Archive of Our Own

“Next time,” he said as he walked upstairs, voice quieter now, “warn me. Or I’ll find a way to lock you out for good.”

Delusion 'Childe' glanced over their shoulder, a faint, bitter smirk curving their lips. “You can try,” they said. “But you’d miss me.”

Childe didn’t reply, but the fire’s warmth did little to ease the chill settling in his bones.

A couple of hours pass from Delusion 'Childe's' bloody intrusion, and Childe has retreated upstairs to his bedroom, hoping to salvage some semblance of peace. He’s changed into a white shirt and pink kitty-print pajama pants, a rare, almost embarrassing indulgence from a care package sent by his sister Tonia. He sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples.

The creak of the floorboards announces their presence before they speak. They lean against the bedroom doorway, “Dear Ajax,” they drawl, their voice a teasing lilt, “hiding up here won’t make me go away. This is our home now, remember?”

Childe groans, his patience fraying like a worn rope. “You’re annoying,” he mutters, standing abruptly. In a fit of exasperated defiance, he grabs a spare pair of pink kitty-print pajama pants and a black shirt from a drawer, another set from Tonia’s overly enthusiastic care package, and throws them at Delusion 'Childe', the fabric hitting their chest with a soft thud. “If you’re staying here, uninvited by the way, at least don’t look like a deranged psychopath. Put these on.”

Delusion 'Childe' caught the clothes, their lips curling into a feral grin that made Childe’s stomach twist. “If I’m a deranged psycho,” they drawled, their voice a low, taunting echo of his own, “what does that make you?” They held up the kitty-print pants, their eyes gleaming with mockery. “Because these? They’re not exactly screaming ‘sane Harbinger.’”

Childe’s face flushes, his hands clenching into fists. “Notice how I didn’t mention behavior,” he retorts, his voice sharp. “I was talking about your attire, armor doesn’t exactly scream ‘normal houseguest.’ Just…” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, his exasperation palpable. “Forget it. Can you just put the pajamas on? Maybe we can have one normal interaction for once.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' laughter is jagged and unhinged, the sound that fills the small bedroom. “Normal? Oh, Ajax, you really are adorable.” They glance at the pajama pants, their expression shifting to one of exaggerated disdain. “These are stupid. Pink kittens? Really? You wear this unironically?” Despite their words, they shrug and, without warning, begin taking their clothes off right there in the bedroom, the metal clanking as it falls to the floor.

Childe opened his mouth to retort—they were a gift from Tonia, you asshole—but the words died in his throat as Delusion Childe began stripping. They tugged off their jacket, revealing a lean, scarred torso that was unnervingly identical to his own. A cream-colored shirt followed, hitting the floor with a damp slap. Childe’s eyes widened, mortification flooding him as they reached for the waistband of their pants.

Childe’s eyes widen, mortification washing over him. “What the fuck are you doing?” he sputters, turning away but not before catching a glimpse of their bare torso, the faint scars mirroring his own. “Why are you changing right here? Have you no shame?”

Delusion 'Childe' pauses, half out of their armor, the black shirt in one hand and a smirk plastered on their face. They tilt their head, their voice deadpan but laced with amusement. “Ajax, we’re literally the same person. Why does it matter? You’ve seen it all before, it’s your body, after all.” They step closer, the pajama pants dangling from their fingers, their eyes twinkling with provocation. “Unless you’re shy now? That’s new.”

Childe’s face burns, a mix of embarrassment and fury. “I don’t give a fuck that we’re the same,” he snaps, pointing toward the door. “Go change where I can’t see you! This is my room, my space, and you’re already pushing it by being here!”

Delusion 'Childe' rolled their eyes, exaggerated and slow, as if Childe were the unreasonable one. “Fine,” they said, scooping up the pajamas with a theatrical huff. “Didn’t realize you were so prude about yourself.” They sauntered toward the door, their bare back a mirror of Childe’s own: same scars, same build, same everything. It was unsettling, like watching his reflection walk away.

Childe collapses onto the bed, his head in his hands, the absurdity of the situation warring with his anger. Pink kitty pajamas on a blood-soaked glitch of his psyche, what has his life become? The fire’s warmth downstairs feels distant now, the violation of his home and his autonomy weighing heavier than ever. He thinks of the Abyss monsters Delusion 'Childe' mentioned, the “tiny bit” of civilian blood they so casually dismissed, and his stomach twists. They’re protecting him, they claim, but at what cost?

The creak of the floorboards signals their return. Delusion 'Childe' leans against the doorway again, now wearing the black shirt and pink kitty pajama pants, the sight almost comical if not for the predatory smile on their features. “Happy now?” they ask, spreading their arms as if modeling the outfit. “Less psychopathic for you, dear Ajax?”

Childe snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “You look like me. Which, yeah, is pretty ridiculous.” He paused, his gaze softening despite himself. “Tonia gave me those pants. Said they’d make me smile when I’m… far from home.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' expression flickered, their usual sharpness dulled by a moment of quiet. They glanced down at the kitty prints, their fingers brushing the fabric. “Your sister’s got terrible taste,” they muttered, but there was no rudeness in it. For a fleeting second, their purple eyes met his, and Childe saw something raw, longing, maybe, or the ghost of his own homesickness.

The moment passed. Delusion 'Childe' straightened, their grin returning, sharp and taunting. “So, what now? We giggle and kick our feet and call it a ‘normal interaction’?”

Childe groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “Just… stay out of trouble for the rest of the night. Can you manage that?”

Delusion 'Childe' smirked, settling onto the floor by the bed, uninvited yet again. “No promises,” they said, but their voice was softer and conspiratorial. “But I’ll stick around. For you.”

Childe doesn’t say anything, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the weight of their tether and their inescapable presence pressing down on him like the Snezhnayan snow outside.

The bedroom was now cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic thump of a worn leather ball as Childe explicably found and tossed it into the air, catching it with a flick of his wrist. He lay rigid on his bed, his white shirt rumpled from restless shifting. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but his mind was elsewhere, on this glitch that had tracked into his home, on the infuriating fact that he couldn’t escape this shadow of himself no matter what he did.

On the floor beside the bed, Delusion 'Childe' lay on a makeshift bed of blankets. Their eyes stared at the rafters, arms crossed behind their head, the faint crackle of manic energy absent for once. The silence was deafening, pressing down on them both, but neither seemed willing to break it until Delusion 'Childe' did.

“This is boring,” they muttered, their voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. They shifted, propping themselves on one elbow to glare at Childe. “You just lie there, tossing that stupid ball. What’s the point?”

Childe caught the ball midair, his grip tightening briefly before he tossed it again. “I don’t care,” he said, his tone flat but edged with irritation. “If you’re bored, do something.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' eyes narrowed, their lips twitching into a scowl. “What, exactly?” they shot back, gesturing to their ridiculous pajamas. “I’m not going anywhere dressed like this. Pink cats? Really?” They paused, their voice dropping, a hint of something needy creeping in. “And I can’t just–”

“Okay, then shut up,” Childe interrupted, his voice sharp as he tossed the ball higher, narrowly missing the ceiling. He didn’t look at them, but his jaw tightened, sensing the unspoken words. The soul-bound tether, their obsessive need to stay close, hung between them like an unspoken curse.

