says, envisioning the way he’ll snap each of Zhongli’s bones and feed the fragments to his dogs in Snezhnaya.

“Please save the assault for after the mission.”

Childe hasn’t even agreed to the mission yet, but he doesn’t argue. Money talks, and Childe is already sold.

(It’s not like he has much of a choice, anyway.)

Cordiality doesn’t come easy to Childe, but he does his best.

Really.

When he runs into Zhongli in the Komore bar’s private bathroom, he doesn’t throttle him. He doesn’t even threaten him; just eyes the stoic man’s perfect reflection through the mirror as they wash their hands. A heavy tension oxidises the air, and a silent competition of who can last longer without addressing the elephant in the room arises.

“Is something the matter?” Zhongli says without raising his gaze from where he meticulously rubs soap suds between his fingers. The wordless dismissal irritates Childe. One should at least look at the person they speak to.

“Do you know how many clients I’ve lost because of you?” Childe says, accusatory.

A jet of water blasts from the tap and erases the soap suds from Zhongli’s palms. The man shakes his hands once, twice, and doesn’t respond until he’s dried his hands with a cotton towel.

“I’m afraid that’s the nature of the job, Mr. Tartaglia.”

It’d be so easy to sock him in the face and wipe that emotionless, superior look from his insufferable features. He walks right up to Zhongli so that their noses almost touch. They’re exactly the same height. Eye to eye.

“Are you looking down on me?” He says, so quiet the words barely brush Zhongli’s lips.

Zhongli holds Childe’s provocative stare with equal confidence. From this close, Childe sees that his eyes are unexpectedly fiery, not at all emotionless, and lined with red. An intense rush zings through Childe’s spine and thrums beneath his skin. He can’t tell whether it’s anger, intrigue, or something else entirely.

“Of course not,” Zhongli says politely. His left eyebrow quirks like he’s daring Childe to challenge him right here, right now, with their boss in the building. “I’m not looking to argue, Mr. Tartaglia.”

Mr. Tartaglia. Childe scoffs and turns toward the mirror. His reflection stares back at him, ardent and affronted. Was he always like this? He doesn’t think he looked any different as a child. Back in Snezhnaya, Tonia once asked him why he was so angry. ’Because this piece of shit oven won’t turn on’, Childe responded, but Tonia said that wasn’t what she meant. For some reason, Childe feels like he understands now.

“You can drop the ‘Mr. Tartaglia’ bullshit, since we’re partners now,” Childe says.

“Fine.” Zhongli nods. “We’ll do well to at least try and get along.”

What an ass. Try and get along. He speaks as if they’re children.

“Sure, Morax.”

If Zhongli is bothered by Childe’s condescending tone, he doesn’t show it. The elegant man bows and leaves Childe to think about his insufferable gaze, frustratingly impolite politeness, and smouldering eyeliner the whole train journey home.

When Childe seeks to alleviate his stress, there’s nothing more effective than sex.

It costs the meagre price of a strawberry mojito to enter a bar, get sloshed and leave with a pretty woman. If he’s busy or just not feeling it, training works as a perfect substitute. So, schedule filled with briefings and mood soured by the past few days, Childe resorts to the dojo.

When Childe enters the Kamisato gym, he almost concusses a blue-haired boy. The boy’s bowed one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees, forehead practically touching his knees, and Childe swings the door into his face.

Childe rushes to apologise but the boy flushes pink and insists that he’s fine. Then, a deep, eloquent voice joins Childe’s concern. He freezes. Looks up. It seems Kamisato services have been extended to Wangsheng personnel. Because across the boy is a golden-eyed man. Zhongli.

Since the meeting at the Komore bar, Childe accepted two jobs. Mainly because he was angry, and partly because Childe had hoped Morax would emerge from the shadows so he could teach the asshole a lesson in a professional environment. Zhongli never appeared, of course. Stealing each other's kills wouldn’t look good, now that they work together.

Contrary to the last Childe saw of him, the assassin is dressed in casual gear: a black shirt and loose training pants with characteristic gold hems. The loose clothing reveals his lithe figure and Childe bemoans that wretched suit for hiding those powerful arms. His veins jutt beneath his pale skin as his fingers flex around an elegant, gold-tapered spear. Even his weaponry is beautiful. Regal, almost. Godly. Childe wants to kill him.

“Thank you, xiansheng,” the boy says, oblivious to the tension between the two. “I’ll take my leave now.”

“Be sure to practice what we learned today, Chongyun.” Zhongli flashes an unusually warm smile, crow feet wrinkles around his eyes.

Blue hair bows once more at Zhongli, then awkwardly towards Childe before he leaves. The door slams with a heavy thud, and the room seems so much larger.

A smirk lands on Childe’s lips, “xiansheng?”

All the kindness disappears from Zhongli’s face. The man sighs, “Chongyun insists on using the title.”

Chongyun. For some reason, the name fits. He had been so pale that his skin appeared cold to the touch. The boy looked no older than fifteen, but his icy gaze begged for Childe’s reconsideration. Only age cultivates such a guarded and disciplined demeanour. It’s strange to see such a look on a young face.

“Is he an orphan?” Childe asks. In the outside world, such curiosity would be deemed morbid, callous. Here, loss is commonplace. Death no longer requires such caution.

“Why do you ask?”

“No sane parent would leave their child with someone like you.”

“...They were killed.”

Ah. Well, so were everyone else's. That’s how they all got here–because life is cruel, especially to children. Childe wonders how the boy lost his. Were they poisoned? Stabbed? Drowned? Shot? Perhaps one died first, and the other followed. Childe’s heard stories of widows whose biological constitutions couldn’t allow them to live without their loved ones. How wonderfully tragic.

A man of few words, Zhongli offers little else. Childe leaves his bottle on a bench and leads with his usual stretching routine, even though the adrenaline makes it hard to focus. He has no plan for today. None of the training equipment interests him, though it’s of the highest calibre. A punching bag won’t quell Childe’s thirst for battle.

Childe straightens. Across the room, Zhongli tidies the equipment he must have used with the boy; chain whips, meteor hammers and polearms.

“Spar with me, xiansheng.”

Even if it kills him to admit, Childe recognises power when he sees it, and Zhongli brims with quiet fortitude. Childe hasn’t taken on a strong opponent in months. Adrenaline thrums under his skin and threatens to burst from his body. He’s restless. His fingertips itch.

When he finishes cleaning, Zhongli wraps his hands with boxing tape. He makes a point of avoiding Childe’s gaze, and it pisses him off.

Finally, he responds. “I’m quite alright by myself.”

