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Chapter Text

A boy fell in.

The lake swallowed him whole, ink bleeding into ink, shadow seeping into shadow. There was no light in the abyss, only hunger—endless, gnawing, whispering hunger. He did not fall with screams on his lips. The dark is not so kind as to let you keep your voice.

He does not remember the moment he stopped being a boy.

But he knows what came crawling out.

Now, in the hush of Liyue’s evening, Tartaglia—Childe, Ajax, monster—stands at the edge of the harbor, fingers curled tight against his palms. The sea is vast before him, a silver mirror rippling under the moon, reflecting back something that almost looks like a man. Almost.

But his reflection does not flinch the way he does when Zhongli steps beside him.

"It is quiet tonight," Zhongli murmurs. His voice is stone smoothed by centuries, warm like the earth before the dawn. Childe swallows against the tightness in his throat.

"Yeah," he says, rough and low, as if the silence might shatter if he speaks too loud.

The waves reach for his feet. He does not step back. He wonders, distantly, if the sea would take him as easily as the abyss once did.

Zhongli does not ask him what he is thinking. Perhaps he already knows. Perhaps that is why he sighs so softly, why his fingers twitch like they long to reach out but know better. Zhongli is not a man who acts without certainty, and Childe—Childe is nothing but uncertainty now.

"You should rest," Zhongli says at last.

Rest.

Monsters do not rest. They wait. They endure. They do not wake up gasping from dreams where they are still drowning, do not shake with something like grief—no, like hunger—when they see blood on their hands, do not reach for another heartbeat just to remind themselves that they are still here, still human.

Childe exhales.

He does not look at Zhongli when he says, "Do you really think I deserve that?"

Zhongli does not answer at first.

Childe thinks that silence should not hurt, yet it cuts cleaner than any blade. A hesitation, a pause—he can hear the weight of a god’s thoughtfulness pressing against the air between them. Zhongli is a man who chooses his words like a sculptor chooses marble, careful and precise, stripping away the excess to leave only truth behind.

Childe already knows what the truth must be.

“No,” he says before Zhongli can speak, a sharp breath, a bitter laugh curling at the edges. “It’s alright. You don’t have to lie.”

The words sit heavy on his tongue, a confession, an accusation, a plea.

Zhongli turns to face him fully now. Childe does not meet his eyes. He keeps his gaze locked on the sea, as if its restless, shifting depths hold all the answers he has long since lost. The salt in the air stings against his skin, but it is not sharp enough to wake him.

Nothing is.

“I do not lie,” Zhongli finally says, his voice steady, as if speaking something unshakable. “But I do wonder why you insist on denying yourself even the smallest kindness.”

Childe does not answer. He presses his lips together, tasting the bitter remains of unsaid things.

Zhongli has never seen the abyss. He has never drowned in it, never clawed his way out with fingers bloodied and bones splintered, never lost himself so completely that even his own reflection became a stranger.

He does not know what it means to become something else, something wrong, something hungry and ruined beyond repair.

Childe’s breath comes shallow. He flexes his fingers, staring at his hands, the hands of a warrior, a soldier, a killer. His hands have always held weapons; he does not know how to hold anything else.

“I don’t deserve kindness,” he says, and he hates the way his voice cracks like ice under too much weight. “Not after everything. Not after what I’ve done.”

A boy fell in.

A monster crawled out.

Zhongli watches him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He is not unkind, but he is not soft, either. He is stone—ancient, immovable, wearing the wisdom of countless lifetimes.

"You speak as though you alone are burdened by the past," Zhongli murmurs.

Childe clenches his jaw.

"Maybe I am," he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Zhongli tilts his head slightly, considering. Then, with the kind of certainty only a god can carry, he says, "You are not."

Childe stiffens.

Something in Zhongli’s voice reaches past his defenses, a steady current beneath his words, something vast and sorrowful. Childe risks a glance at him, and for the first time, he sees it—grief.

Not pity. Not sympathy.

Grief, old and quiet and endless.

Childe’s breath catches. It is strange to think of Zhongli, of Rex Lapis, as someone who carries grief. Gods do not suffer the way men do. Their pain is distant, unshaken by the fleeting tragedies of mortal lives.

Or so he had thought.

Zhongli turns back to the sea. The wind catches in his hair, and for a moment, he looks impossibly far away.

“I have lost many,” Zhongli says, the words measured, carefully chosen. “I have buried entire generations, watched the rise and fall of empires. I have seen war, destruction, loss beyond measure. And still, I remain.”

Childe swallows, his throat dry.

Zhongli continues, quieter now, “It is not always the dead who suffer the most.”

Childe flinches.

The words are a spear driven straight through him, cracking through the armor he has spent years forging around his ribs. He does not want to be understood. He does not deserve to be understood.

Because if someone understands, if someone sees him, then what excuse does he have left?

The abyss had stripped him of everything, but this—this fragile, breaking thing inside him—he had kept buried. Had locked it away beneath masks of confidence and bravado, beneath sharp smiles and sharper blades, beneath the name Childe—not Ajax, never Ajax.

Ajax had drowned in the abyss.

Childe does not know what came back in his place.

And yet, here Zhongli stands, speaking to him as if there is still something left worth salvaging.

Childe exhales sharply, forcing a smirk onto his lips, something bitter and hollow. “You always talk like you have all the answers.”

Zhongli does not smile. He only looks at Childe with that steady, endless patience, like time itself waiting for him to catch up.

“I do not,” Zhongli admits. “But I know this much—you are still here.”

Childe’s breath stutters.

Simple words. Soft words. But they carve into him deeper than any blade, cutting through the fog in his mind, through the weight of everything he has tried to bury.

You are still here.

Not a monster.

Not a weapon.

Not a remnant of something lost.

Just here.

The sea reaches for his feet again, gentle waves lapping at the edge of the dock. He watches the water move, shifting and endless, and for the first time in a long time, he does not think about letting it take him.

Zhongli does not press him for an answer. He only stands beside him, waiting, as if he has all the time in the world.

And maybe he does.

But Childe—Ajax—does not.

He exhales, a slow and shaking thing, and finally, finally, he turns away from the sea.

---

He turns away from the sea, but the sea does not turn away from him.

It clings to him, brine and memory, salt and ruin. It hums in his bones, whispers in his blood. It is in the spaces between his ribs, in the marrow of his limbs, in the shadows of his mind where nothing has ever truly healed.

It is in the moments between sleep and waking, when he jolts upright gasping, reaching for a knife that is not there, hearing voices that do not belong to the living.

It is in the way he hesitates before stepping into the bath, waiting for the water to turn black, for hands to pull him under.

It is in the way he cannot bear to stand still in the dark.

The abyss has never let him go.

And Zhongli—Zhongli, with his patience, his quiet words, his way of looking at Childe like he is still human—does not understand that.

He does not understand what it means to belong to the abyss.

The water calls him still. Not with kindness, not with mercy. But with inevitability.

You should have drowned, the abyss tells him, the weight of it pressing against his skull. You should have stayed.

The longer he is back in the mortal world, the more he wonders if he ever truly left.

He does not sleep that night.

He does not remember the last time he slept without dreams, without nightmares clawing at the backs of his eyes. Sometimes, when he is alone, when there is no one to hear, he wakes choking on a scream that never fully escapes.

Tonight, he does not even try.

Instead, he sits by the open window, letting the cold Liyue air scrape against his skin. The city is quiet at this hour, its streets emptied, its lanterns burning low. There is something about its stillness that makes his hands itch, his body tense with something restless and wrong.

He should leave. He should run. The abyss does not let its creatures roam free for long.

Childe exhales, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead, as if he can force the thoughts away, as if he can silence the echo of something too deep, too dark to name.

He should not be here.

He leaves before dawn.

Not far—just into the city, away from the weight of closed spaces, away from the too-quiet of his room, where Zhongli’s words still linger like the ghost of something he cannot name.

You are still here.

Childe does not know what to do with that.

He walks the empty streets, feet carrying him with no destination, no purpose, only the familiar pull of movement. He has never been good at standing still. Standing still means thinking. Thinking means remembering.

He cannot afford that.

By the time the first hints of morning light begin creeping over the horizon, he finds himself by the harbor again. The sea stretches endless before him, the tide rolling in, gentle but insistent.

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he lets himself imagine—

Not sinking. Not drowning.

Falling.

Back, back, back. Back to cold and silence, back to where everything was stripped away, where he was nothing but a thing with teeth and blood and instinct.

He does not know if he would climb out again.

A boy fell in.

A monster crawled out.

Maybe this time, the monster should stay.

“Childe.”

His breath catches.

Zhongli’s voice is quiet behind him, but it does not startle him. Of course Zhongli would find him. Of course Zhongli would come.

He does not turn around.