Delusion 'Childe' blinked, their expression filled with surprise, before their lips curled into a feral grin, all teeth and challenge. “So irritable,” they teased, their voice low and taunting. “Didn’t know you could be such a grump, my dear Ajax. What’s got you so worked up? Me? Or the fact that I’m right about you needing me?”

Childe’s hand froze mid-toss, the ball arcing too high and bouncing off the ceiling with a dull thud. It ricocheted off the bed’s headboard, rolling out of his reach and landing near Delusion 'Childe'. He didn’t move to retrieve it, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his chest rising and falling with a slow, controlled breath. “Just… shut up,” he muttered, turning onto his side, his back to them. The gesture was dismissive, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease.

Delusion 'Childe’s' grin widened, but they obeyed, for once, falling silent. Their eyes drifted to the ball, now within arm’s reach. They picked it up, turning it over in their hands, their fingers tracing its worn leather surface. A faded fox sticker caught their attention, its edges scraped and peeling, the once-vivid orange dulled by time. They tilted their head, studying it, and a flicker of recognition ran across their face. They knew this ball, knew the memory it carried, of a younger Childe, before the Abyss, kicking it around with his siblings in the snow. The memory wasn’t theirs, not exactly, but it was part of the fractured psyche the two shared.

They glanced at Childe, his back still turned, his breathing deliberately even, as if he could will himself to ignore them. Their grin softened into something less feral, more contemplative. Without a word, they began juggling the ball, tossing it lightly between their hands, the motion fluid and deliberate. The soft thwap of leather against their palms filled the room, a counterpoint to the earlier silence.

Childe didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed slightly, betraying that he’d noticed. “Stop that,” he muttered, his voice muffled against the pillow. “That’s mine.”

The juggling didn’t falter. “Everything you have is mine, too,” they said, their tone light but laced with an edge of truth. “Same soul, remember?” They tossed the ball higher, catching it with a flourish, their voice thick with provocation and something softer, something that wanted Childe’s attention, even if it meant annoying him.

Childe groaned, rolling onto his back but still not looking at them. “You’re insufferable,” he said, voice exhausted. He stared at the ceiling again, the silence creeping back, now layered with the rhythmic thwap of the ball in the other's hands.

For a moment, they coexisted like this, Childe on the bed, Delusion 'Childe' on the floor, the ball’s soft juggling the only sound tying them together. It wasn’t peace, not exactly, but it was the closest they’d come to it all night. The fox sticker glinted faintly in the lantern light, a silent reminder of the past they both carried, whether they wanted to or not.

The juggling stopped abruptly. Delusion 'Childe' held the ball aloft, once again turning it over in their hands, their fingers pausing on the faded fox sticker. The orange was dulled, its edges scraped, but the fox’s sly grin was still visible; their expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something that tugged at the shared threads of their psyche.

“You kept this,” Delusion 'Childe' said, breaking the silence. Their voice was low, not quite taunting, but sharp enough to cut through Childe’s futile attempt at ignoring them. “This ball. This… fox. From before, right? When you were just a kid named Ajax, running around with your siblings in the snow.”

Childe’s jaw tightened, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not with them, not with this glitch that wore his face and carried his darkest memories. “What’s it to you?” he muttered, his tone clipped. “It’s just a ball.”

Delusion 'Childe' snorted, tossing the ball lightly and catching it with one hand. “Don’t play dumb. I know you, Ajax. I know every corner of your head.” They sat up, leaning against the bedframe, their eyes boring into him despite his refusal to look. “This sticker, it’s from Tonia, isn’t it? Or maybe Anthon. Some sappy gift from when you were still… soft.”

Childe’s hand twitched, a flicker of irritation threatening to simmer before he forced it down. “You don’t get to talk about my siblings,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting theirs, a warning in his glare. “You don’t know them.”

Delusion Childe’s grin was sharp, but it didn’t reach their eyes. “Don’t I?” they countered, holding the ball up, the fox sticker catching the lantern light. “I know everything you try to bury. The way Anthon stuck this stupid thing on your ball because he thought foxes were ‘cool.’ I know how you’d kick this around in the yard, pretending you were some grand adventurer before…” Their voice trailed off, the grin fading. “Before the Abyss.”

Childe sat up abruptly, the bed creaking under him. His heart pounded, a mix of anger and something rawer like grief or shame. “Stop it,” he snapped. “Stop digging through my memories like they’re yours to play with. You’re not me. You’re just… the mess I left behind.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' eyes darkened, their fingers tightening around the ball until their knuckles whitened. “The mess you left behind?” they echoed, their voice a low growl. “I’m the one who carries it, Ajax. The Abyss, Skirk’s lessons, the blood, the screams. You were able to walk away, play Harbinger, and write letters to your family. I’m stuck with the weight of it.” They leaned forward, their purple eyes blazing. “This sticker? It’s yours, sure. But I feel it too. The ache of it. The kid you used to be.”

Childe’s breath caught, his anger faltering. He hated how their words hit, how they saw through him, because they were him, in a way he couldn’t deny. The fox sticker was a relic of a life he’d lost, a life before the Abyss swallowed him whole and spit him out as Childe. And Delusion 'Childe', this fractured piece of his soul, carried that loss too.

He swung his legs over the bed’s edge, facing them, his voice quieter now. “Why do you care?” he asked, searching their face. “Why poke at this? You’re always going on about protecting me, about the Abyss. What’s a stupid sticker to you?”

Delusion 'Childe' looked down at the ball, their thumb brushing over the fox’s faded grin. For once, their usual feral edge was gone, replaced by something raw, nearly vulnerable. “Because it’s ours,” they said softly. “You get to live out here. I’m trapped in the dark, with the Abyss clawing at me. But this…” They held up the ball, their voice barely above a whisper. “This is something from before. Something I can still feel, even if it’s just a ghost.”

The room fell silent again, the wind’s howl outside the only sound. Childe stared at them, his chest tight. He wanted to snap back, to tell them they were wrong, that they had no right to his past. But the truth was heavier; they were bound, soul to soul, and those memories weren't just his. They were Delusion 'Childe’s', too, twisted by the Abyss but no less real.

He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he muttered, “Keep the ball if you want. Just… don’t break it.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' lips twitched, not quite a grin but close. They tossed the ball once more, catching it lightly. “Didn’t plan to,” they said, their tone softer. They settled back onto the blankets, still holding the ball, their fingers tracing the sticker as if it were a lifeline.

Childe lay back down, his gaze returning to the ceiling. The silence returned, but it was different now, less oppressive, threaded with an unspoken understanding. They were both awake, both restless, but for this moment, the fox sticker tethered them not just to the Abyss but to the boy they’d both once been.

Childe lies on his bed, the chill of Morepesok seeping through the walls despite the furs draped over the windows. Delusion 'Childe' has moved downstairs to sit in front of the hearth, their presence a constant hum in his mind, like a song he can’t unhear. The blood they tracked onto his carpet, the absurd sight of them in matching kitty pajamas, their unyielding claim that they “live here now”, it’s all part of the same endless cycle, these everlasting recurrences that haunt him.

He closes his eyes, willing sleep to come, but his thoughts spiral back to the Abyss. The darkness, the hunger, the cold that wasn’t just physical but existential, a void that reshaped him under Skirk’s harsh tutelage. Delusion 'Childe', that glitch in his soul, was born there, or so they claim. A fragment of his psyche, split off to bear the weight of his trauma, his bloodlust, his sins. But why do they keep coming back? Why do they invade his fights in Fontaine, his meetings in the Zapolyarny Palace, his home in Snezhnaya? Each recurrence feels like a wound reopening.