“If we’re going to be working together, we should accustom ourselves with each other’s fighting styles,” Childe says, quite reasonably for a man seconds from committing grievous bodily harm.

Three punching bags hang from the ceiling and Zhongli walks up to one. “I’d rather not.”

“So you can spar with some kid, but not your partner?”

Childe delights in the slight quiver of Zhongli’s left eyebrow, as he’s come to recognise the involuntary response as budding annoyance. In other words, it’s a sign that Childe is doing something right.

“I don’t spar with other agents,” Zhongli says, curtly.

And that’s where Zhongli blunders. It takes humility to admit where one is surpassed by others in their field, and it takes courage to learn from them. Childe is the furthest thing from the pinnacle of integrity – his quick temper has cost him a few mentors – but he knows what it takes to grow.

“You’re trying to piss me off. You must be.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Tartaglia.” Without so much as a grunt, Zhongli delivers a deadly left strike to the sandbag, as if to say see why I don’t bother with agents?

Sand trickles from the punching bag, evidence of inhumane power, and excitement pools in Childe’s stomach. He wraps his hands extra tight, doubles over between his fingers. Crouches to grab a handful of sand and lets the grains spill between the gaps in his fingers. Mourns his bank account because Ayato will surely find a way to blame him for the property damage.

Finally, Childe stands.

“Ten minutes.” Childe steadies the dented punching bag and steps into the open space. “I’ll show you what you’re missing.”

Kaeya Alberich is Childe’s partner in crime. Quite literally.

Before Zhongli, Childe sparred with Kaeya every week. Where Kaeya lacks firearm finesse, his elite swordsmanship compensates, and they struck a perfect balance between modern and dated technique. Kaeya’s righteousness tamed Childe’s bloodthirst. Childe’s impatience and impulsivity diluted Kaeya’s sadistic tendencies.

Now Kaeya’s on holiday leave in Mondstadt, and Zhongli is his low-grade replacement. In terms of strength, Zhongli far surpasses Kaeya – Childe suffered a broken rib and sprained ankle to attest – but he’s the worst assassin Childe has ever worked with.

“I thought you loved strong partners.” Kaeya says, and Childe wishes he could throttle someone through the phone.

Childe sits shirtless in front of his floor length mirror, assessing his injuries after a rough solo mission. A purple bruise blooms across the left side of his abdomen and a slash on his right forearm drips viscous blood. The gash has been leaking for hours, and it’ll probably join the countless scars that litter his body. Blood trails down his arm and smears onto his white shirt. Red even stains his hair, but that probably isn’t his. As he wraps his torso, Childe appreciates the dull pain under his left lung. It’s grounding, and he’s suffered worse for less.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Childe says. He frowns at his phone as if Kaeya sees his disgruntled expression. “He can’t work in a team. Everything has to go his way.”

Kaeya Alberich is also the bane of Childe’s existence. Particularly, when he admits the things Childe won’t.

It starts with a laugh, one that only means bad news, and then, “that’s rich.”

Childe knows he doesn’t have the credentials to critique Zhongli’s poor collaboration skills, so he expected this much from Kaeya. Since Childe became a harbinger, those with the courage – or perhaps insolence – to challenge him come far and few between. Nobody checks him for talking out of his ass because they fear the wrath of the Tsaritsa. Gone are the days of bruised eyes and bloody noses because he so often failed to control his arrogance when training with senior skirmishers.

Kaeya isn’t Snezhnayan, nor a member of the Fatui, so those reservations don’t apply to him. When Childe needs the truth, Kaeya will give it to him.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Childe says. It is a little rich, but still, “he’s a million times worse than I ever was. I feel like he doesn’t take me seriously.”

That’s where the issue lies, isn’t it? Zhongli doesn’t even look Childe in the eye. That monotone voice and blaze attitude revive a fifteen-year-old Childe and his consuming desire to prove his worth. To prove he possessed the conviction for revenge. To prove he was willing to sacrifice his humanity, because he had already lost his childhood. Childe hates that he’s drawn to power because he’s drawn to Zhongli, however much it infuriates him.

“You’d think someone who looks like that would have the personality to match,” Childe says begrudgingly. If only Zhongli wasn’t so good-looking. If only he wasn’t such an asshole.

“It kinda sounds like you want in his pants.”

“Sure, if he wasn’t my arch-enemy.”

It’s a terrible idea. A horribly impulsive, vengeful idea.

The city teems with life. It’s Friday, and the streets are lively and bustling with drunken night-owls. The west side of Liyue Harbour houses expensive bars and couture stores, and it's never quiet because rich people never sleep. It’d be so easy to live like this. Spend his days labouring through business meetings beyond his scope of understanding, only to squander his money in clubs every night.

Childe nurses his martini. The barstool he sits on is leather and unreasonably comfortable. The drink he sips is a zangy blend of gin and spice. Across the bar, Zhongli stares at him with red-lined eyes and runs a finger along the rim of his wine glass. He adjusts his gold-trimmed dress shirt, which Childe knows conceals a gold-rimmed trench knife strapped to his abdomen. There should be another combat knife in his trouser leg, small and black. For emergencies.

“The target is the building. Brown hair, horrendous glasses, mole on left cheek.” Ekaterina says through Childe’s earpiece. A moment later, Childe spots Zhongli’s target. He sits at a private booth, a pair of overly large sunglasses squashing his nose.

When Childe looks at Zhongli again, the other assassin quirks an eyebrow. ’You’re out of your depth,’ he mouths. Childe smiles and watches Zhongli’s gaze drop to his lips, which have always been shockingly pigmented, just like the rest of him. The target doesn’t look to be in a rush. It appears they have some time to kill.

Seeking liquid courage, Childe downs the bitter fire in his glass. Missions where he can drink on the job are always his favourite. Zhongli stands as soon as Childe does, and they meet in the centre of the hall. Like this, the hall is more of an arena than a bar. May the best assassin win.

“Why are you here?” Zhongli says. He’s curt, just shy of anger.

Childe grins like the cat that’s eaten the canary. “I could ask you the same question, xiansheng.”

They’re standing not a metre from each other, reminiscent of their bathroom encounter. Sweaty, warm bodies dance around them and the overcrowding forces them closer still. Heat radiates from Zhongli’s body in waves. The negative space between them shrinks. Zhongli smells like jasmine, incense and alcohol.

When Zhongli speaks, Childe stares at his moving lips. “You know what I’m doing here. This isn’t Fatui turf.”

“Isn’t it?” Childe playfully returns, drunk on the atmosphere. “I thought competition was the nature of the job.”

Zhongli’s jaw tenses attractively. “You’re crossing the line.”

