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Childe isn’t sure exactly how he ended up in a Snezhnayan hospital. He remembers the whale, he remembers rounds and rounds of endless combat, each strike barely slowing the path of the massive beast. It had been a battle for the ages, the sort he’d always dreamt of as he tried to hold it back from—well, he’s not sure exactly what it was trying to do, but a massive creature attempting to burst through space-time is rarely good news.
He did it. He held it for so long, until the creature transcended space itself. He remembers they emerged for a briely in the Opera Epiclese, how he and the Iudex had joined forces for a before he and the narwhal plunged back into the void. He remembers losing hold of his Foul Legacy form, how his strength peeled from him as he tumbled through the void.
He remembers his master’s face above him before he’d collapsed at her feet.
His next memories are hazy—the sway of a ship, the crash of waves against the hull, frantic voices poking him with nasty pointy things he didn’t have the energy to fight off.
Where did Skirk go? Had she been proud of what he did, of how strong he’s become? Probably not. She always was hard to impress. He had so many questions he’d been waiting to ask her all these years, and his strength had failed him at the critical moment.
His strength fails him still. He lies motionless, staring at the grey ceiling, unrelenting white light bearing down on him. It hurts his eyes, so he closes them, the darkness a balm to his pounding head.
Every breath is like dragging shards of glass through his lungs. They’d tried to stick an anemo mask over his face to help, but he’d refused it. No more masks for a while. He wants to feel the breeze across his face, to breathe real air, no matter how painful.
He didn’t know it was possible for everything to hurt quite so much. The last time had been bad, sure, but he’d managed to sleep the worst of it off, waking only with the lingering weakness the years have left him all too familiar with. This time, his entire body throbs. Everything feels too large and too sensitive; even when the doctors come by to periodically adjust his position, the brush of the fabric against his skin burns as though he’s being dragged across his mother’s stove.
At least they didn’t take him home. His siblings deserve better than seeing him like this.
Childe sighs. He’d sleep again, but he’s only just woken up.
What to do? What to do? He taps his pinkie against the mattress; it’s about the only movement his body allows him, so he’ll take it.
This is boring. He’s bored.
Childe doesn’t like being bored. It means he has to think about annoying things, like why she didn’t wait for him to wake up, why they couldn’t have spoken a little longer, why he couldn’t have asked her everything he’s always wanted to about the world, about himself, about why it had to be him, why it had to be his family that lost their middle son, their older brother, their younger brother (he forgets he is one, most of the time).
It’s not fair. He wouldn’t trade his fight against the beast for anything, but it’s still not fair. He did a good thing this time, so why did the world punish him for it?
Outside the door of his private room, voices speak in lowered tones, presumably hoping not to disturb him. Trying to work out what they’re saying is a fun distraction from his thoughts, so he strains his ears, catching only a few words.
“...Lord Harbinger…fragile state…visitors…further strain…”
A visitor? Is Her Majesty here? Happy, hopefully, and not angry. She’d approved his little stint in Fontaine in the first place; hopefully his little stay in jail didn’t mess with any of her plans. No, he’d been good, he’d helped.
Then a lower voice replies. He can’t make out the words this time, but he knows the timbre, he knows the rhythm of speech. His heartbeat quickens, fluttering in his chest as he dares to hope.
All the way here? He should’ve expected it, but actually having someone willing to travel so far, for him? He’s not used to it, and he’s not sure he ever will be.
The door creaks and he opens his eyes. Catching sight of the man standing at the door, he blinks twice to check he’s not seeing things, then finally allows the mounting joy to explode into his chest.
Zhongli is here. Zhongli is really here.
Accompanied by two Fatui nurses, Zhongli crosses the room and kneels at his side, eyes as warm and inviting as a hearthfire on a winter’s evening. But Childe knows the way Zhongli’s lips tighten, and the tension he holds in his brow, and he longs for enough strength to reach up, poke the corner of Zhongli’s mouth upward and say, “Don’t worry, not for me. I’m okay, see?” However, in his current state, all he can offer is a weak smile, and he hopes it will be enough to ease Zhongli’s worry, just a little.
“A— Childe,” Zhongli corrects himself before the name slips. “I departed from Liyue as soon as I heard.”
“Zhong—” Childe tries to reply, but his throat is like sand and his chest constricts in on itself, locking him into a coughing fit that sends his body into what feels like an unending spasm. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and it’s so fucking annoying. Of all the aftereffects of his Foul Legacy, this might be the one he hates the most.
There’s a hand on his back, rubbing softly between his shoulder blades, but for the first time his skin doesn’t burn. A familiar cooling sensation flows into his chest, extinguishing the burning flames there.
Slowly his breath comes back to him, and there’s a glass of water being held to his mouth, tipped just so that the water laps at his lips for him to take in tiny sips.