“You don’t have to—” His voice cracks, and he swallows it down, forcing a sharp laugh. “You don’t have to check on me, you know. I’m not—” worth the trouble, worth the effort, worth saving “—your problem.”

Zhongli does not answer immediately, and for that, Childe is almost grateful.

Then—

“You are not a problem.”

The words are so simple, so effortless, that they make something inside him ache.

He clenches his jaw. “You don’t know what I am.”

“I know enough.”

Childe lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, shaking his head. “Then you know I’m not someone who should be standing here.”

The sea murmurs at his feet. The abyss is always calling.

Zhongli takes a slow step closer, measured, careful. “And yet, here you are.”

Childe exhales sharply, fists curling at his sides. His nails dig into his palms, a sharp, grounding pain.

“I don’t want to be.”

He means for the words to come out stronger, but they don’t. They come out small, frayed, unraveling at the edges.

Zhongli is silent for a long moment. Then, with a weight that feels ancient, he says, “I know what it is to carry something you cannot put down.”

Childe closes his eyes.

No, he thinks. No, you don’t.

Because if Zhongli had truly known, if he had truly understood, he wouldn’t still be standing there.

He wouldn’t be looking at Childe like he was something still worth speaking to, still worth saving.

The abyss does not let go.

And neither, it seems, does Zhongli.

---

Zhongli does not leave.

Childe wishes he would.

He wishes the man would turn his back, walk away, let the silence settle between them like stone, like finality. Zhongli does not belong in this moment, in this sharp-edged, fraying thing that Childe has become. He does not belong at the water’s edge, staring at a monster and speaking as if it is anything else.

I know what it is to carry something you cannot put down.

The words burrow into Childe’s ribs, nestling between the cracks, unwanted.

He doesn’t turn around. He keeps his gaze locked on the sea, watches the tide crawl in, swallow the shore, drag itself back out again. The rhythm of it is familiar. It does not change, no matter how many bodies sink beneath its surface.

Childe wonders, not for the first time, how many dead things the ocean holds.

How many lost names. How many silent mouths. How many screams that never made it to the surface.

And what is one more?

His fingers twitch at his sides. His body is restless, a tight coil of something waiting to snap. He is tired. So, so tired. But it is not the kind of exhaustion that sleep can touch.

It is in his bones. It is in the air he breathes.

It is in the way he has not felt clean since the abyss spat him back out.

Zhongli exhales quietly behind him. Not impatient, not frustrated. Just there, just waiting.

Childe hates him for it.

“Why do you keep—” His voice catches, and he swallows it down, grinding his teeth. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

A beat of silence.

Then—soft, steady—“Like what?”

Childe’s laugh is bitter, raw. “Like I’m still—” human “—like I’m something worth standing here for.”

Zhongli is quiet.

Too quiet.

And then, finally, he says, “Because you are.”

Childe breathes in, sharp. The words should mean nothing. They should roll off him like water, slip between his fingers like all the other empty reassurances he has heard before.

But they don’t.

They settle in his chest, heavy and aching, like something dangerous.

Like something hopeful.

And hope—hope is something Childe does not allow himself.

Hope is for the people who never had to carve their way back to the surface with bloodied hands and shattered bones. Hope is for the people who do not wake up choking on screams they do not remember making. Hope is for the people who never drowned.

Zhongli doesn’t understand.

How could he?

He wasn’t there when the abyss wrapped its fingers around a child’s throat and whispered, You are not a boy anymore. You are hunger. You are fear. You are a thing that kills to live, lives to kill, and nothing else.

Nothing else.

Childe tightens his fists. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t let Zhongli see the way his hands are trembling.

“You keep saying things like that,” he mutters, his voice low, rough, scraped raw. “Like you think words can fix what’s broken.”

Zhongli steps closer, slow, deliberate, careful as though approaching something that might bolt, might lash out, might crumble under its own weight.

“Words cannot fix what is broken,” he agrees. “But neither can silence.”

Childe flinches.

It is the kind of truth that lands like a blade.

Silence is the only thing that has ever stayed with him. The abyss did not sing lullabies. It did not soothe wounds. It did not whisper comfort in the dark.

It only watched.

It only waited.

And when Childe clawed his way free, when he emerged gasping and empty, when he stood on the shore and looked at the world through unfamiliar eyes—

Silence was the only thing that met him.

No welcome. No relief.

Just silence.

Because the boy that had fallen would not have made it out.

And whatever had crawled back in his place—

There had been no words for it.

Only now—now—Zhongli is standing here, speaking to him as though there is still something left to say.

Childe squeezes his eyes shut. His body is so tense he thinks he might snap. “You think—” His voice wavers. He grits his teeth. “You think it’s that easy? That I just have to listen to some flowery bullshit and suddenly I can—” what? Pretend? Believe? Hope?

Zhongli does not interrupt him.

Childe exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”

A pause.

Then—

“You are right,” Zhongli says. “I do not.”

Childe stills.

“I do not know what it is to fall,” Zhongli continues. His voice is steady, but there is something old and aching beneath it, something that almost sounds like regret. “I do not know what it is to lose myself and come back someone unrecognizable. I do not know what it is to wake each day and feel the weight of that loss pressing against my ribs.”

Childe’s throat tightens.

He does not move.

Zhongli shifts closer, not enough to touch, not enough to startle. Just enough to be there.

“But I do know,” he says, quieter now, like something fragile, something careful, “what it is to grieve something I can never return to.”

Childe’s breath catches.

It is not a wound, not a weapon, not a declaration meant to cut deep.

But it does.

Because for the first time, Zhongli does not sound like a god.

He does not sound like a man with all the answers, all the wisdom of the world tucked neatly behind golden eyes and measured words.

He sounds—

He sounds like someone mourning.

And Childe—Childe knows mourning.

He has lived in it. He has breathed it in like air, let it sink into his skin, into his blood, into the spaces between his ribs where something vital used to be.

He does not turn around.

He cannot.

If he does, Zhongli will see it.

The way his hands shake. The way his chest tightens. The way something in him has started to crack.

The abyss does not let go.

And yet—

And yet—

Zhongli stays.

Childe runs.

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t breathe. He just moves.

His feet slam against stone, heartbeat hammering in his ears, breath sharp and ragged. The harbor fades behind him, swallowed by the twisting streets of Liyue, by lantern light and shadow, by the echo of Zhongli’s words still carving themselves into his ribs.

I do know what it is to grieve something I can never return to.

Childe does not want to hear that. He does not want to understand that.

Because if he understands it—if he lets himself believe, even for a moment, that Zhongli is telling the truth, that he is not alone in this—then something inside him will break.

And he cannot afford to break.

He cannot.

So he runs.

The city is still waking, soft murmurs of life stirring in the streets, but Childe does not stop. He barely notices the people he passes, their tired, curious glances—doesn’t stop to see if anyone calls out to him. His mind is too loud, too full, too much.

His chest aches. His lungs burn. But he keeps running.

Faster, faster—

Like if he can just outrun himself, he won’t have to feel any of this.

The cliffs rise before him, jagged and steep, the sea sprawling far below.

Childe barely registers how he got here. He barely registers the sting of scraped hands, the burn in his legs, the uneven rhythm of his breath.

His body moves on instinct, his limbs remembering the climb before his mind does. The old paths are still familiar beneath his hands, the rock face still rough, still solid, still real in a way nothing else feels real anymore.

Higher.

He doesn’t stop until there is nothing above him but sky.

The wind howls against him, cold and sharp. Below, the ocean stretches endless and empty, its waves dark in the early morning light.

Childe stares down at it.

His fingers dig into the earth at his feet.

The wind tugs at him, urging, beckoning. The sea murmurs below, patient, waiting.

You should have drowned.

The abyss does not let go.

It never has.

Childe exhales shakily. His legs are unsteady. He feels—thin. Frayed. Like he might unravel if he moves wrong, if he breathes too deep.

He thinks—

If he steps forward, if he just—

Would the abyss take him back?

Would it open its arms and pull him under, whispering, this is where you belong?

Would it let him rest?

His fingers twitch.

But then—

A voice in his head. A voice he has not heard in years.

Soft, worried. Small.

“Big brother?”

Childe chokes on a breath.

His knees buckle. He hits the ground hard, hands bracing against the dirt, chest heaving.

Teucer.

His family.

The warmth of his mother’s arms, the laughter of his sisters, the way his father clapped a hand on his shoulder the last time he came home—

His heart is beating too fast. His stomach twists, nausea curling tight in his throat.

What would they think—if they saw him like this?

What would they say—if they knew?

A monster crawled out.

Teucer had looked up at him with so much trust in his eyes. My big brother’s the strongest.

But he wasn’t.

He wasn’t.

Childe squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth so hard it hurts.

The abyss should have taken him.

But it didn’t.