Childe smiles, slow and wide. Competition makes him feel so alive. It’s been years since Childe last craved a battle so intensely, was last attracted to someone so strongly. Desire, excitement and hate blur into a single intensity, and Childe can no longer deny what Zhongli does to him.

Impulsivity comes naturally to Childe by name and nature, and he has never been fond of denying his desires. He trails a hand down Zhongli’s chest and the firm muscle hardens the lower Childe gets. By the time he reaches Zhongli’s belt, the other man is barely breathing. To possess this kind of power over Zhongli, ever stoic and composed, is a drug Childe knows he’ll go back to.

“Am I?” Childe drawls.

“Shit.” Zhongli bites, and grabs the wandering hand before it breaches dangerous territory. Childe laments the obstruction to his advances but delights in Zhongli’s loss of composure. Curses have never sounded so pretty.

As if he suddenly remembers why they’re here, Zhongli’s eyes dart to the empty seat where their target once sat. He’s gone.

A switch flips in Zhongli and he’s unrecognisable; eyes narrowed and mouth a thin slit. He breaks from Childe while unhooking the knife strapped to his abdomen and concealing it beneath his blazer. Ten feet from the back exit, Childe catches a glimpse of the ugliest sunglasses he’s ever borne witness to before the man wearing them slips through the door.

Before he disappears among the partygoers, Zhongli turns. “Don’t follow me.”

Like hell Childe won’t. As he fights through the masses, paranoia creeps up his spine. Dark figures slink through the crowd alongside him, like an onslaught of spectres. The way they use the shade renders them almost invisible to the untrained eye, but when you learn to slink through the shadows, you learn to notice the darkness that shouldn’t be. Zhongli and Childe have company, and it appears they have their work cut out for them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Zhongli says, when Childe finds him in one of the back rooms.

“He’s got company.” Childe explains, though Zhongli is trained enough to notice without Childe’s conjecture. Zhongli moves into the next room with his knife fully unsheathed. The blade glistens under the dim lighting. Childe follows. “I’m not leaving.”

“I can handle it,” Zhongli says firmly.

Zhongli’s a capable assassin, but they’re greatly outnumbered. It would be irresponsible to leave Zhongli to certain death, especially when they have a mission to fulfil. A few months ago, Childe would’ve happily abandoned Zhongli to the wolves if it meant he wouldn’t have any kills stolen from him. Now, he’s walking into the face of danger, (which, admittedly, isn’t unlike himself) because cares about someone else’s fate (now, this is unlike him).

“Behind you!” Zhongli shouts.

Hardened instincts direct Childe’s body before his brain catches up. He ducks to his left as a knife slices through the air and misses his right ear by a hair's breadth. Without so much as a glance to check whether the other is still alive, the pair assume defensive positions – backs plastered together, knees bent, arms raised, and faces covered. The army of dark figures flood the room and block every escape route. So they’re doing this, then. Childe would be lying if he said the promise of a good fight didn’t draw a smile across his face.

When one of the men swings at Childe, he strikes his solar plexus and relishes the resultant choked wheeze. The man drops to the floor a dead weight. By the fourth guy, Childe is a little winded. Hand-to-hand combat isn’t his forte, but he can’t use his gun in these close quarters, with so many witnesses a couple doors down. Beside him, Zhongli incapacitates five men with so much finesse, a certain elegance attaches itself to the struggle.

It takes ten minutes, a particularly hard blow to Childe’s side, a superficial puncture wound in Zhongli’s left bicep, and five counts of Childe saving Zhongli’s ass before the final assailant drops dead. Once his goons disappear, the target — backed into a corner — reveals himself like clockwork.

After Childe snaps the target’s neck (with Zhongli’s approval), Zhongli stares at the body. “You stole my kill.”

“Now you know how it feels.” Childe says. And because he lives to get under Zhongli’s skin, he wiggles his eyebrows and tugs Zhongli’s tie. “Anyway, wanna get out of here?”

Obviously, Zhongli does not appreciate the sexual innuendo. In fact, he appreciates it so little that he threatens to abandon Childe with a mountain of bodies and no way home. But because Zhongli was escorted and Childe used public transport so Ayato wouldn’t be able to track his whereabouts, the pair of them end up waiting for pickup in a dark alleyway two blocks down.

They sit on the cold floor in a shaded corner, where they won’t be found. Stars douse Zhongli’s porcelain skin in a soft shimmer, lucent like the glow-in-dark stickers Childe’s father would stick on the ceiling of his childhood room. ’Your mom and I went stargazing every week,’ he said. ’Now, you can go every day, if you want. Just close the curtains.’

Zhongli looks ethereal in the dark, nothing like a killer. He has a funny way of looking at Childe that makes him feel like he’s been stripped bare. Usually that look triggers hellish fights, but now, Childe just shivers.

“Liyue is beautiful at night.” Childe says.

Zhongli hums. “Don’t you get homesick?”

Everyone torn from their homeland does, but the sincerity in Zhongli’s curiosity surprises Childe. Deflection is his oldest and deepest instinct, but when he looks towards the sky his parents watched all those years ago, the urge disappears. He’s terribly homesick.

When Childe first stepped foot in Liyue, it was like being discarded. Like the Tsaritsa had finally recognised him as too much of a liability to keep in Snezhnaya. He was emotionally volatile, self-serving and brash, wont to put his insatiable bloodlust before the betterment of the Fatui.

After months of internal struggle, Childe understands his transfer as a blessing. Since becoming an emissary, Childe has completed more missions than La Signora, the strongest of the eleven harbingers. Back in Snezhnaya, people knew who he was. He loved the attention, but it made work difficult. Here, he can bare his face in the same streets his targets walk. He has so much money it makes him sick. He has so much sex a priest would faint at the sight of him. He lives a life most can only dream of.

But still.

“Sometimes.”

Admitting he misses home is bittersweet. Zhongli hums softly. Snezhnaya isn’t mentioned again.

“You’re a good shot,” Zhongli says after a time. He lets his head loll against the cold brick wall, wincing at the effort. “Your form is admirable.”

Even if Childe were to count the courteous ’good work’, the number of compliments he’s received from Zhongli would barely fill one hand. Hell must have frozen over for Zhongli to offer such praise.

Though his instincts object, Childe doesn’t resist his smile.

“Thank you.”

Here’s the thing about anger; it knows no rules.

Sometimes, anger is a byproduct of disappointment. Most times, it acts as a defence mechanism to protect one’s dignity, pride or integrity. It is the unpredictability of anger that makes it so easy to exploit.

This time round, Childe isn’t sure what to make of Ayato’s anger.