The memory of their fusion in the Fontaine tavern fight surfaces unbidden. The surge of abyssal power, the way his blades crackled with purple energy, the debtors falling before him like wheat under a scythe. It was exhilarating, terrifying, wrong. Delusion 'Childe' had slipped into his soul without consent, their voice purring “dear Ajax” as they made him unstoppable. And yet, the victory felt hollow, tainted by their violation. He’d demanded answers, confronted them with blades in Fontaine, in Snezhnaya, in his own bedroom, but their answers are always the same: I’m keeping you safe. You’re my everything. The cycle repeats: intrusion, confrontation, fleeting respite, then intrusion again.

Childe sits up, his breath uneven, the faint sting of their soul-bound tether lingering in his chest. He realizes it’s more than just shared pain. It’s a shared existence. If he dies, they die. If he suffers, they suffer. But what does that mean for him? Is he doomed to carry this shadow forever, this glitch that wears his face, speaks his memories, and calls him these adoring terms with a devotion that borders on obsession? The thought makes his stomach twist, a mix of dread and something he refuses to name, something dangerously close to recognition, as if Delusion 'Childe' is a mirror he can’t look away from.

He swings his legs over the bed, pacing the small room, the floorboards creaking under his feet. The Abyss taught him to survive, to thrive in chaos, but this is different. Delusion 'Childe' isn’t an enemy he can fight, not truly. Every clash, every blade to their throat, hurts him too. Every time he pushes them away, they return, grinning, unyielding, their purple eyes gleaming with that unhinged mix of love and madness. It’s a recurrence he can’t break, a loop of conflict and coexistence that feels eternal.

He thinks of the Harbingers’ meeting, where he’d snapped at thin air, earning Pantalone’s sly amusement and Dottore’s probing curiosity. He thinks of the Fontaine debtors, unaware of the abyssal force that enhanced his strikes. He thinks of the blood on his carpet, the kitty pajamas, the way Delusion 'Childe' lounged by his fire as if they belonged there. Each moment is a thread in the tapestry of their shared existence, a pattern that repeats with no end in sight.

“What are you?” he whispers, his voice barely audible, directed at the empty air but meant for the presence downstairs. “A curse? A ghost? Me?” He clenches his fists, the memory of Skirk’s lessons echoing in his mind: The Abyss doesn’t let go. It claims you, shapes you, keeps you. Delusion 'Childe' is proof of that, a living remnant of the void that won’t let him move forward. But is it them holding him back, or is it him? Is their obsession, their need to protect him at any cost, even to the point of civilian blood, a reflection of his own refusal to let go of the Abyss?

The fire downstairs pops, and he hears Delusion 'Childe’s' soft hum, a melody that’s both foreign and achingly familiar. “Dear Ajax,” they call, their voice drifting up the stairs, teasing yet heavy with meaning. “You’re thinking too hard again. Come sit by the fire. It’s warmer with me.”

Childe groans, “Not tonight,” he mutters, but the words feel hollow. He knows they’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, annoying him, sticking their nose into his fights and his life. The everlasting recurrences of their presence, their tether, their shared pain and purpose. He should hate them, but a small, treacherous part of him wonders if they’re right, if they are his true self, his darker parts, the part of him that survived the Abyss and always will.

He lies back down, staring at the ceiling, the weight of their bond settling over him like Snezhnaya’s endless snow. For now, he’s alone in his thoughts, but the cycle will continue. It always does.

Everlasting Recurrence 8973

The pale Snezhnayan sun filtered through the frost-rimmed windows, casting a cold light across the small kitchen. The scent of black tea and fresh bread lingered, a feeble attempt at normalcy. Childe stood by the counter, dressed in a dark reddish-brown shirt and grey pants, his red scarf loosely draped around his neck. His face looked tired, shadowed by a sleepless night, but he moved with deliberate focus, slicing bread as if ignoring the presence behind him could make it disappear.

Delusion 'Childe' stood near the doorway, their white shirt crisp and black pants sharp, a stark contrast to the ridiculous kitty-print pajamas of the previous night. Their purple eyes tracked Childe’s every move, their posture casual but their gaze intense, like a predator waiting for a misstep. The silence between them was brittle, heavy with the weight of their shared existence and the fox sticker conversation that had left them both raw.

Delusion 'Childe' broke the quiet, their voice low and edged with frustration. “Why do you pretend I don’t exist? Even after our attempt at a heart-to-heart conversation last night, you still treat me like I'm what?” They stepped closer, their boots clicking on the wooden floor. “Just some unhinged leech that can talk? You act like you can just… ignore me, Ajax.”

Childe’s knife paused mid-slice, his knuckles whitening around the handle. He didn’t turn, but his voice was cold, cutting. “Maybe because you are, that conversation changed nothing between us,” he said, setting the knife down with a deliberate clink. “You barge into my life, track blood into my house, make my colleagues think I have psychosis, kill people, and expect me to what? Welcome you with open arms?”

Delusion 'Childe’s' eyes narrowed, their lips twitching into a scowl. They moved closer, their hand reaching out to gently grip Ajax’s wrist, their touch firm but not forceful, as if to anchor him in place. “I’m here because of you,” they said, their voice a low growl. “I’m the appendage you left behind, the part that keeps you alive. Pretending like I’m nothing isn’t an option for you.”

Childe’s eyes flashed with anger, and he yanked his wrist free, shoving Delusion 'Childe' back with a rough push. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, stepping forward, his face inches from theirs. “You’re not my guardian. You’re a mistake, an anomaly that won’t leave me alone.”

Their faces were too close now, the air between them crackling with tension. Delusion 'Childe’s' expression burned with hurt, and they retaliated by grabbing Childe’s shirt to pull him closer. “A mistake?” they hissed, their voice trembling with something raw. “You made me, Ajax. You don’t get to shove me away like I’m nothing.”

The kitchen became a battlefield, their argument spiraling into a physical push-and-pull. Childe shoved again, trying to break free, but Delusion Childe was relentless, their grip tightening as they pulled him back, their movements a chaotic dance of need and resentment. “You need me,” Delusion 'Childe' snarled, their voice breaking. “You hate it, but you do. Without me, the Abyss would’ve swallowed you whole.”

“Shut up!” Childe roared. He pushed harder, but Delusion 'Childe' was faster, stronger in their desperation. With a sudden, forceful move, they shoved him against the kitchen wall, the impact rattling a nearby shelf. Delusion 'Childe’s' manic grin returned, wild and unhinged, their purple eyes glinting with a dangerous intensity.

Before Childe could spit out another word, Delusion 'Childe’s' hand shot up, covering his mouth with their palm, silencing him. Their face was inches away, their breath hot against his cheek. “Stop fighting me,” they whispered, their voice a mix of fury and desperation. “You can’t run from yourself.”

Childe’s eyes blazed, and with a surge of strength, he shoved Delusion 'Childe' off, breaking free completely. His chest heaved, his face flushed with anger and something else, something he refused to name. “Fuck off!” he spat, his voice raw. “I’m done with this, with you.” He grabbed his scarf, wrapping it tightly around his neck, and stormed toward the door, yanking it open. The icy air rushed in as he stepped out, slamming the door behind him.