“There.” Zhongli places the glass back on the bedside table and helps Childe settle back onto the pillows. “Rest, your body needs to recover its strength.”
It’s a crime when Zhongli’s hand leaves his back. He’s so tired, so sore, and Zhongli touching him felt better than anything else he’s felt in weeks.
Weeks? Months? He’s not sure how long he was fighting that thing.
“Might you spare us a minute?” Zhongli is addressing the nurses now, and they look hesitantly between Zhongli and Childe.
“Lord Harbinger?”
Childe manages a small grunt of approval and they exit the room, leaving him and Zhongli alone.
“Ajax,” says Zhongli as soon as they have their privacy, “may I come in? I would rather not place further strain on your body through unnecessary speech, but if you wish for some time alone…”
Childe nods immediately. A few months ago he would never have imagined letting anyone go anywhere near his mind, but now all he wants is Zhongli in any way he can have him, to have Zhongli touch him, to speak with him. He needs everything Zhongli will offer him. He’s being far too needy, and a corner of his mind jeers at him, calls him weak and pathetic, but fuck it, he’s hurting and Zhongli makes it all feel a little bit better.
Zhongli removes a glove and places his cool, smooth palm against the clammy heat emanating from Childe’s cheek, a sweet relief from the sticky staleness of bed rest. Zhongli’s hand glows briefly and then he smiles.
“Hello, Ajax,” he says, the words sounding directly in Childe’s head. “I heard you caused quite the stir in Fontaine. An otherworldly beast from the Primordial Sea? Several weeks of combat within said Primordial Sea?”
“You should have seen it—it was just as big as I remembered it from my dream!”
“Your dream?”
“Yeah, from the first time I was down there. Don’t think I ever got round to telling you about it.”
“You did not, but you are ever full of surprises, aren’t you?” There’s a twinkle in Zhongli’s eye, and he strokes Childe’s cheek softly with his thumb. “It is said that your actions bought the nation of Fontaine enough time to formulate a plan and save themselves from the long-told prophecy.”
“Maybe, but I’m just glad to have a good chance to test how far I’ve come—does all that heroic stuff matter at the end of the day when there’s glorious combat to be had?”
“The smile on your face indicates that it may hold some relevance to you, yes.”
Drat. Caught out. Okay, maybe it was nice playing the good guy for a change, even if he got carted back to Snezhnaya before he received any acknowledgement for it. Maybe it was nice playing the role of those heroes in the tales his father used to tell him. Ajax the Great, his father used to teasingly call him before ruffling his hair and sending him scampering back toward the house in boots several years too big for him.
Ajax the Great? Maybe. But not the way his father had envisaged it.
Maybe, if he brought this tale back home, his father would be—
“You should be proud of yourself.” Zhongli watches him with that same, steady smile. “You saved many people—an entire nation, one might say—through your actions.”
“It was nothing,” answers Childe, before he can let himself consider the validity of Zhongli’s words. “Just doing my—”
“I’m proud of you.”
Childe’s heart drops into his stomach and his body tightens from his chest to his throat.
“I cannot imagine that there are many alive, mortal or not, who could hope to achieve such a feat; it is a result to hold immense pride in.” Zhongli pushes a strand of hair back from Childe’s forehead but continues to stroke his face as he speaks. “So allow me the indulgence of repeating myself: I am proud of you, Ajax.”
Each touch is pure adoration wrapped in silk-like gentleness, and Childe’s jaw locks, his vision fuzzy.
Stupid Vision. He glares at the blob of blue on the bedside table. It’s supposed to be fixed now. Why is it still playing up?
He blinks hard, fighting for control over himself. “Thanks.”
Zhongli wipes the pad of his thumb under Childe’s eye, tickling each lash as he wipes away the damp. (Stupid broken Vision.) Then he leans down, kissing each eye in turn, lingering until his lips share the dampness as Childe’s eyes, leaving them shiny as he pulls back.
“Wait,” says Childe. “Want to get in?”
Zhongli hesitates. “Will that not harm you? The doctors informed me you have been adverse to both touch and movement following your injuries.”
“I don’t care if it’s you. Come on, I kinda need—” He needs Zhongli. He needs Zhongli so badly. “I kinda need this.” As pathetic as it is to admit, he wants Zhongli’s arms around him, to lie against him, to smell him, to know he’s there.
All this relationship business has made him far too needy. Childe a couple of years ago would have rolled his eyes at today-Childe, but today-Childe also feels like shit and just wants a damn hug from his boyfriend.
“Please?” he adds when Zhongli doesn’t respond, pulling his best ‘persuade Zhongli to do anything’ face.
Shaking his head but still smiling, Zhongli relents. “If it pleases you.”
“Don’t say it like that. I know you want to just as badly.”
