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When Childe had confidently waltzed into Pulcinella’s office one morning, requesting tutoring in a new foreign language, the mayor had found his impulse commendable. As the highest-ranking diplomatic members of the Snezhnayan army, the benefits of knowing how to wield the tongue of neighboring nations was self-evident for the Harbingers. A year prior, Pulcinella had personally arranged for a Liyuean tutor to train him in both language and etiquette in preparation for his mission in the land of Geo. And while Childe himself had not been tasked with any undertaking in Sumeru at the moment, there certainly was no harm in being proactive with what might be needed of him in the future, especially when the Dendro gnosis appeared to be their next target—at least, that was how Childe had framed it. And so, in the months following that meeting, Childe had begun his lessons in Sumeran.
The lessons happened sporadically, spanning only a few hours at a time whenever he returned to Zapolyarny between field assignments. To make up for it, he’d brought a textbook during his travels, taking the time to train even while he was away. Every night, after he and his men had settled into camp, he would meticulously commit a handful of new words to memory, reciting them quietly to himself and letting the syllables roll off his tongue until they stuck. The language was challenging—more so than Liyuean, he found—for a lot of the words were made of sounds entirely alien to his native tongue. The muscles of his tongue and throat had to contort in unfamiliar ways to make up those foreign syllables, and although his tutor worked diligently within their limited time together, he was aware it would take time before he could truly master all of these new phonemes.
Still, his progress was swift enough to earn Pulcinella’s reluctant praise, the mayor expressing pride in seeing his past pupil devote himself so fully to a skill that for once did not involve cutting or maiming. Of course, had he known the real reason behind Childe’s uncharacteristic assiduity, he would have sung an entirely different tune.
To put it simply, Childe was trying to impress Dottore. The thought had first occurred to him one night after one of their trysts: that although Dottore spoke Snezhnayan flawlessly, it couldn’t have been his native tongue. He knew that the Second was an alumni of the Akademiya, and that his true name was Zandik—a tidbit of information that had been no easy feat to extract from a man so meticulous in maintaining his mysterious and impenetrable persona. With these two pieces of knowledge in hand, it wasn’t difficult for Childe to piece together that Dottore likely hailed from Sumeru. And yet, he wielded Childe’s native language with not even an ounce of an accent, and did so far more eloquently than Childe could have ever hoped to himself. And while this was hardly surprising, given Dottore’s exceptional intellect and vast accomplishments, it nonetheless stirred something within Childe. A curiosity, perhaps even a touch of envy. It also prompted a question: when had Dottore last spoken his own language? Did he miss it—the cadence, the familiarity, the ease of expression that came with speaking in one’s mother tongue? Did he ever long for a conversation in which he could speak freely, without the need for translating his own thoughts? And then, almost as an afterthought, another question flitted across Childe’s mind: what would Dottore’s reaction be if, out of nowhere, Childe were to address him in Sumeran? Would he be caught off guard? Speechless for a moment? He could picture it in his mind’s eye: the great and commanding Second Harbinger, rendered momentarily stunned, forced to give him praise for a skill that, for once, had nothing to do with their bedroom activities. That prospect alone had Childe reeling with excitement, and was, perhaps frivolously so, the main driver behind his newfound interest in foreign consonants and vowels.
And so, after four months of dedicated studies and arduous work, when he was confident enough that he could hold his own in a casual conversation, Childe finally decided to put all of his efforts into fruition. It was their first time seeing each other after too many weeks to count, and, as they most often did after such prolonged absences, they spent the better part of the evening making the Second’s bed frame creak with overuse. Now, in the quiet aftermath of their heated reunion, the two of them lay side by side, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. Dottore was leaning against the headboard, all but sapped of his energy, while Childe rested against his shoulder, one hand idly tracing circles on the sweat-damp skin of his stomach. They spent some time together in silence, letting the steady rhythm of their breathing fill the space between them. But it wasn’t long before Childe’s restlessness returned, and his long-planned scheme jumped back to the forefront of his mind. Still riding the high of his recent climax, a mischievous spark flickered in his eyes. He shifted with a fluid motion and rolled over onto the Second to face him straight on, his lips curled into a conspicuous grin that betrayed his excitement.
Then, in the best Sumeran he could muster, he asked:
“Mitavanam tora bebosam?”
(Can I kiss you?)