He’s not quite disappointed, as disappointment is a symptom of broken trust, and it would be foolish to trust a contract killer. It might be a defence mechanism, because by wounding the reputation of the Fatui, he thereby wounds Ayato’s. Childe can’t manipulate the anger because he doesn’t understand it, but that’s okay because he isn’t trying to kill Ayato. He’ll accept this anger, since his spat with Zhongli could have cost them their partnership with Wangsheng.

Childe sits in Ayato’s grand office, head bowed as he’s lectured like a child.

“You ruined a mission,” Ayato says, tone as plain as the words. “You’re lucky Zhongli didn’t spill, or Wangsheng would be on our case right now. Have you forgotten that your mission is in a matter of weeks?”

Of course he didn’t spill. That’s a given.

Before Childe entered that bar, he knew Zhongli would keep a tight lip no matter what happened. If Childe stole the kill and Zhongli told, he would look incompetent. If Childe failed but still caused a ruckus, Zhongli would look unprofessional. Even if snitching didn’t reflect badly on Zhongli, an incident would cause tensions between the Fatui and Wangsheng, and Zhongli would lose out on one hundred and twenty million mora.

Had Childe stolen the kill before they became partners, he would have triggered a war. He considered all of this, brought a bounty home, and still gets scolded in Ayato’s grandiose office like a rebellious schoolboy.

He imagines the same sort of thing happens in the civilian world. Overworked subordinates berated by their loaded superiors. Sometimes, Childe wonders what his life would’ve looked like had his father survived, but no matter how much he tries, he can’t imagine himself as a depressed, drug addicted salaryman. Kaeya would probably say that everything happens for a reason.

Childe clears his throat. Ayato isn’t the only one with complaints. “What were they thinking anyway, sending him into a mission like that?”

Eyebrow raised, Ayato counters, “Zhongli is Wangsheng’s responsibility. I’m sure they were confident in his capabilities.”

“There were dozens of them,” Childe says. “He’s good, but he’s not that good.”

“Oh? I was unaware you cared.”

“I don’t.” Childe scoffs, and stands to show himself out. Before the heavy door shuts behind him, he throws a “wouldn’t dream of it” over his shoulder.

He barely catches Ayato leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile.

That night, Childe dreams of his father.

All Childe remembers from his dream are the hard lines of his face, the kindness of his smile, his angular nose, and freckled hands. However little, the detail brings Childe peace. These days, when he tries to picture his father’s face, the resulting image is a hazy amalgamation of an angular nose and features stolen from the last man Childe killed.

Once, an old friend told Childe revenge wouldn’t be the answer.

It was regurgitated therapy bullshit, and it was wrong. He eats and sleeps, where he couldn’t before. Between the ages of fourteen and sixteen, there were two occasions where Childe managed a genuine smile. Once when he located his father’s killer in rural Liyue, and the second during Tonia’s high school graduation.

While it may not have felt like it at first, killing his dad’s killer felt pretty damn good.

In the morning, Childe pictures his father’s face, gets up, makes his bed and brews a cup of tea in his favourite Mr. Cyclops mug.

In the evening, after a long day at the shooting range, Childe stretches, works out, pours another mug of tea and answers an unexpected call from Zhongli.

They haven’t spoken in the three days since the incident, and the deep timbre of Zhongli’s voice is jarring. There’s clatter in the background — it sounds like Zhongli’s busy. That’s alright, because Childe won’t take long.

It takes a few seconds before he can manage the words he hasn’t uttered in years:

“I’m sorry.”

Zhongli immediately knows what Childe apologises for. “It was my fault for getting distracted. I know you weren’t planning on taking the kill.”

He doesn’t mention the bar moment, so neither does Childe. When he takes a sip of his tea, it’s too sweet so he adds more water.

“So, what are you doing tonight?” Zhongli says when Childe doesn’t respond. It’s a little awkward; small talk doesn’t suit them.

“I’ll probably pick someone up at the bar.”

“Do you have these,” Zhongli hesitates, “...encounters often?”

Childe leans against his kitchen counter and shrugs, though Zhongli can’t see. “People are attracted to a scarred, insensitive twenty-something for some reason.”

“You mustn't speak of yourself that way, Childe.” Zhongli sounds sad. Childe can practically see his face; furrowed eyebrows and lips pressed together. He almost laughs.

“Oh? Is there something you wish to confess, xiansheng?”

“And what could that possibly be, Mr. Tartaglia?” Zhongli says, but Childe hears a hint of a smile in his monotone voice.

For the remainder of the evening, they talk. They talk about the Lawrence clan and their training session tomorrow about torture technique. Zhongli tells him about his childhood – he was orphaned at seven and started in the industry as a runner because he was small and agile. Childe tells Zhongli about his similar beginnings. It’s the most Zhongli has revealed about Wangsheng.

Childe doesn’t pick anyone up that night. He doesn’t even go to the bar.

Instead, he curls into his cream linen sofa, a moving-in gift from Ayaka, with a warm mug of sweet tea and his phone pressed to his ear. Until the early hours of the morning, Zhongli divulges the origins of Osmanthus wine and Childe learns that ever since the bar incident, Zhongli can’t help but be reminded of him whenever he drinks the honey-coloured beverage.

There are worse ways to spend a Friday night.

On the first day of Childe’s third week as a Fatui recruit, he incapacitated eleven grown men and won his first fight ring. Here’s how he did it:

He was fifteen, jaded, and infused with a powerful bloodlust that the Tsaritsa found intriguing enough to keep him around. After all, few people turn up to the Fatui headquarters and demand the Tsaritsa to find their father’s killer. Then again, few people possess the privilege of being the son of the Tsaritsa’s right hand man. That’s the only reason Childe didn’t die that night. At the time, he wouldn’t have cared either way.

“You’re scrawny,” The Tsaritsa told him once during training. “No matter how much you train, they’ll always be stronger.”

It was the last thing he’d wanted to hear. Not when his goal was murdering someone twenty years his senior.

“Don’t despair.” She said as she removed her long white coat like a snake shedding its skin. Though his heart pounded, Childe made no assumptions. The Tsaritsa would never train with lowly recruits. “I’m a woman in a field dominated by men. This is also my reality.”

How she reduced herself. She did it on purpose. After she laid her coat worth Childe’s life on a bench, she turned to face him.

Then she smiled, a cold and unfeeling thing. “Try me.”

With her permission, Childe attacked. He lunged for her but she simply sidestepped him. He aimed for her face, chest and throat with heavy blows, but she dodged every strike. When Childe reached for a bokken, she tore it from his grasp and pressed it painfully to his jugular. A stone look settled on her face. Childe understood its meaning; you’d be dead right now, if this was real.