“An interesting comment,” says Zhongli as he stands, removing his shoes and coat. “Yet I do not believe you have achieved sufficient proficiency of mind-to-mind connection to be able to discern any of my desires that I do not share directly within this conversation.”
“Fine, play hard to get. I’ll have to assume you don’t want to then. Poor me, not wanted by my—”
“That is unfair.” Zhongli makes the same sullen face he makes on every rare occasion that Childe wins. Childe likes that face, firstly because it means he won, and secondly because it’s so very adorable.
Childe tilts his head. “Come to bed then.”
Finally, Zhongli slips in beside him. It does hurt, every bone and muscle on fire as Zhongli adjusts their position as Childe instructs, but it’s worth it when they finally settle, Childe resting his head just below Zhongli’s shoulder, listening to the steady hum of his inhuman heart.
A heart of stone, Zhongli calls it, as though it’s some mortal flaw, but Childe loves Zhongli’s love. He loves Zhongli’s steadfastness, his enduring nature, his utter immovability. Having spent the better part of a decade in the Fatui, where loyalties stretch as far as a person’s own interests, shifting as quickly as the winds and tides, he’ll never get tired of how Zhongli is always there, no matter what stupid battle he fights or reckless decision he makes.
“Is this painful?” asks Zhongli, enveloping his arms around Childe’s middle.
“No, I’m good.” It is a bit, but Childe doesn’t care. Zhongli is here, he just had the best battle of his life so far, and once he’s endured this, he’ll be stronger than ever before.
It’s just a shame he’s been left with as many questions about himself as before he went to Fontaine.
Skirk left. Or rather, Skirk stayed. She sent him back, just like before, when he still had so much to learn from her. He wishes he could have asked her what she thought of his mastery over Foul Legacy. The first time he’d tried it, he could barely sustain the transformation for one minute and she’d looked at him like the time Mother had stood in the excrement of their neighbour’s dog.
But now she’s gone. She’s gone and he’s back to square one.
Zhongli shuffles beneath him and a sudden panic rises in Childe’s chest.
“Zhongli?” He tries to sound casual, but it comes out too fast, too strained. Zhongli won’t go, he knows that, but his stomach twists uneasily and his hands prickle with chill.
“Yes, Ajax?” Zhongli settles, his chin resting on Childe’s head.
“It’s nothing.”
Zhongli makes a soothing sound in his chest, smooth and rumbling, sending a wave of relaxation through every knot of tension in Childe’s body. With a tender squeeze of his arms, he noses into Childe’s hair. “I will stay, as long as you wish for me to remain.”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“Hmm, so I do. In that case, for eternity I shall remain.”
His words finally settle the last of the niggling doubts, and Childe closes his eyes, his pain a distant and numb background annoyance, leaving centre stage the steadying pressure of Zhongli wrapped around him.
He’s a lucky guy, really. He’s lucky to hold so much power at his fingertips; he’s lucky to hold his position as Harbinger, the same position which allows him to send back as much mora home as his family needs; and he’s the luckiest man in the world to have Zhongli beside him through it all.
He’ll pay Zhongli back for coming all this way for him. One day, when he’s feeling better, he’ll bundle them both up in the thickest scarves and coats, fit Zhongli with a snug pair of valenki (he can’t wait to see Zhongli in those), and lead a trek across the snow plains in the far north.
It’ll be just the two of them, and they’ll sit side by side when night falls, watching the lights that he used to drag his older siblings along to see when he was younger. Zhongli will sit beside him, and this time it’ll be Childe’s turn to hold him to his chest, pointing out all the familiar landmarks from his childhood, teaching Zhongli pieces of his history—of him—piece by piece.
He’s not sure if Zhongli will enjoy the cold, but he hopes at least he will enjoy the company.
“I will,” says Zhongli, out loud this time. “I would be honoured to accompany you on such a trip.”
“Now who’s crossing thought-boundaries, huh?”
“Your enthusiasm was rather loud; it was impossible to ignore.”
Childe’s cheeks and ears prickle, and he’s glad Zhongli can’t see his face from here. Mustering all the energy his body will give him, he manages to reach up, touching his fingertips to the back of Zhongli’s hand, and Zhongli catches the hint, taking hold of it and grasping tight, acting as Childe’s strength where he has none.
“Then at least you know how much I’m looking forward to it!”
“As am I.” Zhongli takes Childe’s other hand, bringing it level with the first. “Then will you rest a little, so that your health returns swiftly and you can show me as much of your homeland as you desire?”
“Hmm, I think I can manage that.” Childe snuggles into the crook of Zhongli’s arm and closes his eyes, his body sinking into the bed and Zhongli. Now that his mind is still, tiredness washes over him and, with one final push, he’s able to speak two words before he gives over to it completely. “Love you.”
The last thing he’s aware of is a light pressure squeezing his hands, soft lips against his forehead, and a voice replying, “As I adore you, Ajax.”