Dottore’s eyebrows moved fractionally, as if it was taking him a second to process what had just come out of Childe’s mouth. The Eleventh looked at him expectantly, nervous energy coursing through him as he eagerly awaited his response.
But that brief flicker of a surprise was all he received, as Dottore quickly regained the composure he’d barely even lost, and answered in a dry tone, in the Snezhnayan they were both accustomed to:
“A bit of a redundant question, considering what we were doing just minutes ago, don’t you think?”
Childe’s grin slowly melted off his face. Shit. Really? He wasn’t even going to mention it? The vision he had carefully crafted in his mind of Dottore singing his praises, openly impressed by Childe’s linguistic attempt, shattered in an instant. His earlier confident smile crumbled, leaving only a grimace in its place.
“Are you not going to tell me what you think of my pronunciation?”, he asked, the words coming out more hesitant than he intended.
Dottore sighed, his gaze already drifting, looking as though the entire exchange was more of a mild inconvenience than anything else. It made Childe’s bravado wilt further.
“Your pronunciation is… adequate,” Dottore replied, tone laced with a hint of boredom. “By which I mean, it’s about as graceful as nails scraping on a chalkboard. Clearly spoken with a stiff tongue, but I could still make out your intent. Which, for all intents and purposes, should suffice in your case. I’m sure the success of whatever business you’ve got in Sumeru doesn’t hinge on you sounding like a native.”
He reached up then, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of ruddy hair away from Childe’s forehead. His gaze softened as he met Childe’s eyes, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. “In case you weren’t aware, you don’t exactly look the part.”
The words had stung, prompting a faint heat to crawl up the back of Childe’s neck and redden his ears in mortification. Swallowing back his shame, he tried to latch onto the familiar comfort of Dottore’s fingers moving gently through his hair. So maybe his apparently subpar Sumeran—he’d have to give a piece of his mind to his tutor for falsely praising his accent work—was not enough to stun Dottore into silence. That was fine. Expected, even, when thinking about it with a clearer mind. Why would a man who had successfully preserved fragments of his own consciousness in fully autonomous, humanlike puppets, be impressed by something as trivial as learning a few sentences in a different tongue. It was a preposterous notion—a delusional one. It wasn’t even the main reason Childe had started this whole endeavor in the first place. Childe pushed past his lingering disappointment, forcing a smile back onto his face. He wasn’t going to let this minor setback get the best of him.
“I didn’t learn for a mission, you know,” he said, his voice softening as something more sincere crept into his tone, something beyond pride or a need for validation. “I learned for you.”
At that, Dottore’s expression shifted, the faintest flicker of confusion crossing his face. His smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.
“Why?” he asked in a monotone. “We communicate perfectly well in Snezhnayan as it is. What’s the use of learning a language I hardly even use anymore?”
Although the words had no bite to them this time around, they somehow struck harder than Dottore’s previous disparaging comments. A rueful pang of disappointment hit Childe in the chest, heavy and unexpected, making his smile falter once more. Maybe it had been foolish, naive even, to expect Dottore to understand his reasoning. The idea of immersing oneself in another’s culture—learning its language, its nuances, its rhythms—had felt like a meaningful gesture to Childe, a way to show that he valued the connection they shared. But now, faced with Dottore’s indifferent dismissal, Childe realized their viewpoints simply didn’t align in this one particular aspect. Dottore evidently saw no point in it. Maybe he’d never wanted to speak his mother tongue again, let alone have someone else speak it with him. The thought made Childe’s stomach twist uncomfortably, and all at once he felt incredibly foolish for wasting his time on a pointless endeavor that could have been avoided with a simple discussion. Still, Dottore regarded him expectantly, brow drawn in an inquisitive arch, so he made an effort to explain himself.
“I— I don’t know,” Childe started, fumbling for the right words. “I thought it’d be nice… I guess because I’m from here, I never really have to think twice about how I say things. It’s like… when I speak my own language, I don’t have to translate my thoughts. Everything just fits, it feels natural. I get to speak my native tongue with you, use the words or expressions I grew up with. The ones my mom and dad taught me, and I guess it just gives them an extra bit of meaning. But you… you don’t get to do that with anyone here. I just… I guess I thought it might be nice, for you to have that with me.”
There was a stretch of silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. Childe could feel the burn of Dottore’s gaze on him but he couldn’t bring himself to meet it, heart pounding painfully in his chest.