Delusion 'Childe' stood frozen in the kitchen, their hand still raised where it had covered Childe’s mouth. Their manic grin faded, replaced by a flicker of something cold, indignation, at first. They didn’t feel remorse, not really. Ajax would come back. He always did. They were bound, soul to soul, and he couldn’t escape them any more than they could escape him.

But as the minutes ticked by, the silence of the house grew oppressive. The tea cooled, the bread sat untouched, and the absence of Childe’s presence hit like a physical blow. Delusion 'Childe’s' purple eyes darted to the door, their heart or whatever passed for it tightening. He was their only companion, twisted and weird as it was. The only one who understood, even if he hated it. The thought of him gone, truly gone, sent a flicker of panic through them.

They grabbed their coat, the clothes on them suddenly feeling too human, too vulnerable. They stepped outside, the snow crunching under their boots, and scanned the empty street. The area around Childe’s home was quiet, the city’s distant lights barely visible through the morning mist. “Ajax?” they called, their voice sharper than they intended. No answer.

They moved faster, checking the nearby paths, the frozen stream, the outskirts of Snezhnaya’s city. Their steps grew frantic, their breath visible in the cold air. The soul-bound tether was silent, no pain, no pull, but that only made it worse. What if he’d gone further? What if he’d left Snezhnaya entirely? The panic clawed at them, a rare crack in their usual bravado. They were his shadow, his protector, his other half. Without him, they were nothing.

Delusion 'Childe' stopped at the edge of the city, eyes scanning the horizon, their hands clenched into fists. “Come back, you idiot,” they muttered, their voice barely audible over the wind. For the first time, they felt the weight of their own existence, and the terrifying possibility that they might lose the only thing tying them to it.

Everlasting Recurrences 9368

Snow fell in lazy flurries, blanketing the ground and clinging to Delusion 'Childe’s' white shirt and black pants, now dusted with frost. They lay sprawled in the snow, their coat discarded beside them, uncaring of the biting cold seeping into their skin. Hypothermia, frostbite, such threats were meaningless to a being like them, a glitch born of Abyss and Delusion, tethered to Childe’s life force. If he were alive, so were they. And if he wasn’t… well, they didn’t want to think about that.

They’ve searched everywhere, Morepesok’s quiet streets, the docks where fishing boats creak under frost, the bustling squares of Snezhnaya’s capital, but Childe is gone, vanished after the argument in his home. The soul-bound tether, usually a pulse of shared pain or presence, is silent, a void that gnaws at them.

They can’t ask anyone for help. No Fatui grunt, no tavern keeper, no passerby in the capital’s icy markets can see them, hear them, know they exist. The inexplicable truth that only Childe can perceive them feels like a cruel joke, a futility that weighs heavier than the snow piling around them. 

They roll onto their side, uncaring of the cold seeping through their clothes.

“How did this even happen?” they mutter, their voice low, almost lost in the wind. The argument replays in their mind: Childe’s furious “fuck off,” the push-and-pull, their manic grin as they pinned him to the wall, their palm over his mouth. They’d reveled in it then, the thrill of his resistance, the intimacy of their struggle. But now, with him gone, it feels hollow.

Delusion 'Childe' sits up, their breath visible in the frigid air, and moves to the edge of the frozen river. The ice is clear, a mirror reflecting their face, Childe's face, but twisted, with purple eyes that glow like abyssal embers. They stare, their gloved hands gripping the snow, and the reflection stares back, a reminder of their shared existence. “What am I without you, Ajax?” they whisper, their voice cracking with a rare vulnerability. They’re a fragment, a shadow, a glitch with no purpose if he’s not there to anchor them. The Abyss gave them form, but he gives them meaning. Every recurrence is for him, to keep him safe, to keep them alive. But now, with him missing, the cycle feels broken, and they’re adrift.

They lie back in the snow, their body sinking into the cold, their mind spiraling. They remember the Abyss: the endless dark, the hunger that clawed at their shared soul, the moment they split from Childe to bear his pain. Skirk’s voice echoes faintly, a memory not their own but his: Survive, or be consumed. They survived for him, became his shield and his truth, carrying the scars he had buried. But what’s the point if he rejects them? If he runs from their bond? The tether, silent now, feels like a chain unmoored, and the thought of losing him, of losing their purpose, sends a pang through their chest, sharper than any shared pain.

“You idiot,” they muttered, their voice cracking as they pressed their palm against the ice. “You don’t get to leave me like this.” The reflection stared back, its eyes glistening with something dangerously close to tears, not that they could cry, not entirely. They were too much of a glitch for that, too much of a monster. But the ache was real, a hollow gnawing that made their hands tremble.

“I’m nothing without him,” they say to their reflection, their voice barely a whisper. The confession felt like a blade, cutting through their usual discordant behavior. They didn’t want to be this obsessed, dependent shadow clinging to a man who despised them half the time. But they couldn’t stop. He was their reason, their mirror, their only link to a life that wasn’t just blood and darkness.

“I miss you,” they admit, the words slipping out, soft and raw, meant for no one but the ice and the wind. They turn back to the frozen river, their reflection showing eyes that burn with longing, desperation, a need they’d never confess to Childe’s face. “More than I should.” Their grin, usually manic, is gone, replaced by a hollow expression that mirrors the void they feel in his absence. They’ve fought Abyss monsters, spilled blood, invaded his home, all to keep him safe, but now they wonder if they pushed too far, if their obsession drove him away.

Their eyes, dimmed by the weight of their thoughts, stared at the snow-covered ice. Their finger starts to trace absentminded patterns, carving a jagged spiral that resembles a black hole, a void swallowing itself, much like their own existence. The blizzard howled, the wind cutting through their clothes, but they didn’t move. It felt like hours had passed since they’d searched for Childe, finding no trace of his red scarf or piercing blue eyes. Now, as darkness crept over the horizon, the sky bruising into a deep indigo, they stayed, letting the cold seep deeper, wondering how long it would take for their body to go completely numb.

How did it come to this? They thought, their finger pausing in the snow, the black hole half-finished. Their mind drifted to their first meeting with Childe; countless eternal recurrences had passed since then, in that wrecked Fatui outpost. It had been visceral, violent, a clash of Hydro and Electro-Abyssal energy that left the air scorched and their shared blood spilled. They’d hated him then, hated the way he looked at them like a mistake, a shadow to be erased. 

Childe swung his blades with lethal precision, face blazing with denial, while they’d countered with raw, chaotic fury, their eyes burning with resentment. They’d been one wrong move from mutual destruction, bound by the soul-tether that made every cut a shared wound. The memory stung, not because of the pain, but because it was the first time they’d seen him, really seen him, and realized he was all they had.

They resumed tracing the black hole, their finger trembling slightly, not from the cold but from the weight of their musings. “He doesn’t care,” they muttered, their voice swallowed by the blizzard’s roar. “He never did.” The picture of Childe’s face during their argument that morning, the fury in his eyes, the way he’d shoved them away, his words cutting deeper than any blade. They’d pushed too hard, as always, gripping his wrist, pinning him to the wall, desperate to make him acknowledge them. But he’d rejected them, stormed out, leaving them with nothing but this gnawing feeling.