When she relieved the pressure on his neck and dropped the sword, Childe spluttered and hacked while she retrieved her coat and slipped it over her shoulders.

“You’ll never get anywhere like this.” She said plainly, and a surge of indignation crawled up Childe throat. “The trick is to attack their vital points. I know you know how to do it, my darling.”

The pet name rolled off her serpent tongue without an ounce of warmth. She watched him, in all of his boundless hurt and consuming anger, like a specimen on a petri dish while she appropriated the language of a mother. A caricature of kindness. A predator masking as prey. She sent shivers down Childe’s spine.

“You could get a rise out of a hardened veteran.” She mused as she watched Childe drag air into his lungs. “It's the same concept, my dear. Hit them where it hurts.”

A week later, Childe emerged the victor of the weekly recruit fight ring. Nowadays, Zhongli is the closest thing Childe has to competition. It’s not the real thing because they work together, attend meetings together and train together, but he ignites a passion Childe thought he buried with his father’s killer. When he stands opposite Zhongli, he wants to do better, be better.

They’re training and Zhongli is stronger than him. It’s indisputable. He moves so fast it’s like he’s teleporting, punches so hard the air whizzes from Childe’s lungs. Hit them where it hurts. When Childe aims for Zhongli’s solar plexus, he expects Zhongli to doge his attack like he has every other one.

A thud. Childe’s knuckles crack against hard muscle. Zhongli hacks and what he spits out is scarlet. Best case scenario; the injury is superficial. A split lip, maybe. Worst case scenario: Zhongli’s rib is broken and has punctured his lung.

Oh, shit.

Childe rushes to Zhongli, places a hand on his back as they lower to the floor. For the next few minutes, neither of them speak. Zhongli’s breaths are shallow and laboured, and his jugular strains at his skin, enlarged. Terrible, terrible signs. But when Childe taps on both sides of his chest, the sound is normal. Childe asks if he feels a sharp, stabbing pain in his lungs. Zhongli shakes his head. Relief douses Childe like an ice bath.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes after Zhongli catches his breath. “I thought you would dodge it.”

“Why would you use so much force?” Zhongli wheezes.

“Because I thought you would dodge it.”

As Zhongli stands, he clutches his abdomen, but drops his arms as if he suddenly remembers himself and hobbles towards the showers. Before Zhongli disappears behind the door, Childe asks, “how far away do you live?”

It’s a simple question with a simple answer, but Zhongli looks reluctant. Not suspicious. Not wary to share his address with an assassin who wants him dead at least three days of the week, but embarrassed. A ruddy blush colours his cheeks, nose, and forehead, so Childe waits. He knows the silence will edge the answer out.

Zhongli admits, “It’s a thirty minute drive.”

Surely, there are gyms closer to Zhongli’s residence. The Kamisato gym is nice, but it isn’t isolated in its luxury.

Still.

“Shit, that’s too far.” Without waiting for a response, Childe grabs his car keys from the wall hook by the entrance. “I’ll drive you home.”

Affronted, Zhongli pauses in the doorway. “I’m really fine, Childe.”

He probably is. As a hitman, Zhongli has undoubtedly suffered worse. Regardless, it’s Childe’s responsibility to make sure his partner doesn’t die in his sleep because of him. That punch could’ve knocked a lesser man unconscious.

“If Ayato finds out about this, and finds out that I didn’t even take you home, he’ll kill me,” Childe says.

A moment passes, where Childe thinks Zhongli realises that the pain is worse than he expected, then he concedes.

“Fine.”

Now that Zhongli sits plush in Childe’s leather passenger seat, it seems like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

Every ten yards, Childe’s eyes flit to Zhongli, in the hopes of catching an involuntary eyebrow flutter or an appreciative nod to say this is better than I expected, but Zhongli offers nothing. Childe steps on it. White noise crackles inside the car. Wind races by. Though Childe soars over the speed limit, the ride is so smooth it’s like they glide on water. He steps a little harder – to show off, if nothing else. Childe drives a sleek black coupe that would make celebrities seethe with envy, so it’s only natural that he flaunts it.

By the time they reach Zhongli’s place, Childe wants to crawl out of his skin. Western Liyue Harbour has never looked so glamorous; it makes Childe want to pack his things and call the most expensive real estate agent he knows. Zhongli leads them into a looming apartment complex and into a transparent elevator that reveals a beautiful Liyuean horizon the higher they climb. The elevator stops at the penthouse. Childe expected nothing less. Determined to see this mission to the end, Childe follows Zhongli into his home.

Black and gold dominate the apartment. The living room walls are perfectly white, save for a black feature wall, and devoid of photo frames. A show home. Impersonal, luxurious and high-profile – nothing more fitting for a supposed banker living in Western Liyue Harbour. Golden shelves hold golden ornaments, each carefully placed so that the display resembles a museum rather than a home. The undented couch is black and in perfect condition. Childe gets the sense that nobody has ever sat there.

Without an inch of hospitality, Zhongli abandons Childe in his exhibition of a living room and disappears into a hallway.

Childe is a fish out of water, swamped by unfamiliar gold and unfamiliar feelings and unfamiliar urges and an unfamiliar man. Should he check on Zhongli, or are his duties fulfilled? The front door tempts escape but Childe lingers in the penthouse. When Zhongli returns twenty minutes later, dressed in a long black robe and towelling his wet hair, Childe lowers the book he picked from one of the shelves and stands from the couch.

“You’re still here.” Zhongli says as he lays his towel over the back of a chair. Childe’s transfixed on the veiny hand that slicks through wet locks and exposes his forehead. Water trickles down the tantalising valley of Zhongli’s neck and disappears beneath the robe, both mocking and enticing.

“I wouldn’t want you to collapse in the shower while I’m not there,” Childe awkwardly laughs. He shuffles towards his shoes by the door. “It doesn’t seem like you’ll succumb to your injuries, so I’ll be leaving no-”

When Zhongli grabs his wrist, Childe almost breaks his arm in two. It’s an overreaction, but then again, Zhongli should know better than to manhandle a contract killer. Before the silence can grow tense, Zhongli blurts: “it’s late.”

Childe almost laughs. It’s terribly ironic – a hitman warning another hitman of what lies in the dark.

“We’re the bad guys, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Zhongli sighs. “Just stay.”

“I’m sure you can handle one night alone, xiansheng.”

He adds the title because he knows it pisses Zhongli off if he uses it during an argument. They’re not quite there yet, but Childe can spot the approaching storm. Zhongli then looks very tired, like Ayato had that night after the bar incident.

