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Zhongli’s letters are verbose, sweet at their core but prone to over-exaggeration. He waxes poetically about moons and suns, or how the earth feels underneath his feet. His feelings are described in over-descriptive detail with nothing left to the imagination.
I find myself watching the night sky, pondering the peculiar feeling that hollows out my chest. We used to do this together before your departure. Those moments were hot like the flickering flames of a fire. My chest is still warm, but it’s more like lingering embers—there is a longing for your presence that I did not quite anticipate.
Childe can imagine Zhongli reading this letter aloud. He’d crawl into Zhongli’s baritone voice and never leave, steeping in the sound of that low timbre. The need is visceral. Childe feels pulled only in one direction and that’s towards Liyue when the stone is strong and the earth is soft. Where Geo pulses, the life beat of the world, and everyone can feel it.
When Childe presses his hand to the ground here in Snezhnaya, he feels nothing but frozen dirt, cold and lifeless.
I do not like it. Being alone. I’ve grown so used to you being beside me that all there is now is emptiness. I’ve read that hearts can ache, chuckling the thought away as overzealous prose. The books are correct, though; my chest hurts in a metaphoric sense. And perhaps these are the sentiments of an old, mildly temperamental dragon, but I miss you.
Please come home soon.
It’s cold in his camp. Childe sits by a fire that has no heat, his butt wet and cold from the snow. He rubs a thumb over the crinkled letter, smoothing the crunched parchment. He’s read it a dozen times. Memorized every word, every phrase, every confession that Zhongli pens in curling letters and dark brown ink.
“Home,” he murmurs, scratching at the word, thinking about it.
It’s been a while since that was Snezhnaya. Childe only dreams of soft, gloved hands and mutterings in old, archaic languages that lull him to sleep.
#
Ekaterina hands him another letter from Zhongli, her mouth curved into a devious grin. Immediately off-putting, the way that one corner of her mouth is quirked with amusement. Childe’s eyes narrow as he asks, “What’s with that look?”
“Oh, nothing. Just—Well, I likely won’t be checking your correspondence with Mr. Zhongli in the future.”
“I— what?” Reading through his letters is part of her job. Childe’s always found it a little annoying but it’s above his pay grade. “Don’t you have to like… file paperwork about anything I receive?”
“Yes,” replies Ekaterina a little tartly, “but there have been plenty of times where I’ve fudged reports, usually in regards to Mr. Zhongli.” The implication of apparent reasons isn’t lost on him. Ekaterina smirks again. “Besides, once you read this, I think that you’ll understand why. I’d prefer not to see something that might blind me.”
“Are you implying that I’d send something to Zhongli that is inappropriate in nature?” Because he definitely would if he wasn’t a Harbinger. But he hasn’t. He wouldn’t, not with as many targets he has on his back.
“Of course, not, Sir. The same, however, cannot be said for Mr. Zhongli.”
The expression Childe gives her is open-mouthed and slack-jawed. Ekaterina makes herself scarce as he pulls the letter from the already opened envelope. There is immediate comfort in Zhongli’s familiar handwriting, in the smell of the parchment, and the color of the ink he uses.
Something else falls into his lap, two fluttering, thick squares which he ignores for the time being.
Ajax, pens Zhongli, I was given useful advice regarding the wiles of courtship. I am old and out of touch, so these are the things that I never quite think about. Upon telling The Traveler about our letters, they suggested that it would be nice to send you a photo. I am unused to Kameras. There is a learning curve.
Oh, a photo. Childe sighs softly, thinking about tucking it against his breast, carrying Zhongli with him wherever he goes. He already treats Zhongli’s letter with the same sort of reverence.
There is an additional picture. While antiquated, I am not unused to more… lewd sentimentalities written into letters. I find myself missing your touch and kisses. Is it not apt to write about these things? And so, why not a picture in addition to words? Perhaps it will bring solace during your cold nights, warming you from the inside-out.
Of course, if you do not welcome these things of a more licentious nature, I apologize in advance. Please let me know.
Childe licks his lips, expression agape. Has Zhongli sent him a nude? He’s teased him in their letters but nothing more than soft beginnings of how he misses his presence. He scans the rest of the letter and— oh, he leaves nothing out. Zhongli pens his wants and needs in horrific, lurid detail.
No wonder Ekaterina was irate. She now knows more about his sex life than she should or wants to.
He loves it though, the desperation in Zhongli’s words. The graphic detail of the things he loves and wishes for again. Childe has never wanted to go home more in his entire life.
I love you and I miss you like the shore misses the sea. I hope these pictures find your heart well. Look at them and dream of me.
An easy task. Childe looks at the first Kamera picture that’s a little bent around the corners, a carefully poised portrait of Zhongli smiling. Liyue Harbor glistens in the background. Zhongli’s expression is soft and compliant, looser than anyone else would ever see him. At ease, in love, happy.
It makes Childe’s heart clench as he pulls the picture to his chest and tries to breathe.
And then, of course, the other picture. Zhongli’s erotic prose comes to mind. The next time they meet, Childe will have him read aloud the letter so he can hear every debauched detail whispered into his ear.
Childe should have known. Zhongli puts effort into everything that he does but when it comes to certain matters, he’s woefully out of his depth. When Childe looks at the picture laughter bubbles up from his throat, hoarse and cracked from the bitter winter air.
The picture is of his wrist, the hemline of his suit jacket pulled up just enough to reveal a slip of pale skin. The gentle slope of his palm and the jut of his wrist bone, are no doubt, lewd in Zhongli’s ancient mind.