Their purple eyes flicked to their reflection in the ice, barely visible through the falling snow. The longing was still there, etched into their gaze, a desperation they’d admitted hours ago but couldn’t shake. They missed his company, more than they’d ever say out loud, more than they’d let themselves feel. He was their anchor in this world, their main motivation for doing the things they do, the only thing keeping them from dissolving into the Abyss that had birthed them. Without him, they were just… this. A shadow drawing black holes in the snow, waiting for a numbness that might never come.

They thought of other, less toxic memories, nights in his home, the fox sticker on that worn ball, the way his voice softened when he spoke of Tonia. Those moments weren’t theirs, not really, but they clung to them, stolen fragments of a life they’d never live. The Abyss had taken that from them, leaving only darkness.

The blizzard intensified, snow piling around them, their hair and shoulders dusted white. They lay back in the snow, uncaring, their eyes fixed on the darkening sky. The cold was a dull ache now, creeping into their bones, but they welcomed it. Maybe if they stayed long enough, let the numbness take over, they’d feel nothing at all. Maybe that was better than this, this aching need for someone who saw them as a leech, a mistake. “You wouldn’t come looking,” they murmured, their voice barely audible. “You don’t care if I self-destruct.”

Their finger traced the black hole’s final curve, completing the spiral. It stared back at them, a void in the snow, a mirror of their own spiraling thoughts. They imagined Childe out there, somewhere beyond the blizzard, moving on without them. The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through their chest, sharper than the cold. He was their only companion. The bond was warped and broken. Without him, they were nothing, just a glitch, a shadow, a black hole with no center.

The blizzard’s howl drowned out the crunch of snow under Childe’s boots. He moved with lethal grace, his clothes streaked with frost and Abyssal ichor. His red scarf whipped in the wind, a slash of color against the white expanse. Dual blades shimmered in his hands, slicing through a pack of Abyss monsters, hulking, shadow-wreathed beasts with glowing eyes and gnashing maws. Their roars echoed, but Childe barely heard them. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements a blur of violence, each strike a deliberate distraction from the argument still burning in his mind.

Fuck off. His own words echoed, raw and jagged, from the morning’s clash in his kitchen. Delusion 'Childe’s' grip on his wrist, their manic grin as they pinned him, their desperate plea to be seen, it all churned in his mind, a storm he refused to face. So he’d fled, not to the city but to the wilds, where the Abyss’s remnants lurked. Fighting was easier than thinking, easier than admitting how their eyes, so like his own yet so alien, made his skin crawl and his heart ache. He was Tartaglia, not some broken man tethered to a shadow of himself. He didn’t need them. He didn’t.

A Riftwolf lunged, its claws raking the air. Childe spun, his blades cleaving through its flank, sending black ichor spraying across the snow. The cold bit at his fingers, his face, but he barely felt it. His body was starting to go numb, his hands sluggish, his legs heavy, like he’d been out here too long. Just the cold, he told himself, dismissing the dull ache spreading through his chest. Snezhnaya was unforgiving; he’d fought in worse. He drove his blade into another monster, its dying screech swallowed by the blizzard.

The fight was chaotic, relentless, exactly what he craved. Each swing of his blades, each burst of Hydro energy, pushed the argument further away. Delusion 'Childe’s' words: “You don’t get to pretend I’m nothing,” cut deeper than he’d admit. They were him, a mirror of his Abyssal scars, the parts he’d buried to become Tartaglia. He hated how they saw through him, how they carried his past like a curse. So he fought, because blood and battle were simpler than facing the truth: he couldn’t escape them, not without losing himself.

The last Abyss monster fell, its body collapsing into a heap of dark sludge against the snow. Childe stood panting, his breath clouding in the freezing air, his blades dissipating with a flicker. The battlefield was a carnage of ichor and frost, black stains mingling with the white expanse, a grotesque tapestry under the darkening sky. He stared at it, and a grin spread across his face wide, unhinged, the same manic glint he’d seen on their face too many times. The blood and snow were beautiful, a chaotic blend that sang to the part of him he tried to suppress. For a moment, he was them, wild, unrestrained, reveling in the destruction.

The numbness crept deeper, his fingers tingling, his chest tight. He flexed his hands, frowning. Too long in the cold, he thought, shaking it off. But the sensation lingered, a hollow weight that didn’t match the adrenaline still pumping through him. He didn’t know that miles away, Delusion 'Childe' was lying on a frozen riverbank, letting the blizzard numb their body, their self-destruction bleeding through their soul-bound tether. If he got hurt, they hurt. If they spiraled, he felt it, even if he didn’t understand why.

His grin faded, the thrill of battle ebbing into something heavier. He crouched, the snow soaking through his pants, and stared at the carnage. The argument flashed back, Delusion 'Childe’s' desperate grip, their plea for recognition. He’d pushed them away, called them a mistake, because it was easier than facing what they represented: his own darkness, his Abyssal past, the boy who’d never fully escaped. He was being avoidant, running from the truth, burying it in blood and snow.

“Damn it,” he muttered, his voice lost to the wind. He stood, brushing snow from his knees, his scarf fluttering like a warning. The numbness lingered, a quiet alarm he couldn’t place. He didn’t want to think about Delusion 'Childe', didn’t want to care where they were or what they were doing. But the tether pulled, a faint tug in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if they were out here too, lost in the blizzard.

He shook his head, shoving the thought down. He’d go back to the city, find a tavern, drown the unease in fire-water. Delusion 'Childe' could fend for themselves. They always did. He turned away from the bloodshed, his unhinged grin long gone, and the numbness followed him, a silent echo of the shadow he couldn’t outrun.

Childe sat at a corner table in a Snezhnaya tavern, four empty glasses of fire-water sat before him, their burn lingering in his throat but doing nothing to cloud his senses. His high alcohol tolerance, a curse tonight, kept his mind sharp when all he wanted was oblivion.

The air smelled of spiced mead and smoked fish, a stark contrast to the blizzard raging outside.

He leaned back, blue eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. The argument with Delusion 'Childe' replayed in his mind again, their desperate grip on his wrist, their manic grin as they pinned him to the wall, his own venomous words before he’d stormed out. He’d fought Abyss monsters to bury the unease, reveling in the blood and snow, but the thrill had faded, leaving only a hollow ache. He’d come here to drown it, to lose himself in the tavern’s chaos, but four glasses later, his thoughts were as clear as the ice outside.

The warmth of the tavern should’ve thawed him, but he felt cold, colder than the Snezhnayan wilds warranted. His fingers, curled around the fifth glass, were sluggish, tingling with a numbness that hadn’t faded since the fight. It was worse now, creeping up his arms, settling in his chest like a weight. He flexed his hand, frowning. Too long in the cold, he’d told himself earlier, but this was different. It was deeper, like a piece of him was slipping away.

His mind drifted to Delusion 'Childe' and the soul-bound tether; they’d warned him about it during their first clash, how his pain was theirs, how his death would be theirs. He’d dismissed it then, but now, the numbness felt… shared. Like it wasn’t just his body faltering but theirs, too. Were they out there, in the blizzard, doing something reckless to prove a point or to feel something?