“Why must you poke fun at everything?”

“I’m poking fun?” Childe repeats, incredulous. “You just asked me to stay the night.”

“What are you so afraid of? You know I wouldn’t do anything whilst we’re bound by our contract.”

Childe scoffs. Being slapped in the face would be less insulting than the insinuation that Childe is afraid. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“For Archon’s sake, Childe! Must everything be a competition?”

An inflammatory response lies on Childe’s tongue, but then he notices. Zhongli is fixated on his nose, and his pupils shake like he’s making a conscious effort so his gaze doesn’t stray. Childe is impartial to most emotions, but he knows lust when he sees it. He steps forward and while Zhongli doesn’t move, his breath quickens. When Childe guides Zhongli’s hands to his hips, they immediately curl around his waist, proprietary. Like he’s been waiting for this.

There are a million reasons why they shouldn’t do this, but Childe’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I’ve figured you out,” Childe whispers against Zhongli’s lips. He grins, satisfied and teasing. He’s finally got the cream. “You don’t hate me, you just can’t stomach how much you want to fuck me.”

The obscene words linger in Zhongli’s pristine apartment. It’s an accusation, almost, and they’re both guilty as charged. You’re just as guilty of wanting me as I am of wanting you. Fingers tighten around Childe’s waist and drag him closer so that they’re pressed together, chest to pelvis. Zhongli’s robe is thin enough for Childe to feel every hard line of every muscle and where Zhongli swells under the silk.

Childe knows what it means when Zhongli’s gaze dances from his lips, to his eyes, to his lips again, to his eyes again. He knows what it means when he suddenly finds himself transfixed on the way Zhongli smells, like mint tea and artificial watermelon.

Childe has kissed a lot of people. But he’s never wanted anyone so bad that he dreams about it. That his thoughts drift to defined arms and soft lips and two-toned hair when he relieves himself late at night.

So he leans forward and presses his lips to Zhongli’s.

As soon as they kiss, the limbo crashes and desire replaces hesitancy. Zhongli’s hands slide lower as Childe pushes him against the black feature wall, knocking over the gold trinkets. Zhongli’s warm, skilled lips tug sighs from Childe who pushes closer still. He grinds against Zhongli and delights in the resultant pained expression, revels when Zhongli wraps Childe’s legs around his torso and leads them into an ornate bedroom.

Childe has had a lot of sex. But none of it he remembers the way he will Zhongli.

In the morning, the house is less of a show-home and more of a warzone.

They’re lying together, wrapped in Zhongli’s white sheets. Childe’s on his front, head turned towards Zhongli and pillowed by his own arms. Zhongli lies on his side, propped on an elbow. The blinds webb the sunlight as it streams into the room and paints their faces. For the first time, Childe sees Zhongli with his hair loose and draped across his bare shoulders.

“I actually retired for a while.” Zhongli says, staring at the half of Childe’s face that isn’t hidden by his arms.

“Really?”

Zhongli hums. “Started training rookies.”

“Rookies?” Childe winces, partly because he regrets not cleaning up last night. He repositions himself so that he mirrors Zhongli. “Must’ve been a headache.”

“It was alright, actually,” Zhongli laughs, deep and genuine, with his head slightly tilted back. It’s like the morning light strips him of his usual poise. “Just didn’t pay as well. I only lasted two years. I guess it’s easy to underestimate the temptation of money. Besides the fact that we’re murderers, it’s impossible to go back to civilian living once you’ve tasted this lifestyle.”

Money is a dangerous, dangerous drug. Much like humans aren’t meant to experience a certain threshold of serotonin, Childe believes that once a person accumulates a certain wealth, they’ll never be satisfied again. You lose an integral part of your humanity. Though it’s probably for the best. It should be a miserable existence, Childe thinks, to ruminate over every life he’s taken.

“If you never fell into this life, what would you have done?” Zhongli asks.

Childe shrugs. “Become a toymaker.”

A startled laugh escapes Zhongli, something like a snort, before he collects himself. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just- how innocent.”

Innocent. Childe has never been described as innocent before. “My siblings think that’s what I do all day. Make toys.”

When Zhongli’s eyes widen, Childe realises his mistake. Fuck. He’s not supposed to mention the kids. He doesn’t talk about family.

“You have siblings?”

Well, it’s too late now. It’s better to be honest than leave Zhongli curious. A curious assassin is a dangerous assassin.

“Yeah. Two boys and one girl. I’m the eldest.”

A sad look washes over Zhongli’s face, but it’s gone as soon as it comes. “It’s great that you have family. Family keeps us sane.”

Childe doesn’t respond, because he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. It seems to upset Zhongli. More than that, he swore to never let his work life taint his family. Silence follows as Zhongli understands that they have breached sensitive territory, and Childe rushes to fill it. This is a lovely moring. He doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Why me?” Childe asks. He can’t believe he hadn’t before. “Why did you choose to steal my kills.”

“I’m afraid the truth is rather underwhelming.” Zhongli flushes, as if embarrassed. “I saw you at some event, and I thought you were interesting.”

Childe’s cheeks warm and his throat tightens. When he speaks, he sounds choked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Thought you were a civvy, until I realised you were Tartaglia.”

“Most times it was a coincidence,” Zhongli says. “The times that I knew, I didn’t decline the jobs because I wanted to see you again. The arms dealer thing was a happy accident.”

For a moment, Childe doesn’t know what he’s referring to. It seems like so long ago. When it clicks, Zhongli’s explanation doesn’t make him angry, like he thought it would. It makes him smile. Then laugh, until his throat hurts. Zhongli watches him with a mirrored smile.

“Ajax,” Childe finally says. “My name – it’s Ajax.”

Two weeks and seven briefings later, the mission goes live.

Childe has never attended a ball before. The Tsaritsa never cared for parties, and none of his previous missions required him to infiltrate one. On the contrary, he often rides in limousines, courtesy of Ayato’s expensive tastes. It’s a little strange – there’s only two of them yet the vehicle holds twelve seats, and there’s untouched tequila on the table between him and Zhongli, even though they won’t drink tonight. It’s excessive, but they must look the part. Zhongli is in a crisp black suit adorned with gold cufflinks. Childe wears silver.

Ekaterina is in his earpiece, she says that the target has already arrived at the venue.

“You have the backup camera?” Childe asks. He’s uneasy in the silence. Uneasy to rely on someone else.

Zhongli presses his lips together and adjusts his tie. He hates to be questioned while working. “Yes.”

“What about the USB?”

“I have it.”

“You know what to say when you meet him? Where to meet me?”