And if it didn’t, then—

Then he has to live with what he is.

He has to keep going.

Even if he doesn’t know how.

Even if it feels impossible.

Even if—

A presence behind him.

Childe doesn’t turn. He already knows who it is.

Zhongli does not speak.

He does not move closer.

He only waits.

Childe swallows hard, his throat tight. He digs his fingers into the earth, grounding himself, trying to breathe.

He does not know how long they sit there, wind whipping through his hair, waves crashing below.

But Zhongli does not leave.

He never does.

---

Childe does not move.

Neither does Zhongli.

The silence stretches between them, stretched taut like a bowstring, like the moment before a blade finds its mark. The wind howls against the cliffs, salt and cold and biting, but Childe barely feels it.

His breath is still ragged, chest rising and falling too fast, as if his body cannot decide if it wants to run or collapse.

He should have run farther.

He should have disappeared before Zhongli could follow.

But Zhongli is here, standing behind him, waiting, watching, staying.

And Childe—Childe cannot stand it.

He cannot stand it.

Because if Zhongli stays, if Zhongli does not turn away like he should, then what does that mean?

It means there is something in Childe worth staying for.

And that is a lie.

He forces himself to his feet, movements jerky, unsteady. His body is still shaking, but he clenches his fists, ignores the way his stomach twists, forces his voice into something sharp, something cold, something that will make Zhongli leave.

“You need to stop this.”

Zhongli says nothing.

Childe grits his teeth, turning, finally facing him. Zhongli stands a few feet away, expression unreadable, amber eyes dark with something—something Childe does not want to name.

Childe exhales sharply. “You keep following me. You keep talking like you understand, like there’s something left of me to save.” His hands are shaking. He clenches them tighter. “But you don’t. There isn’t.”

Still, Zhongli does not speak.

Still, he does not leave.

Childe steps forward, his whole body too tense, too frayed, his breath sharp. “You don’t get to do this,” he snaps, voice rising, cracking at the edges. “You don’t get to stand here and look at me like that.”

Zhongli tilts his head slightly. “Like what?”

Childe laughs, short and harsh. “Like I’m still human.”

The words hang in the air between them.

Zhongli’s gaze does not waver.

Childe exhales sharply, pushing forward, anger curling in his chest like something bitter, something desperate.

“Like I’m not a monster.”

Zhongli’s brow furrows slightly.

Childe steps closer. His pulse is too fast. His breathing too uneven. His vision too blurred, his own voice almost unrecognizable.

“You want to fix something that can’t be fixed,” he spits, the words slipping free before he can stop them. “You want me to be something I’m not.”

Zhongli’s lips part, as if he wants to say something—as if he wants to argue.

But Childe doesn’t let him.

He can’t.

Because if Zhongli speaks, if Zhongli tells him something gentle again, something that hurts, Childe thinks he might break.

So he shoves him.

Hard.

Zhongli barely stumbles.

Childe breathes in sharply, hands still curled into fists, and does it again.

This time, Zhongli takes a step back.

Childe’s chest tightens.

“Go,” he breathes, voice low, rough, pleading. His hands are still trembling. “Just—go.”

Zhongli looks at him, golden eyes searching, expression unreadable.

Childe swallows. His throat feels tight. His whole body feels like it’s shaking apart, like something inside him is cracking, splintering, unraveling.

“Go!” He shoves him again, harder, teeth gritted, his voice breaking—breaking. “Why won’t you just leave?!”

Zhongli catches his wrist.

Not harshly. Not with force.

Gently.

And that—

That is what finally makes Childe snap.

His whole body seizes up, and something inside him breaks, something he has been holding together for too long, something that should have shattered long ago.

His other hand comes up, curled in a fist, but it does not land.

Because Zhongli does not flinch.

He does not step back.

He does not let go.

He just stands there, holding Childe’s wrist like it is something fragile, something breakable, something that still belongs to him.

And Childe—

Childe cannot take it.

His strength leaves him all at once. His legs buckle. His breath stutters. And before he can stop himself, before he can even think, his fingers clutch at Zhongli’s coat, trembling, desperate, helpless.

“I don’t know how to live like this,” he chokes.

The words slip free before he can stop them, before he can shove them down, before he can smother them into silence.

Zhongli does not let go.

His grip on Childe’s wrist stays firm, steady.

“You do not have to do it alone.”

Childe shakes his head, breath hitching, whole body trembling. “You don’t get it,” he whispers, voice wrecked, voice raw. “The abyss doesn’t let go.”

He clenches his fingers in Zhongli’s coat, knuckles white.

“It doesn’t let you be loved.”

Zhongli is silent for a long moment.

Then—soft, steady, like something carved from stone—

“Then let me defy it.”

Childe’s breath catches.

His grip tightens.

But he does not pull away.

But he does not move.

His fingers are still curled into Zhongli’s coat, breath shallow, uneven, his whole body trembling like he has been struck. Like the words have broken something inside him, some last, fragile defense he had tried so desperately to hold onto.

Then let me defy it.

The abyss does not let you be loved. It does not let you go. It does not let you try.

But Zhongli—Zhongli is standing here, holding onto him, like he means it, like he believes in something that cannot be believed in.

Childe wants to scream at him.

He wants to shake him, shove him, tear himself away from the impossible gentleness in those golden eyes.

He wants to demand why.

Why him?

Why is Zhongli doing this, why is he standing here, why hasn’t he walked away like he should?

Why is he treating Childe like there is still something left of him to save?

But Childe doesn’t say any of that.

He only shudders, fingers curling tighter, breath shattering in his throat.

And Zhongli—Zhongli only watches him, quiet, steady, waiting.

Then, gently—so gently it almost breaks Childe more—Zhongli speaks.

“Do you want to try?”

Childe sucks in a sharp breath.

The words sink into him like a blade, like an open wound, like something he cannot touch without bleeding.

He almost laughs, but it catches in his throat, twisting into something ragged.

Try?

Try?

How do you try when you don’t even know how to begin?

How do you try when every part of you is broken, when everything inside you has already been hollowed out, when the only thing you know is how to fight, how to kill, how to destroy?

Try to be human again?

Try to live?

Childe shakes his head, voice hoarse, uneven. “I—I don’t know how.”

Zhongli does not hesitate. “Then let me show you.”

The answer is too immediate. Too steady.

Too certain.

Childe feels like he cannot breathe.

His throat tightens, his fingers twitch, his pulse pounds in his ears.

It’s too much.

Too much hope, too much patience, too much of something Childe does not deserve.

He stares at Zhongli, vision blurring, shaking his head again, more desperate this time.

“I don’t know how to be something other than this,” he chokes, voice thin, voice fraying, voice breaking.

Zhongli’s grip does not loosen.

“You are more than what the abyss made you.”

Childe exhales sharply. His whole body seizes.

His hands tremble. His vision swims.

He wants to tell Zhongli he is wrong.

That he doesn’t understand, that he can’t understand, that Childe is not something that can be fixed or saved or loved.

That the abyss did not just take him.

It made him.

That the boy who fell in never came back.

That only the monster remains.

But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.

Because Zhongli is looking at him, steady, patient, unchanging, like stone shaped by time, like mountains that have withstood centuries, like something Childe cannot break, no matter how hard he tries.

And it is too much.

Too much kindness.

Too much warmth.

Too much of something Childe does not know how to hold, how to accept.

He shakes his head, voice hoarse. “You don’t get it.”

Zhongli watches him, gaze unwavering.

“Then tell me.”

Childe swallows, something thick in his throat.

He wants to turn away.

He wants to run again.

But Zhongli’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist, his touch steady, grounding him in something real, something tangible.

So instead—

Childe lets out a breath, shuddering, uneven, and tells him.

Tells him about the abyss.

Tells him about the cold, about the dark, about the endless whispers that crawled into his skin, into his bones, into the marrow of who he used to be.

Tells him about the first time he saw his own reflection and did not recognize the thing staring back.

Tells him about the fear.

Not of the abyss itself.

Not of the darkness.

But of himself.

Of what he had become.

Of what he had lost.

He does not realize he is crying until Zhongli reaches up—slow, careful, gentle—and wipes a tear from his cheek with the back of his fingers.

Childe flinches.

Not because it hurts.

But because it doesn’t.

Because it has been so long since anyone has touched him like this.

Since anyone has looked at him and seen something other than a weapon.

Since anyone has seen him.

Zhongli’s fingers linger, warm against his skin.

And then—soft, quiet—he asks again.

“Do you want to try?”

Childe exhales, unsteady.

His chest is too tight. His hands are shaking. His whole body hurts.

And maybe—

Maybe he will never be human again.

Maybe the abyss took too much. Maybe he has forgotten how to be anything other than a monster.

Maybe he will never escape what he is.

But—

Maybe Zhongli is willing to stay anyway.