“Fuck,” he murmured, downing the fifth glass in one gulp. The fire-water burned, but it didn’t touch the cold inside. He didn’t want to care. Delusion 'Childe' was a glitch and an anomaly, a constant thorn in his side. But the thought of them out there, spiraling, sent a reluctant pang through him. They were him, in a twisted way, his darkness, his scars. If they were hurting, it wasn’t just their problem. It was his, too.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The tavern’s noise faded as he tossed a pouch of mora onto the table, the coins clinking heavily, a generous overpayment for the barkeep. His eyes scanned the room one last time, as if hoping Delusion 'Childe' might be lurking in a corner, their attire standing out among the crowd. But they weren’t here. They could be anywhere, back at his house, in the city, or out in the wilds, lost to the blizzard.

The numbness surged, a dull ache in his bones, and his suspicion solidified. This wasn’t the cold. This was them. “You idiot,” he muttered, pulling his scarf tighter. He didn’t know where they were, but he couldn’t stay here, pretending he didn’t care. They were bound, soul to soul, and as much as he hated it, he couldn’t let them fall apart. 

He pushed through the tavern’s heavy door, the blizzard’s icy claws greeting him as he stepped into the night. The city’s lights flickered through the snow, but his gaze turned outward, toward the wilds, the riverbanks, the places Delusion 'Childe' might go to brood or break. He didn’t know if he’d find them, but the cold in his chest drove him forward, a reluctant concern he’d never admit aloud. They were his shadow, his curse, his other half, and he’d be damned if he let them drag him down with them.

The blizzard had swallowed the Snezhnayan riverbank, transforming it into a white void where the world seemed to end. Delusion Childe lay sprawled in the snow, their white shirt and black pants soaked and crusted with ice, their coat long buried under the accumulating drifts. Their ginger hair, stark against the endless white, was flecked with snow, strands sticking to their forehead and curling around their ears, which burned with a cold so sharp it felt like fire. Their purple eyes, half-lidded and dull, stared blankly at the sky, the falling snow blurring into a haze. Their body was numb now, completely, gloriously numb, just as they’d wanted.

Their fingers, stiff and unfeeling, scooped a handful of snow, letting it sift through like sand, the grains falling without sensation. They couldn’t feel the cold anymore, just a distant ache that had settled into their bones hours ago. The snowstorm roared, its howl a mournful echo of their own thoughts, but they didn’t care. They’d been here for hours, maybe longer, since the sky had bruised into darkness, since they’d given up searching for Childe. The black hole they’d drawn in the snow was gone, buried under fresh powder, like their hope of him ever coming back.

Tears had come unbidden, sometime in the last hour, leaking from their eyes without permission. They hadn’t meant to cry; they didn’t think they could, being what they were, but the tears had fallen anyway, freezing into icy streaks on their cheeks. They glimmered in the faint starlight, a humiliating mark of their weakness. Delusion 'Childe', the volatile shadow of Childe, crying like some broken thing. They would’ve laughed if their throat didn’t feel so raw.

“Ajax doesn’t care,” they whispered, their voice a cracked rasp, lost to the wind. They’d known it when Childe stormed out, his voice still ringing in their ears. They’d pushed too hard, gripping his wrist, pinning him to the wall, wanting so desperately for him to see them as more than a leech or a mistake. But he’d rejected them, as always, and now they were here, alone, letting the blizzard take what little they had left. Why would he come looking? He hated them, hated the things they carried, the truth they reflected. They were nothing without him, a shadow without a source, and the thought made their chest ache worse than the cold.

As the hours continued to pass, their body shivered involuntarily, a shudder that wracked their frame despite their numbness. Then fatigue dragged at them, heavy and relentless, their limbs heavy as if the snow itself were pulling them under. Hypothermia, they supposed, though the word felt distant, unrealistic. They were a glitch, not a human, but the soul-bound tether tied them to Childe’s mortal limits. If he were alive, they should be too. And yet, here they were, shivering, fading, their body betraying them as the cold took root.

“I’m still here,” they muttered, surprise flickering through their dulled thoughts. They’d been out here for what feels like forever, exposed to the blizzard’s wrath, and they hadn’t died. Not yet. It was a sign, maybe, proof of the tether, proof that Childe was still out there, alive, keeping them tethered to this world whether he wanted to or not. The thought should’ve been comforting, but it only deepened their despair. He was alive, but he wasn’t here. He didn’t care enough to find them, to pull them back from this frozen edge.

They sprinkled another handful of snow, watching it fall without feeling it, their fingers so numb they might as well have been someone else’s. Their tawny curls, matted with snow, stood out like a wound against the white, a reminder of the boy they’d once been part of, Ajax, before the fall, before the Delusion split them apart. The thought of their first meeting, that violent clash in the Fatui outpost, water and electricity tearing the air apart. They’d hated him then, hated his denial, his refusal to see them as real. But they’d needed him, even then, just as they needed him now. The memory burned, a flicker of warmth in their near-frozen body.

Their eyes drifted to their reflection in the ice, barely visible through the snow’s veil. The frozen tear streaks glinted, their eyes hollow with longing and a need they’d never voice. “Come back,” they whispered, the words a plea to no one. They missed him even more now than they’d admitted at the riverbank hours ago, more than they could bear. He was the only thing that made their existence mean anything. Without him, they were just this: a shivering, crying shadow, drawing black holes in the snow, waiting for the cold to claim them.

Another shudder ran through them, their vision blurring at the edges. The blizzard buried them slowly, flake by flake, and they didn’t fight it. If Childe didn’t care, why should they? Let the numbness take them. Let the tether break. 

The blizzard continued to roar across the riverbank, a white maelstrom that swallowed sound and sight. Childe trudged through the snow, his clothes crusted with ice, his red scarf a faint beacon against the storm. His breath came in sharp gasps, each step heavier than the last, the numbness in his body worsening by the second. It wasn’t just the cold, not anymore. His fingers, his chest, his very bones felt like they were fading, a hollow ache that screamed of Delusion 'Childe'. The soul-bound tether, the curse that linked their pain, their lives, was pulling him here, to this frozen nowhere, where he prayed he wasn’t too late.

He spotted them through the snow’s veil, a crumpled figure by the riverbank, ginger hair stark against the white. Delusion 'Childe' lay half-buried in the snow, their clothes soaked and frozen, their coat a useless lump nearby. Their eyes stared blankly at the sky, their face a mask of apathy, tear streaks frozen on their cheeks. They looked dead, not in body, but in spirit, a shell of the feral, volatile shadow he knew.

“Holy shit,” Childe muttered, his voice shaking as he dropped to his knees beside them. The numbness surged, a shared echo of their state, and his eyes widened with a mix of concern and exasperation. “Are you crazy?” he snapped, grabbing their shoulders, shaking them gently. “Lying out here in a blizzard? You trying to kill us both?”

Delusion 'Childe’s' eyes flickered, a faint spark of surprise breaking their blank expression. They didn’t move, didn’t jump up with joy or relief, just stared at him, “You came,” they said, their voice a cracked whisper, devoid of its usual edge. The words weren’t warm, just… there, heavy with cynicism. They’d lost hope hours ago, convinced Childe didn’t care, that he’d left them to rot in this frozen void.

“Of course I came,” Childe said, his tone sharp but strained, his hands still gripping their shoulders. “You think I’d let you drag me down with you? What’s wrong with you?

Delusion 'Childe’s' lips twitched, not quite a smile, more a ghost of their usual feral grin. “What’s wrong with me?” they echoed, their voice flat. “I’m wondering if you’re here to save your own life, not mine. This tether,” They gestured weakly at their chest, where the invisible bond pulsed. “You only came because you’re feeling it too. Not because you care.”