A pause, then Zhongli faces Childe. Amber eyes meet cold blue.

“It’ll be fine, Ajax. We’ve been through this”

Zhongli uses his given name now. Childe never gave him explicit permission, but he supposes he did by telling him in the first place. Before Zhongli, Childe hadn’t heard his given name in months. It reminds him of home.

With a sigh, Childe reclines into the plush seat. “I know.”

They arrive twenty minutes later. The hall lies in the heart of Liyue Harbour, swamped by parked cars and well-dressed businesspeople. Inside resembles the Komore Hotel, with its diamond encrusted tables and glass walls. The controlled atmosphere sets Childe on edge. Everything is embellished with jewels, from the draping curtains to the tablecloths. Zhongli lingers on the lower floor, drink in hand and engrossed in conversation with a balding man. He’s probably spouting nonsense about their fictional relationship and the heights of their endeavours.

The maze-like second floor is empty, closed off to the public. Nobody should bother them when they’re here. Still, Childe sweeps through the floor to scan for unwanted company. Nothing. They haven’t been found out.

“Room B12 should be on your left.” Ekaterina guides, “Set up, snap the video and escape through the window into the adjacent building. From there, the escape route is the same as we discussed.”

Ekaterina goes offline. Room B12 appears to be a storage room. A single metal chair sits in the centre. Childe places the nylon rope he’d brought on the floor beside it, and positions the camera. Now, all he has to do is wait.

After a couple minutes, Childe hears distant shuffling. It sounds like a combination of a person walking and another being dragged. The pace of the footsteps is irregular; a pattern Childe doesn’t recognise. As the shuffling grows closer, Childe presses himself to the wall by the door with his knife in hand. He waits. The shuffling ceases.

The door slams open and Zhongli trudges into Room B12. As he drags their barely conscious target by his collar and deposits him by the entrance, Childe lowers his knife. Zhongli’s trousers are torn at the thigh and shiny around the slit.

“Things got a little out of hand,” Zhongli says before Childe can ask. “I had to make sure he wouldn’t act out.”

“What happened to your leg?”

Zhongli looks at the offending limb, like he’s just remembered his injury. When he touches it, his hand comes away red. “It’s just a scratch.”

“I’ll bet. What’d he have on him?”

“A pocket knife. I’ll live.”

Childe drops it. If Zhongli says he’s fine, then he’s fine. When Childe shines his phone’s torchlight in the target's eyes, the man groans, eyes glassy and blinks sporadic.

Childe frowns. “What did you do to him?”

“He attacked me as we were reaching the second floor, so I tased him.”

They haul the man onto the chair and bind him so he sits upright. As the man regains consciousness, his head lolls from side to side. He’s shocked awake each time until he’s aware enough to struggle against his restraints. Childe pulls a black mask from his blazer’s inner pockets and slides it over his head when the target violently startles – it’s as good of a cue to start as any.

“So, I hear you stabbed my colleague-” Childe begins, but is cut short.

“Who are you people?” The man sputters and his wide eyes dart between the two. His jerking causes the chair to scrape against the floor.

Childe closes his eyes. Smiles. Continues. “-it’s only fair if we return the favour.”

Because he’s tired, out of his depth, and generally in a bad mood, Childe is incredibly short of patience. As per training guidelines, they shouldn’t harm the target this early into the interrogation in order to preserve their chances of building a good rapport, but Childe doesn’t care. He brandishes his knife once more and slices the man’s achilles tendon. It’s an excruciating pain (Childe knows from experience), and the man wails woefully. Perhaps they should’ve gagged him.

“If you play nice, that will be the extent of your injuries,” Childe says. Zhongli sends him a questioning look but Childe avoids his eye.

Even after Zhongli turns the camera on and explains what they’ve come for, the injured man wails and struggles. Annoyance bubbles in Childe’s chest. He takes a deep breath. If he loses his temper, the target’s uncooperation will worsen.

Ten minutes pass with no improvement.

Frustrated, Childe kicks the chair leg and it jerks across the floor. The target jolts, his mortal fear almost tangible.

“I don’t have the fucking time for this.”

“Tartaglia.” Zhongli warns, with a look that says cut it out. Childe’s more volatile today than he has been in months.

“Come on, Morax.” Childe says, tone bitter. “He was entertaining for the first ten minutes, but I’m getting bored now.”

With the mannerisms of an exhausted parent talking their Childe down from a meltdown, Zhongli steps forward and kneels in front of the guy.

“You have three options: you talk, no pain.” He puts a finger down. “My colleague coaxes the answers out of you in a rather unpleasant manner. It won’t be an enjoyable experience.” He folds another finger. “The details of this last option tend to vary, but the punchline tends to be that you die.” He folds a final finger. The target’s face reddens so severely Childe worries he might explode.

“Do you know who I am? What would happen to you?” The target spits. It lands by Childe’s feet. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yeah?” Childe looks at the glob of saliva on the floor. Looks back at the target and laughs. He loves a challenge. “Wanna find out?”

-

Working with the guy he slept with two weeks ago is less awkward than childe expected.

When the target becomes unresponsive to Zhongli’s questions, Childe presses into his wounds as encouragement. Like magic, the answers start flowing again. One by one, they tick each admission off the list: embezzlement, human trafficking, conspiracy, criminal exploitation, and fascism. It’s more than they need, so Zhongli clicks the camera and the video stops recording.

Childe thinks the man only realises what’s due to happen in the resounding silence, because he starts begging for his life. It’s pitiful. Childe shoots him in the head. Fireworks and cheers mask the blast.

“Well, that was easier than I thought,” Childe says. He takes two backwards steps from the body and dusts his suit, then walks to the camera and yanks the USB from the cartridge. He turns it over a couple times and muses, “what do you think they’ll do with the video?”

Behind him, Zhongli is awfully silent. No lecture about the intricacies involved in destroying formidable organisations such as the Lawrence clan. No ”the public is our most powerful weapon, Ajax. Their outrage would mean the end of the Lawrence clan”. Nothing.

“Hand it over.”

Childe freezes.

When he turns, Zhongli’s expression is washed in stone. Emotionless. Eyes fixed on the USB. Realisation douses Childe in ice water. It was never about them. Never about a partnership.

His throat constricts to a narrow lumen, and Childe worries that if he speaks, he’ll cry. Long ago, Childe’s overwhelming anger used to bring him to tears, but his superiors quickly eliminated this childish habit. With three words, he feels like that fifteen year old trainee again.

When Zhongli holds an expectant hand out, Childe stares at it until his eyes smart.

Childe swallows. His throat hurts and defiance is already scalding on his tongue. “Make me, xiansheng.”