Maybe Zhongli does not need him to be something whole.

Maybe trying does not mean knowing how.

Maybe it just means—

He lets out a breath.

His fingers uncurl from Zhongli’s coat.

Not completely.

Not yet.

But enough.

Enough to try.

---

Childe tries.

At first, it is not even a choice—it is survival, raw and desperate, scraping itself into the marrow of his bones.

Because Zhongli does not leave.

Because Childe has pushed him, has shoved at him, has thrown every sharp edge he has in his arsenal—every broken, jagged piece—and Zhongli has not turned away.

Because Childe is so, so tired.

Because the abyss still whispers, still tugs at the edges of his mind, but for the first time, someone else is standing between him and the fall.

So he tries.

He stays in Liyue longer than he meant to, lingering in the city’s golden glow, in the warmth of lantern light and steady hands.

He eats meals he doesn’t have the appetite for, but he eats them anyway, because Zhongli places tea in front of him without a word, because he watches him with quiet patience, because he does not force anything—but he expects it.

He sleeps in a bed instead of on rooftops or in shadows, lets himself rest without a dagger in his hand, without a nightmare curling in his throat like smoke.

He lets himself believe, for a moment, that maybe this is enough.

That maybe he can stay.

That maybe he can learn to live without the abyss clawing at his ribs.

But then—

The setbacks come.

Like the tide creeping in when you’ve already convinced yourself you’re safe.

The first one is small.

Barely a whisper of what’s to come.

Zhongli catches Childe’s wrist one evening when they’re walking through the harbor—gentle, just enough to still him, just enough to get his attention.

It is not a threat.

It is not meant to hurt.

But Childe flinches.

His entire body tenses like he’s expecting impact, like he’s bracing for something, and for half a breath, he isn’t in Liyue anymore—

He is somewhere dark. Somewhere wrong.

A place where hands are not gentle, where grip means hold him down, break him apart, make him forget what it is to be human.

His vision spins. His pulse pounds in his ears. He yanks himself free and stumbles back, breath coming too fast, lungs locking up.

Zhongli’s eyes widen slightly.

“Childe.”

His voice is calm. Steady.

Safe.

But Childe doesn’t feel safe.

Not in his own skin. Not in this moment. Not with his own mind betraying him, his own body reacting before he can even think.

Zhongli does not reach for him again.

He just waits.

Watches.

Lets Childe take a shuddering breath, forces the world back into focus, forces the now to be louder than the then.

And then Zhongli nods, like he understands.

Like he sees it, even though Childe has never told him what happened, even though he has never spoken the worst of it.

That should make it easier.

But it doesn’t.

Because it means Zhongli knows.

It means he sees Childe as something broken.

And that—

That makes Childe want to run all over again.

The second setback is worse.

It is a bad night.

A very bad night.

Childe has not had them in a while—not like this, not so raw, so violent.

But when it comes, it is worse than anything in months.

He wakes gasping, shaking, barely able to breathe past the phantom weight of something pressing down, past the claws still buried in his skin, past the abyss whispering in his skull—

You are still ours.

He stumbles out of bed before he even knows what he’s doing, his body moving, his mind not catching up fast enough.

The walls are too close.

The room is too close.

It feels like something is curling over him, swallowing him whole, pulling him back down—

No, no, no, no, no—

He’s in the streets before he realizes it, heartbeat a frantic drum against his ribs, air too thin, too sharp.

It takes a long time for the world to steady.

For his own hands to stop shaking.

But when he finally looks up, when he finally stops running, there is something waiting for him.

Or rather—

Someone.

Zhongli stands at the edge of the street, lantern light casting shadows across his face, dark robes still.

He is waiting.

Like he knew this would happen.

Like he knew Childe would break again.

And for some reason, that—that is what makes it worse.

Because Zhongli is standing there like he expected it.

Because Zhongli still came anyway.

Childe swallows hard, his throat raw, breath uneven.

He does not speak.

Zhongli does not either.

He only tilts his head, watches him, as if to say, And now? What will you do now?

Childe does not know.

He does not know if he is still running.

If he is running from Zhongli, or toward him.

If he is running from himself.

But he knows he is tired.

He knows he cannot keep doing this.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli is still there.

Still standing.

Still waiting.

Childe exhales sharply, something breaking apart in his chest all over again.

He tries.

But the abyss does not let him go.

And he does not know if he will ever be able to leave it behind.

---

Zhongli stays.

He does not leave when Childe gives him a reason to.

He does not flinch when Childe breaks apart in front of him, when the abyss rips through his skin, when the past drags its claws through his ribs and makes itself known.

He does not speak when Childe cannot breathe, when he stands in the empty streets of Liyue, trembling, haunted, eyes too dark, too distant, too lost.

He only waits.

Childe hates it.

Hates the quiet patience. Hates the steady presence. Hates the way Zhongli never recoils, never turns away, never gives him the disgust, the rejection that he is waiting for.

Hates the way Zhongli sees him.

Not just the mask. Not just the Harbinger, the warrior, the monster.

The boy beneath.

The boy who fell.

The boy who never crawled back out.

And it is so much worse.

Because Childe is not meant to be seen like this.

Not this wreck of a thing, not this hollow ruin, not this creature still trapped in the abyss even when his body is free.

It should have swallowed him whole.

It did.

It should not have spat him back out.

And yet—

Zhongli is still here.

Waiting.

Watching.

Staying.

Childe does not sleep that night.

He barely breathes.

Zhongli does not press.

He only walks beside him, through the darkened streets, past the harbor, past the lantern-lit homes, past the world that is still so far out of reach.

Childe feels the weight of it all pressing in on him, something too large, something too raw, something that will not heal.

At some point, his body remembers exhaustion, and he finds himself sitting against a stone wall, knees drawn up, head tilted back.

He does not know what to do with the silence.

He does not know what to do with himself.

Zhongli watches him for a long moment, then slowly settles beside him.

He does not touch him.

Does not speak.

Does not force him to look at him, to acknowledge him, to do anything except breathe.

And it is unbearable.

Childe lets out a hollow laugh, raking a shaking hand through his hair. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

Zhongli hums, tilting his head slightly. “I have lived long enough to know that persistence often bears fruit.”

Childe scoffs, looking away. “Yeah? What fruit do you think you’re getting out of this?”

Zhongli does not answer immediately.

When he does, his voice is quiet.

“Perhaps I am simply waiting for you to realize that you are worth the effort.”

Childe stiffens.

His throat closes up.

His hands clench against his knees.

He does not want to hear this.

He does not want to be told something like that, something gentle, something that digs under his skin and makes him want.

He does not deserve that.

He swallows, exhales sharply through his nose. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Zhongli glances at him, unshaken. “I do.”

Childe laughs again, but it is sharp, empty, bitter. “You don’t.” He turns his head, meets Zhongli’s gaze. “You don’t know what I did down there. What I became.”

Zhongli holds his gaze.

“I do not need to know.”

Childe's fingers twitch.

His stomach turns.

His pulse hammers, something wrong, wrong, wrong curling in his chest, something ugly, something aching.

He looks away. “You should.”

Zhongli does not answer.

Because they both know that if Childe tells him—

If he says it out loud, if he names the things he did, the things he became, the things he lost—

It will make it real.

And he cannot survive that.

The days after are slow.

Painfully so.

Childe still flinches when Zhongli moves too fast, when a voice is too loud, when a sound reminds him of something that should not be remembered.

He still wakes up in cold sweats, still sees the abyss when he closes his eyes, still feels it inside him—clawing, whispering, pulling.

And yet—

Zhongli stays.

He does not press.

He does not expect.

He does not demand.

He only exists alongside him.

And Childe does not know what to do with that.

Does not know how to handle kindness that does not ask for anything in return.

Does not know how to be something other than the abyss’s leftovers, something other than the thing that crawled out of the dark, something other than a blade waiting to be used.

He does not know if he will ever be anything else.

But Zhongli—

Zhongli is still here.

And maybe—just maybe—Childe does not have to figure it out alone.

But he still doesn’t know how to let Zhongli help.

He tries. He fails. He tries again. The cycle repeats, over and over, until it is more of a pattern than a choice. Until it is carved into the very foundation of his days, the rhythm of falling and not quite rising.

Because healing—if this even is healing—is not a straight road.

It is a winding path, filled with pitfalls, dead ends, steps that lead nowhere, and places where the ground simply crumbles beneath him.

Some days, it feels like he is moving forward.

Like he is something more than just the abyss’s discarded thing, more than the wreckage left behind when a boy fell and a monster crawled out.

Some days, he eats.

Some days, he sleeps through the night.

Some days, he can hear Zhongli’s voice without feeling the itch to run.

But then—

Then there are the other days.

The ones where he cannot look in the mirror without seeing something wrong.