Childe’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with frustration. “That’s ridiculous,” he responded, though his voice wavered, betraying a flicker of guilt. Did he care? He didn’t want to, didn’t want to admit this glitch meant anything to him. But the numbness, the panic that had driven him from the tavern to this riverbank, said otherwise. “We’ll talk about it later,” he added, his tone softer but firm. “Right now, we’re going home. It’s a long walk, and you’re half-frozen.”

Delusion Childe’s eyes dulled more, their detachment a wall between the two. “Just leave me here,” they said, their voice barely audible over the blizzard’s howl. “You don’t need me. You never did.”

Childe’s hands tightened on their shoulders, his exasperation boiling over. “I’m not leaving without you,” he said, leaning closer, his face inches from theirs. “Either we freeze to death together, or you cooperate and we get to a warmer place. Your choice.”

Delusion 'Childe' stared at him, their eyes searching his face, his worried and annoyed expression, the way his scarf fluttered in the wind, the stubborn set of his jaw. They wanted to stay, to let the cold take them, to prove they were nothing without him. But something stirred, deep and buried, the part of them that had missed him, longed for him, since he’d stormed out. The part that had whispered “Come back” to their reflection in the ice. It wasn’t enough to fix the despair, not enough to erase the nihilism, but it was enough to make them pause.

They thought about it, long and hard, their shivering body betraying the fatigue and hypothermia creeping in. The blizzard pressed down, the darkness complete now, but Childe’s presence was a spark in the void. He was here, against all odds, not just for himself but for them, maybe, just maybe, because a part of him couldn’t let go either.

“Alright,” they said finally, their voice a tired rasp, barely audible. They didn’t move yet, their eyes still locked on his, the frozen tear streaks glinting faintly. The longing was there, raw and unspoken, a flicker of the desperation they’d admitted to the air hours ago.

Childe exhaled, relief breaking through his exasperation. He stood, pulling them up with him, their body heavy and sluggish from the cold. “Come on,” he said, wrapping an arm around their waist to steady them, his scarf brushing their shoulder. “Let’s get out of this storm.”

Delusion 'Childe' leaned into him, not out of affection but necessity, their legs unsteady. They didn’t speak, didn’t thank him, just followed, the tether between them pulling taut but unbroken. 

The silence between them was heavier than the storm, broken only by the crunch of snow under their boots and the wind’s mournful howl. Childe’s chest burned with frustration at Delusion 'Childe' for lying on the riverbank, at himself for coming after them, at the soul-bound tether that made their pain his own. The numbness he’d felt in the tavern lingered, a dull ache in his bones, though it had eased slightly now that he’d found them. But their blank expression, their frozen tear streaks, grated on him. They didn’t even seem glad he was here.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Childe muttered, his voice sharp but strained, barely audible over the blizzard. He tightened his grip on their waist, pulling them closer as a gust nearly knocked them both off balance. “Lying out there like you wanted to die. What were you thinking?”

Delusion 'Childe' didn’t look at him, their eyes fixed on the snow ahead, their face still a mask of apathy. “Wasn’t thinking,” they said, their voice a tired rasp, raw from the cold. “Didn’t think you’d care enough to show up.”

Childe’s jaw clenched, “Don’t start with that again,” he said, his breath clouding in the freezing air. “You think I’d let you kill us both? That tether’s not a joke. I felt it, your stupid stunt out there was dragging me down too.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' lips twitched, a faint echo of their usual feral grin, but it was hollow, lifeless. “So it was about saving yourself,” they said, their tone flat but laced with bitterness. “Not me. Just your own life.”

Childe stopped abruptly, his boots sinking into the snow, forcing Delusion 'Childe' to halt with him. He turned to face them, his arm still around their waist, his blue eyes boring into their purple ones. “That’s not—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, his frustration boiling over. “You think I’d trek through a blizzard for fun? I didn’t have to come, you know. I could’ve stayed in a tavern, let you freeze. But I didn’t.”

Delusion 'Childe' stared back, their impassivity cracking just enough to reveal the longing they’d buried at the riverbank. “Why?” they asked, their voice softer now, almost breaking. “Why come at all? You called me a leech. You hate me, Ajax. So why?”

The question hung between them, raw and heavy, the blizzard swirling around them like a cage. Childe’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into their side, not out of anger but something else, something he didn’t want to name. “Because I can’t get rid of you,” he said finally, his voice low, “You’re in my head, my blood, my soul. I hate it, but you’re… part of me. And I felt you slipping away out there. I couldn’t just let that happen.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through their nihilism. They wanted to believe him, wanted to cling to the idea that he cared, even a little. But the morning’s argument, their grip on his wrist, his shove, and his dismissal still burned. “You pushed me away,” they said, their voice trembling despite the cold. “In the kitchen, you acted like I was nothing."

Childe’s face eased, just for a moment, before his frustration surged back. “You pinned me to a wall,” he shot back, his voice rising. “You act like I owe you something, like I have to let you haunt me every second. You’re not my protector, and you’re not my conscience. But…” He paused, his breath hitching, the words catching in his throat. “You’re not nothing. You’re… me. The part I don’t know what to do with.”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded, a crack in Childe’s usual demeanor. Delusion 'Childe' stared at him, searching his face. The part of them that had missed him, that had whispered “Come back” to the ice, stirred again, a faint warmth in their freezing body. They want to lash out, but the exhaustion, the cold, the weight of his words pinned them in place.

“Then stop pretending I don’t exist,” they said quietly, their voice barely audible over the wind. “Stop running from me.”

Childe’s eyes flickered, a mix of guilt and defiance. “I’m not running now,” he said, his tone softer but firm. “But you need to stop pushing me into corners. We’re stuck with each other, deal with it like I have to.”

The silence returned, less oppressive but still tense, as they resumed their trek. Delusion 'Childe' leaned heavier into him, their shivering body betraying the hypothermia’s grip, their steps faltering. Childe adjusted his hold, pulling them closer, his scarf brushing their shoulder. The physical closeness was necessary, practical, but it felt more like a reluctant acknowledgment of their bond, fragile and fraught.

“You’re still an idiot,” Childe muttered, his voice softer now, almost fond. “Freezing out there like some martyr. Don’t do it again.”

Delusion 'Childe' didn’t reply, their apathy not gone but softened by his presence. They didn’t know if they believed him, if he cared for them, or just the tether that kept them alive. But for now, his arm around them, his warmth cutting through the cold, was enough. They trudged on, the blizzard swallowing their footsteps, two halves of a fractured whole bound by a curse neither could really escape.

Fire crackled in the fireplace, its warmth a stark contrast to the blizzard still raging outside. The living room was bathed in flickering light, casting shadows across the wooden walls and the worn rug. Childe bent over by the hearth, adjusting the logs to coax more heat, his clothes still damp from the snow. Across from him, Delusion 'Childe' sat wrapped in a thick blanket, their clothes discarded for a dry sweater Childe had grudgingly provided. Their ginger hair, still damp, clung to their forehead, and their eyes, though less dull than at the riverbank, held a lingering indifference that unsettled the Harbinger.