Zhongli sighs. “You don’t want to do this, Tartaglia.”

“Oh, we’ve returned to ’Tartaglia’?” Childe laughs even though he wants to cry. “Strictly business, then?”

“You’ll do yourself no favours by making a fuss,” Zhongli says, hands on his hips. “It really isn’t a big deal– we’ll still split the pay.”

The audacity is outrageous, even by Childe’s standards. Childe’s eyes feel like they’re about burst out of his head.

“Yeah, we’ll split the pay, but the notoriety will go to you guys. This job is more than the money, and you know that.” Childe says, fingers clenched painfully around the USB.

What will the Tsaritsa think of him? What would his dad think of him?

They’re well attuned to each other. Zhongli doesn’t bother arguing, because he knows Childe has made his decision. He settles into an aggressive, wide stance. Slowly, like he’s giving Childe an out. So they’re doing this, then.

“This is your last chance, Ajax.”

Zhongli will soon learn that you should never offer a murderer a chance.

“Likewise, Zhongli.”

If there’s one lesson Childe remembers from his days as a delinquent, it’s to always throw the first punch. You get the upper hand that way. He swings, but Zhongli’s expecting it and dodges to Childe’s left. His eyes turn dark. His face hardens. Childe readies for a gruesome fight. A blade glints in Childe’s peripheral, and he narrowly avoids decapitation. When Zhongli’s left hook catches his lip, he spits out a murky concoction of blood and chunks of flesh.

Hours of training together means that Childe knows Zhongli’s combat quirks like his father’s pirozhki. He’s practically given Childe a play-by–play handbook of this fight. Childe swings for his chin. Zhongli covers his face. Like clockwork. While Zhongli’s upper half is vulnerable, Childe presses into the gash on his open thigh and Zhongli keels over in agony. Just a scratch, huh.

It’s unlike Childe to rely on dirty tricks. The Tsaritsa’s tactics worked well for a juvenile recruit, but Childe has since outgrown them. Fair fights are far more indicative of his strength, but his usual opponents don’t compare to Zhongli. Childe needs every advantage he can secure.

A couple doors away, a door slams. They pay it no mind. Someone downstairs starts playing the piano. Metal blooms across Childe’s tongue. His legs are about to give out. By this point, Zhongli’s realised his mistake in routine. He stops defending, and starts fighting. Childe hacks more blood, and laughs. There’s something romantic about fighting to the death with classical music as their soundtrack.

Childe rolls under a roundhouse kick and catches his breath in the lapse in action. Combat never exhausts him like this. He laughs again, because it riles Zhongli up, because he can’t believe what he’s about to say:

“You’re beautiful.”

The whole thing is over in barely a second. Zhongli falters for as long as it takes to pull a trigger, but it takes less time for Childe to unsheath his gun and press it to Zhongli’s forehead so the skin around the metal flushes red. He wants it to hurt as much as his ribs do. A bitter, childish emotion curls around his fingers and urges him to pull the trigger. They both know the only reason he wins is because of Zhongli’s injured leg, and Childe can’t stand it.

A shattered mirror hangs from the wall opposite Childe. His eyes are dead. His hands shake. Zhongli raises an eyebrow and Childe presses harder to rid the look from his face. Blood trickles down Zhongli’s nose. Vignettes of his fourteenth birthday flicker in his mind. His father bled from the same spot, warm and slick. It’s been ten years already.

Zhongli grabs the gun to steady Childe’s trembling hands. He doesn’t take possession of the weapon, but holds it there.

“Kill me. If you want it, it’s yours.”

Perhaps Childe should. Sixteen year old Childe would have pulled the trigger already. Ekaterina returns but Childe pulls out his earpiece while she’s talking. Maybe if it had been any other day. Maybe he would have.

“It seems you’re unable to.”

“Unable, my ass.” Childe scoffs. He checks his cartridge then slides the gun underneath his suit jacket.

It’s been a long time since Childe has felt much of anything. It’d be absurd if he did, considering the kinds of things he’s done. He’s read that apathy is a trauma response, so his mind doesn’t collapse under the weight of the horrors he’s witnessed. But Zhongli is sadness. Disappointment. Zhongli is being called Ajax and he’s the frustration of losing another kill. He’s red and yellow, May and June and July.

Around Zhongli, Childe exists with the world around him. For such a priceless favour, Childe can do as much as to let the other man live.

More than usual, Childe misses his dad. It’s making him soft, like he said it never would.

“This is a thank you.” Childe over-enunciates with a hand on the door, like he’s explaining manners to a child. Mockery makes things a little easier; honesty tastes bitter on its own. “For showing me what it means to feel again.” He squeezes the door handle. When he leaves this room, life will return to normal. None of the snotty businesspeople downstairs knows that a body lays twenty feet from their party. Nothing ties him to Zhongli anymore. “Get out of here while I’m giving you this moment of grace, and hope I never find you after this. I won’t be so kind on our next meeting.”

Childe pulls the door open. He’s one foot out of the room when Zhongli yanks him back inside and spins him around. It isn’t their first time in this position: close enough to count each other’s eyelashes, hear each other’s heartbeats. Childe stops breathing.

“You’re selfish, Ajax,” Zhongli says against his lips, eyes starry. “Did you know, you’re the only person I allow to call me Zhongli?”

All the air in Childe’s lungs rushes out in a single exhale.

They kiss.

They kiss their passion.

They kiss their apologies.

It’s three AM, and the ice cream store is empty.

Childe stirs his clumpy, melted vanilla milkshake with his straw. Zhongli’s green tea sundae is untouched and some of it runs down the sides of the tall glass. What a picture they make; two grown men in suits, sitting in an ice cream store in the middle of the night. He’s not sure why Zhongli dragged him here.

On the table is the USB. They stare at it, but they talk about everything else. Colleagues, ice cream flavours, easiest kills, nightmare missions — until the tension becomes unbearable.

Of course, Childe breaks first. “What are we gonna do about the fucking video?”

The lights hum overhead. Zhongli closes his eyes and stretches his legs under the table.

“Let’s think about it in the morning.”

Childe should’ve expected such a response. Unsatisfied, he pushes until Zhongli opens his eyes again. “I might be able to stipulate a construct whereby Wangsheng hands the video over anonymously.” Bingo. “They won’t like it, but the video’s in our hands.”

It’ll do. Either they both get the recognition, or nobody gets it. Fairness isn’t Childe's strong suit, but he’s able to compromise.

When he finally nods, Zhongli smiles softly.

After a time, a waiter places a tray on their table: chocolate waffles and two candles.

“Happy Birthday, Ajax.”