Where his body feels too much like something borrowed, something that should not exist in the sunlight, something that should not be here at all.

Where he wakes up with his throat raw, his fingers shaking, his mind still somewhere else.

Where the abyss’s whispers return, curling in his ribs like smoke, slithering between his bones, reminding him—

You do not belong here.

You never did.

You never will.

Zhongli finds him on one of those days.

The kind where he cannot stand to be inside his own skin, where the world outside feels too sharp but the inside of his head is worse.

He has not slept. He has not eaten.

He is braced against a wall in an empty alleyway, fingers digging into the stone, breathing too hard, too fast, too shallow.

He does not know how long Zhongli has been standing there.

But when he lifts his head, when he looks up—Zhongli is watching him.

Not with pity.

Not with judgment.

Just… watching.

Childe swallows, exhales sharply. Forces a laugh that is not a laugh.

“You got a habit of showing up at the worst times, xiansheng.”

Zhongli steps forward, slowly, carefully, the way someone might approach a wounded animal. “I would call it the opposite.”

Childe snorts, shaking his head, but there is no humor in it. His fingers tighten against the stone. His voice is hoarse. “What do you even want from me?”

Zhongli stops a few feet away. He tilts his head, considers the question.

And then—

“Nothing,” he says simply.

And that—

That makes something snap inside of Childe.

Because he does not know how to exist without someone wanting something from him.

The Fatui wanted a weapon. His family wanted a protector. His enemies wanted a corpse.

The abyss wanted everything.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli wants nothing.

It makes no sense.

Childe pushes off the wall, glares at him. “That’s bullshit. Everyone wants something.”

Zhongli does not argue.

He only holds his gaze and says, “And what is it that you want, Childe?”

Childe opens his mouth—

And nothing comes out.

Because he does not know.

He has spent so long being shaped by what everyone else needed him to be, by what the abyss made him, that he does not know what he would be without it.

He does not know how to be something that belongs to himself.

His throat works. His hands shake.

He swallows.

“I—” His voice cracks. He clenches his jaw, inhales sharply, shakes his head. “I don’t—”

He cuts himself off.

The words will not come.

Zhongli watches him.

And then, instead of speaking, instead of forcing something into the silence—

He kneels.

It is not a grand gesture. It is not dramatic. It is not submission.

It is patience.

It is understanding.

It is a reminder that Childe does not have to stand alone.

Childe turns away sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. His breath shudders. His throat aches.

And Zhongli stays.

The worst nights are the ones where he forgets where he is.

Where he wakes up back in the abyss, breath ragged, heartbeat frantic, eyes wide and seeing something that is not there.

And the worst part?

It is not always a nightmare.

Sometimes, it is not sleep at all.

Sometimes, it happens in broad daylight, when something is too familiar.

When a sound is too close.

When he is walking through the harbor, and suddenly, he is not there anymore.

Suddenly, he is back in the dark.

The abyss swallows him whole.

His body locks up. His breathing goes shallow. The world spins.

And this time, Zhongli is not there to pull him out.

This time, he is alone.

And this time—

He cannot get out of it himself.

He stumbles back into a side alley, presses himself into a corner, digs his nails into his palm so hard that they break skin.

Not real, not real, not real.

It does not help.

The abyss is here.

The abyss is always here.

He doesn’t know how long he is there before Zhongli finds him.

But he does.

Childe barely notices him approach.

But then—warm hands, gentle hands, catching his wrists, grounding him.

A voice, quiet and steady.

“Childe.”

Childe gasps, the world tilting, his ribs locking up.

But the warmth is real.

The voice is real.

He blinks rapidly, vision clearing, heartbeat slowing.

And Zhongli is there.

Always there.

Childe sags, shaking, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with his body.

Zhongli does not let go.

And for the first time in years, Childe lets himself lean into someone else’s hands.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held.

Zhongli helps.

Not in the way Childe expects.

Not by fixing him.

Not by saving him.

But by reminding him that he does not have to do this alone.

By reminding him that maybe, just maybe—

There is something left of him that is still worth saving.

Chapter Text

Childe does not know how to heal.

But he knows how to fight.

And maybe that is enough.

Maybe healing is not a soft thing, not a gentle thing, not something that comes with ease. Maybe it is something brutal, something relentless, something that leaves him shaking and hollow and alive in the way that survival always is.

Maybe healing is a war he has to win every day.

Maybe healing is fighting himself and not losing.

Because the abyss is still there. It always will be.

It is in the way his body tenses at the sound of something too familiar.

It is in the way his hands tremble when he forgets to breathe.

It is in the way he still wakes up sometimes with the taste of blood in his mouth, his own or someone else’s, hands reaching for a weapon that is not there.

The abyss will never leave him.

But that does not mean it gets to keep him.

Zhongli never tells him to be better.

Never tells him to let it go.

Never tells him to move on.

Instead, he stays.

He stays when Childe flinches away from warmth.

He stays when Childe stares at his hands for too long, turning them over, looking for the things he cannot wash away.

He stays when Childe forgets how to breathe.

When he remembers too much, too quickly, too painfully.

When he folds in on himself, shoulders shaking, ribs locking up.

When the weight of what he is—of what he was—presses against him until he cannot move, cannot think, cannot stand.

Zhongli stays.

And Childe does not understand why.

He is a killer. A monster. A thing made in the dark, made to destroy.

He is the sum of every battle he has ever fought, every life he has ever taken, every moment he has ever spent with blood drying on his skin.

He is not the kind of person someone should stay for.

But Zhongli does.

And he does not ask for anything in return.

Not a price. Not an apology. Not a promise to be better.

Only this:

“Let yourself grieve.”

Childe does not understand.

He does not know how.

The abyss did not teach him how to grieve.

Only how to kill.

Only how to survive.

One night, he asks.

He does not mean to.

But the words spill out before he can stop them, raw and ragged and sharp at the edges.

“How do you live with it?”

Zhongli looks up from his tea. He does not ask what Childe means. He does not have to.

For a moment, he is silent.

Then, quietly—softly—

“I carry it with me.”

Childe swallows. His throat is tight.

Zhongli exhales, setting his cup down. His gaze is steady, unfaltering.

“It does not leave. It never will. But I choose to live despite it.”

Childe stares at him. His hands curl into fists.

He does not know if he is strong enough for that.

He does not know if he will ever be strong enough for that.

But—

Maybe he can try.

Some days are easier.

Some days are worse.

Some days, he feels like he is drowning in something he cannot name.

Some days, he almost forgets what it felt like to be nothing but a weapon.

And some days, he is reminded.

Some days, he wakes up to the sound of a scream that is not his own and realizes—

It is.

Zhongli finds him before he can leave the room.

Before he can put his mask back on.

Before he can become that thing again.

He does not stop him.

But he does not let him go alone.

And for once, Childe does not fight it.

It is not hope that pulls him forward.

Not really.

He does not know if he believes in hope.

Not after everything.

But Zhongli believes in him.

And maybe, just maybe—

That is enough.

Zhongli believes in him.

And somehow, it is enough.

Not enough to erase the past. Not enough to fix him. Not enough to turn him into something whole.

But enough to stay.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to wake up and not run.

He does not know when he stops waiting for Zhongli to leave.

He only knows that somewhere along the way, he does.

Somewhere between the nights when Zhongli catches him before he falls, between the mornings where the tea is already waiting for him, between the moments where he wakes up and the first thing he sees is not the abyss but someone who refuses to turn away—

Something shifts.

It is not sudden.

It is not dramatic.

It is slow. Quiet. Natural, like the changing of seasons, like winter slipping into spring.

Something blooms.

He does not have a name for it.

Only that when Zhongli places a hand on his shoulder, it no longer makes him flinch.

Only that when Zhongli says his name, it no longer sounds like something foreign.

Only that when Zhongli looks at him, really looks at him—Childe no longer feels like a monster wearing human skin.

He feels seen.

And maybe that is the most terrifying thing of all.

They do not talk about it.

Not directly.

Not in the way people are supposed to.

But it is there, unspoken but undeniable, woven into every glance, every silence, every moment of shared breath.

It is there when Childe falters, and Zhongli is there to steady him.

It is there when Zhongli lingers just a little too long, when his touch is just a little too careful, when his voice is just a little too soft.

It is there when Childe does not pull away.

Not anymore.

It is in the spaces between them, in the weight of unsaid things, in the way Zhongli stays despite everything that makes Childe someone not worth staying for.

It is something fragile, something delicate, something that should not exist in the ruins of what Childe is.

But it does.

And that should not be possible.

But it is.

And that terrifies him.

Because he has lost before.

And Childe is not naive.

He knows how this ends.

Nothing stays. No one stays.

The abyss taught him that.

And even if Zhongli is different, even if he is more, even if he is the only thing that has ever made Childe want to try—

One day, he will be gone too.