“Your concern is misguided, Childe,” Dottore finally said, his tone calm and detached. “I’ve lived here and spoken your language for longer than you’ve been alive, and I’m perfectly comfortable in it. Words are just that—words. They hold no greater potency just because I learned them when I was a babbling youth rather than later in life. It’s not the sonority or rhythm that makes them meaningful, it’s the intent behind them, the context in which they’re spoken. The rest is just sound.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Childe nervously gnaw at his lip. “Besides, Sumeran isn’t even my native tongue.”
Childe’s expression shifted quickly—from dejection to surprise, and then to a furrowed look of confusion.
“It’s not? Aren’t you from there?”
“I am from Sumeru, yes,” Dottore replied. “But what people call ‘Sumeran’—the language you’ve been learning—is merely the common tongue of Sumeru City and the Akademiya. The language I grew up with was a dialect.”
Childe’s eyes sparked with newfound intrigue, angst all but forgotten as he realized that this was the most Dottore had ever said about his upbringing since the beginning of their relationship.
Dottore rarely, if ever, spoke about his history. It wasn’t something Childe actively pursued, knowing well the need for discretion that came with their line of work. He himself had only mentioned his siblings in passing, and he could hardly call himself open with most of his other colleagues either. Still, he’d be lying if he said he had no interest in knowing more about where Dottore came from. He wished he was able to picture him as a kid, or even at his own age now. What had he been up to then? Did he have siblings, people he was close to? How had he even found his way to the Harbingers? By contrast, Dottore had known him since he was fourteen, or at the very least he’d known of him. He knew the name of the small fishing town he hailed from, and the circumstances in which he’d been brought under the Rooster’s watchful eye.
Despite the disparity in their knowledge regarding each other, Childe’s questions, whenever he asked them, were usually dismissed. Dottore was suddenly too tired to converse, or he found the subject too droll. But now, the man had offered a piece of his past without Childe even needing to hunt for it. He found himself chewing on his lip again, choosing his next words carefully so as not to make Dottore snap shut like a vault as he usually did.
“I take it you’re not from Sumeru City, then?” He asked as casually as he could manage.
Dottore arched a brow, his lips twisting into a faintly mocking smile.
“How perceptive of you, my sweet. And to think the Fatui has you squandering such an astute mind on fieldwork. What a waste of your precious talent.”
He reached over and patted Childe’s cheek as if to punctuate the jab. Childe quickly swatted his hand away in annoyance.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
With a huff, Childe settled back onto his side, taking up his previous position against Dottore’s right shoulder. Dottore readjusted as well, his arm draping comfortably around the Eleventh’s waist, fingers resting lightly on his side. For a moment, silence settled between them as Childe pondered how best to draw more out of Dottore without pushing his luck. But to his surprise, Dottore spoke again without prompting.
“I grew up in a tribe in the desert. Our language was derived from the ancient Deshret tongue, it’s not the kind you can learn as an outsider.” He paused briefly, his gaze shifting to some distant memory. “Of course, we still learned basic Sumeran, for trading with other tribes and with city merchants. But I didn’t speak ‘proper’ Sumeran until I joined the Akademiya.”
Childe let Dottore’s words sink in in contemplative silence. His mind wandered to an image of a young Zandik navigating the halls of Sumeru Akademiya, surrounded by unfamiliar voices chattering in a language that wasn’t yet his own. It reminded him of his own mission in Liyue, where he’d known just enough of the local language to get by. He could order food, ask for directions, and his foreign accent had even been seen as a charming oddity by some, but he remembered all-too-well the unnerving feeling of being on the outside, unable to catch the rapid, idiomatic exchanges around him. On good days, it made him determined, eager to conquer yet another challenge. On bad days, it made him feel lonely.
In the quiet that followed, Childe couldn’t help but wonder if that young, studious Zandik had known more good days or bad ones. Dottore wasn't much of a social creature; he was a man who valued privacy and quiet, known to keep to himself and his experiments. But even the most solitary creatures were bound to eventually start feeling the pangs of loneliness. Part of him wanted to probe further—how long had it taken for Dottore to properly pick up the language? Had he felt as isolated as Childe had sometimes felt in Liyue? Had the other students chuckled at his early mispronunciations, barely masking their disdain as fondness? But he knew better than to voice such musings; Dottore was a prideful man who didn’t take kindly to commiseration, and Childe didn’t want to risk angering him.