He glanced at them, noting the faint shivers still wracking their frame, a remnant of the hypothermia that had nearly claimed them. “You’re lucky you’re not human,” he muttered, standing to fetch a bowl from the kitchen counter. “Anyone else would be dead after lying in that blizzard.” He ladled borscht from a pot he’d heated, the tangy scent of beets and dill filling the room, a small attempt to anchor them both in something normal after the chaos of the day.

Delusion 'Childe' pulled the blanket tighter, their gaze fixed on the fire, their voice flat. “You dragged me back here,” they said, the words heavy with that same nihilistic edge from the riverbank. “Didn’t exactly feel like a choice.”

Childe paused, the ladle hovering over the pot. His eyes narrowed, frustration flickering beneath his concern. “I gave you a choice,” he said, his tone sharp but controlled. “We both die out there in the snow, or you try to live and come home with me. You chose to come, didn’t you?” He set the bowl on the table beside them, his movements deliberate, as if to ground himself. He didn’t know that their choice had been sparked by a fleeting longing, a desperate, primal need for him that they’d buried under apathy.

Their lips twitched, a faint scoff escaping. “Oh, please,” they said, their voice bitter. “What kind of choice is that? Die together or follow you like some… shadow.” Their eyes flicked to him, a glimmer of something softer breaking through the apathy, something that hinted at the longing they’d admitted to the ice, the whispered plea they’d never say aloud. “Didn’t exactly come back for the borscht.”

Childe caught the subtext, the subtle crack in their guarded tone. He paused, his hand resting on the table, his eyes studying them. The firelight danced across their face, highlighting the frozen tear streaks now thawed, the ginger hair that mirrored his own. He stepped closer, leaning into their personal space, his face inches from theirs, his voice low and teasing, but with an edge of curiosity. “I’m guessing you missed me,” he said, his breath warm against their cheek. “Is that right?”

Delusion 'Childe’s' skin flushed, a faint pink creeping across their cheeks, their eyes widening in a mix of embarrassment and defiance. They leaned back slightly, the blanket slipping from one shoulder, their apathy faltering under his scrutiny. “Believe whatever you want,” they muttered, their voice tight, avoiding his gaze. The flush betrayed them, a crack in their usual feral intensity, and they hated how it made their heart race.

Childe’s lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which held feelings of amusement and something heavier. He straightened, stepping back toward the kitchen counter, his voice light but deliberate. “I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he said, turning to stir the borscht, his back to them. The casualness was forced, a shield against the weight of their bond, the truth that he’d felt their absence as keenly as they’d felt his.

Delusion 'Childe' stared at the fire, their fingers tightening around the blanket. They didn’t respond, but the flush lingered, a quiet admission they couldn’t take back. The borscht’s warmth, the fire’s glow, Childe’s presence, it should’ve been enough to thaw the apathy, but it didn’t. Not entirely. They were still a shadow, a glitch, tethered to a man who both hated and needed them. But his teasing, his choice to bring them back, stirred that spark of longing again, a flicker of hope they didn’t trust.

Childe returned with a bowl of borscht, setting it in their hands, his fingers brushing theirs briefly. “Eat,” he said, his tone softer now, “You’re no good to me half-dead.”

Delusion 'Childe' took the bowl, their eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment. “No good to you at all,” they murmured, but they sipped the soup, the warmth seeping into their chilled body. 

The silence that fell between them was different now, not the tension of their walk through the blizzard, but a quieter, more fragile thing, like a thread stretched thin but not yet broken. The blizzard’s howl outside was a distant reminder of the chaos they’d left behind, but here, in the glow of the fire, they were just two fractured halves, trying to coexist without reigniting the morning’s fire.

Childe broke the silence first, his voice low, careful, as if testing the truce. “You’re still shivering,” he said, nodding toward the blanket. “Keep eating. That soup’s not doing you any good if you just stare at it.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' fingers tightened around the bowl, their eyes flicked to him, then back to the fire. “Not hungry,” they muttered, but they took another slow sip, more to appease him than out of need. The warmth of the borscht was grounding, but it didn’t touch the apathy lingering in their chest, the residue of hours spent in the snow, convinced he didn’t care. His presence now felt like a contradiction they couldn’t unravel.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying them. “You’re not gonna pull that riverbank stunt again, are you?” he asked, his tone half-serious, half-chiding. “Because I’m not hiking through another blizzard to drag you back.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' lips twitched, a faint echo of their feral grin, but it was softer, subdued. “Didn’t ask you to,” they said, their voice low, almost petulant. They set the bowl on the floor, pulling the blanket tighter. “You made it clear I’m a leech. Why bother?”

Childe’s jaw tightened, his frustration flaring but tempered by the truce. “Don’t twist my words,” he said, his voice firm but not harsh. “I said a lot of things this morning that I didn’t mean. You pushed me, I pushed back. That’s how it goes with us.” He paused, running a hand through his hair, his expression softening. “But I didn’t mean you’re nothing. You’re… complicated. Annoying as hell, but complicated.”

Their eyes flicked to him, searching for the lie, but his face was open, unguarded in a way that made their chest ache. “Complicated,” they echoed, their voice barely above a whisper. “That’s one way to put it.” They leaned back against the wall, their hair catching the firelight. “You’re not exactly simple yourself, you know. Running off to fight instead of facing me.”

Childe’s lips quirked, a half-smile. “Caught that, did you?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Guess we’re both bad at coping with… this.” He gestured vaguely between them, the motion encompassing their shared essence, the soul-bound tether that made every hurt a shared wound. “But you didn’t have to lie out there in the snow, trying to prove something. You scared the hell out of me.”

Delusion 'Childe’s' breath hitched, their apathy cracking further. “Scared you?” they said, their tone skeptical but tinged with hope, maybe, or need. “Thought you only came because of the tether. Because you felt me… fading.”

Childe’s expression tightened, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “Yeah, I felt it,” he admitted, his voice low. “The numbness, the cold. It was like I was losing something. But it wasn’t just about saving myself.” He leaned forward again, his elbows on his knees, his blue eyes intense. “You’re part of me, whether I like it or not. I can’t just… let you die. Not like that.”

The words hung in the air, raw and heavy, a confession that felt too big for the small room. Delusion 'Childe' stared at him, eyes wide, the blanket slipping from their shoulder. They wished to argue, to call him a liar, but the sincerity in his voice and the way his gaze held theirs made it impossible. The part of them that had longed for him at the riverbank stirred again, a quiet ache that cut through their apathy.

“You’re stuck with me, too,” they said finally, their voice hesitant. They didn’t say I missed you, didn’t say I need you, but the subtext was there, woven into their words, their posture, the way their fingers twitched as if reaching for something they couldn’t name.

Childe’s half-smile returned, warmer this time, though still tinged with exhaustion. “Yeah, I know,” he said, standing to stoke the fire. He grabbed another log, tossing it into the flames, the sparks flaring briefly. “Stuck with each other. That’s the deal, right?”

Delusion 'Childe' didn’t reply, but they pulled the blanket tighter, their eyes following him as he moved. The fire’s warmth was seeping into them now, easing the shivers, and the borscht’s lingering taste grounded them in the moment. They didn’t trust this truce, didn’t trust the quiet or the way his words made their chest tighten. But for now, it was enough: the fire, the soup, his presence. They were still fractured, still bound by a curse neither wanted, but in this small, warm room, they could pretend, just for a moment, that they were both more than a shadow and its source.

Everlasting Recurrence 10839