That is the way of things.

And Childe does not think he will survive it when it happens.

So he tells himself not to get used to it.

Tells himself that this is temporary, that he can endure it, that he can let it go before it hurts.

But then—

Then Zhongli says his name like it is something sacred.

Then Zhongli presses a cup of tea into his hands like it is an offering.

Then Zhongli looks at him like he is not broken, like he is not ruined, like he is something worth keeping—

And Childe forgets how to guard himself.

He forgets how to run.

He forgets how to be anything but this.

So when he wakes in the middle of the night, body rigid, lungs burning, convinced that he is somewhere else—

Zhongli is there.

And when he says, “I’m here,” voice steady, patient, real—

Childe believes him.

For the first time.

And something inside him—

Something that has been locked away for too long—

Breaks.

And maybe—

Maybe it is enough.

It is enough.

Or at least, it should be.

Childe tells himself that. Tells himself that this is enough. That this is good. That he should not ask for more.

Because he has never had this before.

Not the warmth of someone who does not turn away. Not the quiet, steady presence of someone who does not flinch at the weight of what he is.

Not the slow, suffocating realization that—

This is not temporary.

Because Zhongli is still here.

Still here when Childe wakes in the night, shaking, drowning in a past that refuses to stay buried.

Still here when Childe cannot speak, when he cannot find the words to explain that he is trying but some days are harder than others, and some nights are impossible.

Still here when Childe does not know how to be anything but a weapon, a thing sharpened by blood and war, something made for destruction and nothing else.

Still here.

Still staying.

Still looking at him like he is something more.

And Childe—

Childe does not know what to do with that.

He does not know what to call it.

He does not know what to do with the way it aches.

Because he has lost before. He has lost and lost and lost, and he knows how this ends.

And yet—

He cannot stop himself from wanting.

He does not realize it at first.

Not in the way people do in stories, in poems, in things softer than his world has ever been.

There is no sudden clarity, no dramatic revelation.

Only a slow, quiet understanding.

A weight settling in his chest.

A realization that somewhere along the way, he stopped preparing to lose Zhongli.

That somewhere along the way, he started to believe that maybe—just maybe—this was something that would not be taken from him.

That maybe he was allowed to keep this.

To keep him.

And it terrifies him.

Because he does not think he can survive losing Zhongli.

And he does not think he can survive having him, either.

Because Childe does not know how to hold something without breaking it.

Because Zhongli is gentle in a way Childe does not know how to be.

Because Zhongli is kind in a way Childe does not deserve.

Because Zhongli is the only thing that has ever made him want to try for more than survival.

And that—

That is dangerous.

Childe has always been better at fighting than feeling.

Violence comes easy.

Emotion does not.

But this—

This thing between them, this thing that has been growing, this thing that lingers in the way Zhongli holds him up without ever asking for anything in return—

This is something Childe cannot fight.

And he does not know how to live with that.

Because there is something in the way Zhongli looks at him, something that unravels him, something that makes him feel less like a weapon and more like a person—

And it makes Childe want to fall apart.

To give in.

To let himself have this.

But he is afraid.

Because he has never let himself have anything before.

Because he does not know if he knows how.

Because if he does—if he tries—and then it is ripped away—

He does not think he will survive it.

So he hesitates.

So he stays silent.

So he pretends that the way his chest aches when Zhongli touches him is something else.

That the way he reaches for Zhongli before he can stop himself is habit.

That the way he feels something close to relief when Zhongli stays is nothing at all.

But he is lying.

And he knows it.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli knows it too.

But he does not push.

Because he understands.

Because he always does.

Because he knows that Childe is a battlefield of his own making.

And that sometimes—

Even the strongest soldiers are afraid of surrendering.

---

It is a long time before Childe finds the courage.

Too long.

Long enough that he almost loses himself to hesitation, to fear, to the relentless weight of everything that claws at his ribs and makes him feel unworthy.

Long enough that he almost convinces himself to let this slip through his fingers.

Because that is what he knows how to do, isn’t it?

Lose.

Survive.

Move forward with blood in his teeth and a blade in his hands and never, never look back.

He has done it a thousand times before.

But this—

This is different.

Because for the first time, he does not want to lose.

For the first time, he wants to stay.

And that terrifies him.

Because wanting means risking.

And he is so tired of losing things.

Zhongli does not push him.

Never has.

Childe thinks that is the worst part.

That Zhongli never asks for anything.

That he never demands, never forces, never pressures—

Only waits.

Patient. Steady.

Like he has all the time in the world.

And maybe he does.

Maybe time does not mean the same thing to an old god as it does to a man who has spent his life chasing battle after battle, fighting as if he will not live long enough to see another day.

Maybe Zhongli does not understand how frustrating it is to be given space when Childe has spent his whole life being told what to be.

Or maybe—

Maybe he understands too well.

Maybe that is why he does not demand anything from Childe.

Maybe that is why he waits.

Like he knows that some things—

The important things—

Can only be given freely.

But gods, it would be so much easier if Zhongli would just ask.

If he would just say something.

If he would just take the choice away, take the burden out of Childe’s hands, make this simple.

Because the truth is—

Childe is afraid.

Afraid of what this is.

Afraid of what it means.

Afraid of what it will do to him if he lets himself have it and then it is ripped away.

Because that is how these things go, isn’t it?

That is how they always go.

He has spent his whole life learning that nothing good ever stays.

That he is not meant to have something soft.

That he is not allowed to want.

That if he lets himself hold onto something, if he lets himself love—

It will be taken from him.

Because that is what life does.

Because that is what the Abyss taught him.

And yet—

Zhongli is still here.

Still waiting.

Still looking at him with those impossible golden eyes, like Childe is something more than a monster that crawled its way out of the dark.

Like he is worth saving.

Like he is worth waiting for.

Like he is worth something at all.

And Childe—

Childe does not know what to do with that.

He runs, at first.

Not in the way he used to.

Not in the way that sends him across the world, searching for another fight, another war, another reason to not feel.

No—

This time, the running is different.

This time, it is inside him.

This time, it is quiet. Subtle.

This time, it is in the way he does not let himself look too long.

In the way he does not let himself hope.

In the way he tries to convince himself that this is enough.

That he can live like this.

That he does not need more.

That he does not want more.

That he can survive on the silence between them, on the spaces they do not fill, on the weight of things left unsaid.

But Zhongli—

Zhongli has always been patient.

And patience is a terrible thing when it means Childe has to sit with himself.

Because he can ignore a war.

He can ignore a battle.

He can ignore blood in his hands and fire in his lungs and the screaming that never quite leaves his head—

But he cannot ignore this.

Not forever.

Not when Zhongli is still here.

Not when Zhongli is still waiting.

And gods, Childe hates him for it.

For being so steady.

For never looking at him like he is too much.

For never pushing, never demanding, never leaving.

Because if Zhongli left, then at least Childe would have an excuse.

At least then he could tell himself that he was right.

That nothing good stays.

That he was never meant to have this.

That he was always meant to be alone.

But Zhongli does not leave.

Zhongli stays.

And that—

That is the problem.

It takes too long.

Too long for Childe to find the words.

Too long for him to say what has been weighing in his throat for months.

Too long for him to be brave.

But one night—

One quiet, fragile night, when the past is too close and the air is too still and Zhongli is standing beside him like he has always belonged there—

Childe finally says it.

Barely more than a whisper.

Barely more than a breath.

Barely anything at all.

"I don't know how to do this."

And Zhongli—

Zhongli does not laugh.

Does not tease.

Does not turn away.

He only meets Childe's eyes.

Steady. Patient.

And says, "Then let me teach you."

And maybe—

Maybe that is all Childe has ever needed.

---

Zhongli teaches him gently.

Like this is something sacred.

Like this is something worth taking time for.

Like this is something worth doing right.

And Childe—

Childe does not know how to handle that.

Because love—if that is even what this is—has never been something he was taught.

Love was in the absence of things, in the empty spaces left behind.

Love was in what he lost.

Love was in what he could not have.

Love was a ghost haunting the home he left behind, lingering in his mother’s quiet sorrow, in his father’s tired eyes, in the too-small hands of his siblings reaching for him even as he stepped away.

Love was a weapon, used against him by those who wanted to keep him chained.

Love was what made him weak.

Or at least—

That was what he told himself.

Because love had never saved him.

Love had never kept him safe.

Love had not reached into the Abyss to pull him out.

So what use did he have for it?

What purpose did it serve?

But Zhongli—

Zhongli teaches him differently.

And that—

That is terrifying.

It starts small.

Always small.

A hand on his shoulder, grounding.

A presence at his side, steady.

A voice in his ear when the nights stretch too long, when the weight in his chest is too much, when the past drags him under and leaves him gasping for air.