Instead, another thought crept to the front of his mind. Childe bit his lip, unsure of whether or not it was too frivolous to ask the question suddenly burning at the tip of his tongue. But Dottore could read him too well, and it took only an errand glance for him to sense his hesitation.
“What is it?” he asked, a suspicious edge to his voice.
Childe put on an unusually sheepish expression. “Could you…say something in your native tongue?” His request prompted Dottore to roll his eyes dramatically.
“And what purpose would that serve? You won’t understand a word of it.”
“I’m just curious to hear what it sounds like.”
Dottore looked at him with exaggerated disbelief then, his lips curling into a scowl. “Is my culture just a parlor trick to you, boy? First you want me to speak in some foreign, forgotten, tongue, next you’ll be tossing me a coin and asking me to juggle like some kind of trained animal. Shall I fetch my dancing shoes, too?”
Childe’s eyes widened, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. “You used to dance?”
Dottore let out a loud, dismissive scoff.
“It was a figure of speech, you dolt.”
The Eleventh’s shoulders slumped a bit, but he did not relent. His gaze softened as he looked back at Dottore, eyes widening ever so slightly in a way he hoped beckoned affection.
“I just want to know more about you… Is that really a crime?”
Unfortunately, his pleading eyes were only met with a vague expression of disgust. With a small, tired sigh, Dottore pinched the bridge of his nose—a gesture that Childe had seen countless times, and usually spelled out that he’d overstretched the man’s patience—and he silently braced himself for his inevitable chastisement.
But then, unexpectedly, the Second cleared his throat, and in the same breath, a succession of unfamiliar and guttural sounds naturally rolled out of his mouth. It was both harsh and melodic, some consonants entirely new to Childe’s ears. Dottore spoke without so much as a twitch in his expression, delivering the words with a neutrality that made it virtually impossible to even have a vague idea of what he had just said. Childe blinked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“What does that mean?”
Dottore looked at him briefly, his lips curling at the edges into the ghost of a smile. “It means ‘Don’t let me catch you outside by sundown, or the spirits aren’t the only thing you’ll have to worry about.’”
That was certainly unexpected. Childe couldn’t hold back a chuckle, the image of a young, mischievous Zandik getting scolded by his parents instantly lighting up his mind. His chest warmed with unexpected fondness at the thought, and he nestled in closer, fingers squeezing Dottore’s side affectionately.
“Is that what young Zandik was up to, then?” he teased, laughter slipping into his voice. “Sneaking out, making your mom chase after you?”
There was a moment of stillness then, so brief it was almost imperceptible. Dottore’s breath hitched, his chest deflating ever so slightly as a faint sigh slipped from his nose. The briefest flicker of something Childe couldn’t quite catch passed over his face before it disappeared, Dottore returning to his usual unreadable expression. He didn’t answer the question, and Childe was unsure whether it was a quiet affirmation after a question deemed too rhetorical, or if he had unknowingly stepped into territory he shouldn’t have. Yet, after a beat, Dottore’s fingers resumed their idle strokes at the nape of Childe’s neck, and the slight tension in the air dissolved, slipping back into quiet ease.
Childe’s next question fell unbidden from his lips:
“Do you ever get homesick?”
This, in turn, seemed to upset Dottore in a much more conspicuous way. Childe grimaced as he saw Dottore’s brow crease into a deep frown, his gaze locking onto him with an intensity that made him immediately regret asking.
“What is there to be homesick about?” He spat, voice dripping with barely-suppressed contempt. “I was raised among people who vilified curiosity, in a nation that touts knowledge as its most coveted ideal, yet suffocates any attempt to pursue it that strays from their prescribed path.”
For a moment, it seemed like he had more to say, but he caught himself before rambling on further, no doubt wanting to spare himself the headache, and perhaps realizing that Childe didn't exactly deserve the venom that had seeped from his every word. Childe winced, eyes falling uncomfortably to the side. He had always known that Dottore held little love for the Akademiya, but he hadn’t been aware of just how deep his resentment ran. Hearing it spoken with such cold, cutting disdain felt like a glimpse into a wound that he had no business prodding.
But for all Dottore’s ire, Childe knew it wasn’t entirely genuine, or rather it didn’t tell the whole story. The traces of the Second’s homeland were everywhere around him, he’d realized in the past few months. From the cut of his trousers, to the intricate embroidery on his coat, to the overly sweet candied nuts he often had imported directly from Sumeru, it was clear he still had some attachment to the land of his origins.