"You are not alone."

Simple words.

Soft words.

Words that Childe does not believe, not yet.

But Zhongli says them anyway.

And he says them again.

And again.

And again.

Until they are something Childe starts to listen to.

Until they are something he starts to learn.

Until they are something he starts to want to believe.

And it is slow.

Painfully, unbearably slow.

Because Childe is stubborn.

Because Childe fights everything, even the things that do not need to be fought.

Because Childe does not know how to let himself have something without expecting it to be taken away.

But Zhongli—

Zhongli never leaves.

Zhongli does not take.

Zhongli does not push.

Zhongli does not expect.

And that—

That is how Childe learns.

Some lessons are harder than others.

Some lessons leave him aching.

Some lessons leave him feeling like he is standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into something that will swallow him whole.

Because feeling is dangerous.

Because feeling means risking.

Because feeling means losing.

But Zhongli does not ask for much.

Never demands.

Never expects him to give more than he can.

Only offers.

Only stays.

Only gives him the time to figure it out himself.

"You do not have to force yourself," Zhongli tells him, one night when Childe is curling in on himself, pressing his hands over his chest like he can hold himself together.

"You do not have to rush."

And Childe hates him for that.

For being patient.

For being kind.

For giving him the choice.

Because Childe does not want to make this choice.

Because if it were anyone else, if it were anything else, he would have run by now.

But Zhongli makes it so that he cannot.

Because Zhongli stays.

Because Zhongli waits.

Because Zhongli does not stop looking at him like he is something more than a weapon.

And Childe—

Childe is starting to believe him.

And that is the scariest part of all.

He does not realize it at first.

That he is falling.

That he has already fallen.

That somewhere in the silence between them, somewhere in the lessons Zhongli teaches with steady hands and quiet words, somewhere in the moments where he learns that not every touch has to be a fight, not every closeness has to be a threat—

Childe has stopped waiting for Zhongli to leave.

Stopped preparing for it.

Stopped thinking about it at all.

And instead—

He has started reaching.

Not much.

Not enough.

Not yet.

But enough that it is something.

A hand, hovering between them, shaking but not pulling away.

A breath, taken deep, steadying, held.

A moment, stretched too long, filled with all the things he does not know how to say—

And Zhongli, always Zhongli, watching him so carefully, like Childe is something fragile, something worth handling with care.

Like he is something worth waiting for.

And when Childe finally breaks, finally gives in, finally lets himself reach just a little further—

Zhongli does not move.

Does not startle.

Does not do anything at all.

Only waits.

Only lets Childe do this on his own time.

And it is infuriating.

And it is terrifying.

And it is—

Everything.

Because Childe has never been given the space to choose before.

And now that he has it—

Now that he knows what this means—

He does not know how to do anything but keep falling.

Love has never been something Childe understood.

But this—

This is something he is learning.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Terrifyingly.

But he is learning.

Because Zhongli is teaching him.

And because, for the first time in his life—

Childe wants to learn.

---

It happens slowly.

Not all at once, not in some grand moment of revelation.

Just the quiet unraveling of something inside him.

The way his hands shake less when Zhongli touches him.

The way he doesn’t flinch when Zhongli speaks his name.

The way he stops waiting for the inevitable loss—stops waking in the middle of the night expecting Zhongli to be gone.

Zhongli stays.

Zhongli waits.

Zhongli does not ask for anything.

And it is that, more than anything, that undoes him.

Because it would be easier if Zhongli asked.

If he demanded something in return, if he wanted something from Childe that he could not give.

That, at least, would make sense.

That, at least, would be something Childe understands.

But Zhongli does not want anything.

He just stays.

And Childe does not know how to live with that.

Does not know how to accept it.

Because he has always been given things with conditions.

With expectations.

With knives hidden between the lines.

But Zhongli—

Zhongli offers himself freely, without expectation, without pressure, without fear.

And Childe—

Childe does not know what to do with something so kind.

There is no single moment where he finds his courage.

It is in the little things.

The nights he lets Zhongli sit beside him, lets the silence stretch between them without feeling like he has to fill it.

The mornings he does not bolt awake expecting blood, expecting pain, expecting emptiness.

The times he lets Zhongli touch him without expecting it to be a warning.

And then, one night—

When the weight in his chest is too much, when the memories press against his ribs like a knife, when he thinks about running again just to make it stop—

He doesn’t.

Instead, he finds himself outside, in the cold, the wind cutting through him.

Zhongli follows.

Not pressing. Not demanding.

Just there.

And Childe wants to scream at him.

Wants to push him away, wants to break before Zhongli can be the one to do it first.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays.

And when he turns, voice shaking, hands clenched, heart burning—

Zhongli is there.

Calm. Steady. Patient.

Like he always is.

And Childe, for once, is not.

“I don’t—” His voice is hoarse, strained. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Zhongli doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink. “You don’t have to.”

Childe swallows. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you need to.”

It is such a simple answer.

And yet it is impossible.

Because what Childe needs—what he wants—

It is dangerous.

It is terrifying.

It is real.

And it is standing in front of him, waiting, always waiting, offering him something he does not know if he can accept.

And for the first time, Childe does not run from it.

For the first time, he lets himself want.

He lets himself try.

It is not graceful. It is not perfect. It is not enough.

But it is real.

And that is more than he ever thought he would have.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli just teaches.

And Childe learns.

---

Some lessons hurt.

Not the kind that leave bruises on skin, though Childe has had enough of those to last him a lifetime. No—these lessons sink deep, into the marrow of him, settle in the places where pain has already made a home.

Zhongli teaches gently, but that does not mean the learning is easy.

Because learning to stay means unlearning how to run.

Because learning to trust means unlearning how to doubt.

Because learning to want means unlearning how to fear.

And Childe—

Childe does not unlearn things easily.

Not when they have been carved into him.

Not when they are what has kept him alive.

But Zhongli does not push.

Zhongli does not demand.

Zhongli only stays.

And that—

That is the hardest lesson of all.

Childe does not notice the changes at first.

That his hands do not shake as much when they are empty.

That his shoulders do not stiffen when Zhongli brushes past him in the quiet of the teahouse.

That the nightmares—the worst of them—do not come as often anymore.

Not because they are gone.

But because now, when he wakes in a cold sweat, breath ragged, chest tight—

He does not wake alone.

There is always tea left warm on the table.

There is always a steady voice, grounding him back to the present.

There is always the weight of something constant beside him.

And Childe—

Childe does not know what to do with that.

Because it is not a debt he can repay.

Because it is not a kindness he has earned.

Because it is not something he ever thought he could have.

And yet, Zhongli gives it freely.

And yet, Zhongli does not ask for anything in return.

And yet, Zhongli stays.

Even when Childe tries to push him away.

Even when Childe tells him it is not worth it.

Even when Childe tells him that he is not worth it.

Zhongli stays.

And Childe—

Childe does not know how to grieve that.

Because it is a grief of its own, isn't it?

To realize, after all this time, that maybe—just maybe—he could have had this all along.

That maybe if things had been different—

That maybe if he had been different—

But no.

Zhongli will not let him think like that.

"You are not unworthy of kindness, Ajax," he says one night, voice low, measured, as if this is something that should be obvious, as if it is truth.

"You never were."

And Childe wants to laugh, because if that is true, then why has kindness never stayed?

Why has kindness always been conditional?

Why has kindness always cost him something?

But Zhongli does not see the world like that.

Zhongli, with his ageless patience, with his steady hands, with his quiet words—he does not understand the sharp edges Childe has learned to wield, does not understand that kindness is not free.

"You have paid enough," Zhongli tells him, like he can hear the thoughts Childe cannot voice.

"You do not have to earn this."

And Childe—

Childe does not know how to believe him.

Not yet.

But maybe.

Maybe someday.

There is a day, in the middle of winter, when Childe finds himself standing by the harbor.

It is a day like any other.

The cold bites at his skin, the sea air stings his throat, the city bustles around him.

And yet—

Something in him cracks open.

He does not know what it is.

Perhaps it is the sight of a family walking past him, a child laughing, tugging at their father’s sleeve.

Perhaps it is the way the light hits the water, the way it reminds him of the icy rivers back home, the ones he used to cross in childhood before he knew how easily the ice could break beneath him.

Perhaps it is just time.

Time, which has softened him when he was not looking.

Time, which has let him learn without realizing he was learning at all.

Time, which has given him Zhongli.

Whatever it is, Childe does not run from it.

Not this time.

Not anymore.

Instead, he closes his eyes.

And he lets himself grieve.

Grieves for the boy who fell into the Abyss, the one who never truly crawled back out.

Grieves for the years spent clawing for something that could not be regained.

Grieves for the love he lost, the love he never let himself have.

And then—

Then, he breathes.

And it does not hurt as much as it used to.

Later, he finds Zhongli in the marketplace, watching the crowd with quiet contemplation.

And Childe—

Childe walks up to him.

Does not hesitate.

Does not hold back.

He does not say anything, because he does not need to.

He only steps close, close enough that their shoulders touch.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli turns his head slightly, a question in his gaze.

And Childe—

Childe smiles.

It is small.

Barely there.

But it is real.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli does not need to say anything either.

Because his eyes soften, just slightly.

Because the weight of something unspoken settles between them, something warm, something steady, something that does not need to be voiced to be understood.

And for the first time in a long, long time—

Childe thinks that maybe, just maybe—

This is enough.

---

Childe is not good at feelings.

Not the kind that ask to be named.

Not the kind that demand to be held with care.

Not the kind that Zhongli makes him feel.

The abyss did not teach him how to handle them.

It taught him how to kill, how to endure, how to become something sharp and unyielding. It did not teach him how to sit with the ache in his chest when Zhongli touches him too gently. It did not teach him how to understand the way his pulse stutters when Zhongli says his name, like it is something precious.

The abyss did not teach him how to want.

Not like this.

Not in a way that makes his throat close up, that makes his ribs feel too tight, that makes his body betray him in ways he does not know how to control.

Childe does not know what to do with it.

Because it feels like hunger, but not the kind he understands.

Because it feels like pain, but not the kind that has ever come from a wound.

Because it feels like something dangerous, something inevitable, something that could break him.

Because it feels like—

Love.

It is not sudden.

It is not a revelation that strikes him all at once.

It is slow. Creeping. Inevitable.

Like water wearing away stone.

Like blood seeping into the cracks.

Like rot settling in, quiet and insidious, until one day he looks at Zhongli and realizes—

This is what love looks like.

And the worst part?

The part that ruins him?

It is not a kind of love that demands.

It is not a kind of love that asks for anything in return.

It is just there.

In the tea Zhongli brews for him every morning, like clockwork.

In the steady, unwavering way Zhongli meets his eyes, as if he is not afraid of what he sees there.

In the way Zhongli says his name—Tartaglia, Ajax, Childe— and makes them all sound like they belong to the same person.

In the way Zhongli stays, even when Childe is at his worst, even when he is nothing but frayed nerves and bloody hands and too many ghosts to name.

It is just there.

And Childe does not know how to survive it.

Because love has never stayed.

Because love has always been something he had to fight for.

Because love has always been something that hurts.

So why—

Why does this feel different?

He wants to run.

Of course, he does.

That is what he has always done.

Run before he can be left.

Run before it can be taken from him.

Run before he can lose it in the worst way possible.

Because if he lets himself have this—if he lets himself want this—then what happens when it is gone?

He knows how this ends.

Everything ends.

The abyss taught him that.

And Zhongli is ancient.

Zhongli has lived longer than empires, longer than wars, longer than love itself.

Zhongli will outlast him.

Or worse—Zhongli will leave first.

And Childe—Childe will not know how to exist in a world without him.

So he should run.

He should cut it off before it can fester, before it can turn into something he cannot survive losing.

But he doesn’t.

Because when Zhongli places a hand over his own, when Zhongli tilts his head in that way that says I see you without having to speak—

Childe stays.

He stays, even though it terrifies him.

He stays, even though it makes his chest feel tight and wrong and too full.

He stays, even though he does not deserve it.

Because Zhongli is still here.

Because Zhongli has never given him a reason to doubt.

Because Zhongli looks at him like he is worth staying for.

And Childe—

Childe wants to believe him.

Even if it destroys him in the end.

---

Healing does not happen all at once.

It is not a sudden revelation, not a single moment of clarity where all the broken pieces slot back together into something whole. It is slow. Painfully slow. A process measured in inches, in fractions, in quiet victories so small they feel like nothing at all.

Childe still wakes up gasping some nights, the echoes of the Abyss clawing at the edges of his mind.

He still flinches at shadows that stretch too long, still feels the weight of old instincts curling around his throat like a noose.

He still carries his ghosts with him, still feels their breath against his skin, still hears their voices when the world is too quiet.

But—

But the weight of them no longer crushes him.

They are still there. They will always be there. But they do not tear him apart the way they used to.

And that—

That is enough.

There are things Childe has never allowed himself to want.

Things he has shoved down, buried deep, crushed under the weight of necessity.

Affection.

Softness.

A touch that does not bruise. A gaze that does not judge. A presence that does not demand.

He has spent too long convincing himself that such things do not belong to people like him. That they are for others—for people with less blood on their hands, with fewer sins carved into their ribs.

That they are not for monsters.

But Zhongli—

Zhongli makes him think, sometimes, that maybe he is wrong.

Because Zhongli looks at him without flinching.

Because Zhongli speaks to him like he is someone worth speaking to.

Because Zhongli stays.

And that—

That is dangerous.

Because it makes Childe want.

It makes him think about what it would be like to take another step closer, to press into the warmth of someone who does not recoil from him, to reach for something he has never let himself have.

It makes him think about more.

And that—

That terrifies him.

But one evening, when the sky is painted in deep purples and dying golds, when the lanterns are flickering to life along Liyue’s streets, when the air is heavy with the scent of spice and salt—

Childe takes a step.

A small one.

But a step nonetheless.

They are standing on the bridge overlooking the harbor, the water below reflecting the glow of the city, the distant hum of the crowd a soft murmur against the night.

Zhongli is beside him, calm as ever, hands clasped in front of him, golden eyes watching the movement of the ships below.

And Childe—

Childe reaches out.

Slow. Hesitant.

Fingers brushing against the fabric of Zhongli’s sleeve, the barest touch, the lightest pressure—something so small it could almost be dismissed as accidental.

Almost.

Zhongli does not move away.

Does not stiffen.

Does not even seem surprised.

He only turns his head slightly, gaze settling on Childe with soft patience, as if he has been waiting for this, as if he would have waited forever.

And Childe—

Childe does not know how to do this.

Does not know how to put into words the tangled mess of emotions sitting heavy in his chest.

So he does not speak.

He only presses forward, just a little, until their shoulders are flush against each other, until the warmth of Zhongli’s presence is something tangible, something real.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli does not pull away.

Instead, after a moment, he shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

His hand, steady and warm, comes to rest over Childe’s, fingers curling, gentle but firm.

It is not a grand gesture.

It is not a declaration.

But it is something.

Something steady. Something real.

And for Childe—

For Childe, it is enough.

It is more than enough.

It is everything.

The days pass, and Childe learns.

Not all at once. Not easily.

But he learns.

He learns that Zhongli’s touch is never hesitant, but always patient.

That when their fingers intertwine, it is never a question of possession, only presence.

That when Zhongli’s gaze lingers on him, it is not with judgment, not with pity, but with something softer, something Childe cannot name without feeling like he might fall apart beneath the weight of it.

He learns that affection does not have to be earned in blood.

That he does not have to fear it being taken away.

That love—if that is what this is—does not have to hurt.

He learns that he does not have to be whole to be worthy.

That he can be enough, even with all his broken pieces.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli does not try to fix him.

Does not tell him he will be fine someday, does not offer false promises, does not pretend that the past will ever stop hurting.

He only stays.

And Childe—

Childe lets him.

For the first time in his life—

He does not run.

For the first time in his life—

He lets himself be held.

And maybe—

Maybe that is what healing looks like.

Not the absence of pain.

Not the erasure of scars.

But the presence of something else.

Something steady.

Something constant.

Something warm, in a world that has always felt so cold.

One night, as the rain patters against the rooftop, as the world outside is wrapped in the hush of midnight, as the lanterns cast their golden glow against the walls—

Childe turns to Zhongli, fingers curled in the fabric of his sleeve, grip tight, as if he still fears this might slip away from him.

And Zhongli—

Zhongli does not ask.

Zhongli does not press.

He only lifts a hand, tracing the curve of Childe’s jaw, slow and careful, the touch featherlight but there.

And Childe—

Childe leans into it.

Lets himself have this.

Lets himself want this.

Lets himself be wanted in return.

And when Zhongli finally closes the distance, when their lips meet in something soft, something aching, something that is not desperate but deliberate—

Childe does not flinch.

Does not pull away.

Does not break apart.

He only closes his eyes.

And lets himself fall.

The Abyss did not kill him.

It tried. It tried.

It swallowed a boy whole, spat out something else, left him bleeding and clawing for something he did not know how to name.

And for years, Childe thought that was all there was.

That he would always be lost.

That he would always be drowning.

That he would never escape.

But now—

Now, with the weight of Zhongli’s hand against his skin, with the warmth of something real against his chest—

He realizes something.

He did not have to escape on his own.

He never did.

Because he was not the only one reaching out.

And for the first time, in a long, long time—

Childe reaches back.