And Childe understood well the bitterness that came with knowing you’d never quite be welcome again in the place you hailed from. For as much as he cherished his family, and the memories he had made in the village of his childhood, it had been a long while since Morepesok had really felt like home. In any case, he knew better than to point out these little contradictions in Dottore’s behavior, for there was no use in poking at scars that hadn't quite faded yet. After all, no one liked to be singled out as the one who clung to the past after a bitter parting.
Still, there was perhaps one observation that wouldn’t stir the pot too much, and if Childe played his cards right, perhaps it would bring back the current stifling atmosphere to a more humorous one…
“I know there’s for sure one thing you miss from Sumeru.” Childe began, his voice carrying a playful, almost conspiratorial edge. Dottore shot him a skeptical look, silently challenging him to continue. “I bet you wish our winters were as warm as Sumeru’s.”
Dottore’s response to that was a roll of his eyes, followed by a disapproving click of his tongue. But Childe could tell he had hit the mark—he watched as the tension in the other man’s shoulders seemed to bleed away, replaced by the light air of annoyance that he was more accustomed to.
“I said I didn’t miss Sumeru,” Dottore droned. “I never implied I liked Snezhnaya. Your weather is a nightmare, your coffee barely qualifies as a beverage, and as for the slop that makes your local cuisine…” He waved a hand dismissively, his face contorted in distaste. “I’ve had tastier scorpion skewers.”
Childe let out a short laugh. “Oh please, you just haven’t had a tasty, heartwarming borscht.”
“That would be difficult, considering there’s no such thing.”
That drew a loud bewildered scoff out of the Eleventh. He shifted, sitting up and giving Dottore the most scathing glare he could muster. “You’re like a child, you know that?”
“Beetroots do not belong in soups, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”
Childe grinned, no longer feeling the need to pretend to be offended. Of course, he didn’t actually mind that Dottore didn’t share his inclination for the delicate flavors of Snezhnayan cuisine. He was entitled to his opinions, wrong as they may be. But it felt good to bicker about something as superficial as food, after the dreary weight of their prior exchange. Emboldened by his success in lightening the mood, Childe moved to straddle Dottore’s hips without warning, causing the bedframe to creak and drawing a quiet humph from the Second as his weight settled over him. He leaned into him then, his gaze steady and intense, eyes locked onto Dottore’s with an unmistakable edge.
“That sounds like a challenge to me.”
Dottore’s eyes flickered to Childe’s lips for a brief second before returning his gaze, scarlet irises peering deep into infinite pools of blue. His calloused hands slowly found their way back to the Eleventh’s hips and settled there, firm and grounding.
“You’re welcome to try and change my mind”, he replied, voice barely above a whisper.
Dottore kissed him then, an unassuming thing that caught Childe by surprise. Childe stiffened, then welcomed him with a soft moan, immediately parting his lips and tilting his head to draw him in deeper. He licked into Dottore’s mouth hungrily as he wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him close before rolling his hips downwards in one slow, deliberate motion. A low growl rumbled from Dottore’s chest when he did, his fingers digging into the meat of Childe’s waist, hips instinctively bucking upwards to meet him. Before long they were both panting into each other’s mouths, felicitous giggles spilling unbidden out of Childe’s lips as they shifted in tandem—and all at once, he couldn’t quite recall what they’d been arguing about.
When they finally broke their kiss, Childe lingered. He rested his forehead against Dottore’s, nose brushing against his in a playful nudge, a quiet smile curling at the corner of his lips.
“I guess I can cancel my next appointment with that teacher, then” he murmured, his tone resigned but light nonetheless.
The sting of his past failure had all but dissolved, fading into the background like a forgotten ache. In its place, there was only a warm, quiet comfort, and the simple joy of being in the company of someone who mattered to him more than he could put into words.
Childe didn’t need to be fluent in all the languages Dottore knew to understand him. Even more than that, in this stretch of quiet that evaded time, Childe believed with every fiber of his being that even in a world in which they spoke entirely different tongues, they would have found a way to understand each other. Words were powerful, yes, but so too were the silences; the subtle pauses, the fleeting glances, the gasps and the frowns and the smiles and everything in between. These made up a language of their own, one that couldn’t be learned from any textbook or dictionary.
That sort of learning only happened with time and proximity—and when it came to that particular aspect of their journey, Childe was determined to be the most devoted of students.