Chapter Text
Zhongli had long since learned how to live with absence.
It settled into the corners of his estate like dust—fine, invisible unless the light struck it just right. Guizhong’s presence lingered in the spaces between objects: the tea set she had favored but no longer touched, the garden path she once walked barefoot at dawn, the books she had half-annotated and never finished. Even after years, the world still carried the shape of her.
He did not call it grief anymore. Grief implied motion, a tide that came and went.
This was sediment.
So when Tartaglia appeared—loud, irreverent, brimming with life that refused to sit quietly—it felt less like an intrusion and more like a disturbance in still water.
“You look like you’re haunting your own house again, Zhongli.”
Zhongli did not turn from the window. Outside, the osmanthus tree was beginning to bloom.
“I live here,” he replied mildly. “If anyone is haunting it, it is you.”
Childe laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Then I’ll try to be a friendly ghost.”
That was how it always began: with laughter, with warmth offered too freely, with a man who did not seem to understand how fragile certain silences were.
Zhongli had not asked him to stay.
But Childe did.
—
It was Childe who proposed the arrangement, one evening over shared wine that Zhongli barely tasted.
“A year,” Childe said, resting his chin in his palm, blue eyes alight with something earnest beneath the mischief. “Give me one year.”
Zhongli frowned. “For what purpose?”
“To make you happy again.”
The words were spoken lightly, but they landed with a weight Zhongli had not felt in years.
“Happiness is not something that can be scheduled,” Zhongli said carefully.
“Sure it is,” Childe replied. “People do it all the time. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Weddings.”
Zhongli’s hand stilled around his cup.
Childe noticed. He always noticed.
“I don’t mean replacing her,” Childe added quickly, softer now. “I know you loved Guizhong. I know you still do. I’m not asking you to forget her.”
Zhongli looked at him then, truly looked, and saw something fragile behind the grin.
“What are you asking?”
“Use me,” Childe said, too easily. “As a friend. As company. As someone to make new memories with. Not instead of her—just… alongside. Borrow me for a year. If, at the end of it, you’re still exactly the same, then I’ll leave you alone.”
There it was.
The unspoken thing Zhongli had sensed for months, wrapped now in an offer that felt dangerously close to mercy.
“You owe me nothing,” Zhongli said.
“I know,” Childe smiled. “That’s why this is my idea.”
Zhongli should have refused.
He had lived long enough to recognize a sacrifice when it was placed before him.
And yet—
The house was quiet.
The days were long.
And Childe’s presence, reckless as it was, brought warmth where there had only been stillness.
“…Very well,” Zhongli said at last. “One year.”
Childe’s smile widened, brilliant and almost painful to look at.
“Deal.”
—
The first sign was blood in the sink.
Childe stared at it for a long moment, breathing shallowly, before washing it away.
“Again?” Baizhu sighed, already reaching for his instruments. Baizhu's been his friend slash his ever-irritating doctor because of his current predicament. It's surprising, really. Nobody wanted this to happen to anyone and yet, here he is.
“It’s nothing,” Childe said, waving him off. “Seasonal, maybe. You know me—I’m always getting into trouble.”
Baizhu did not look amused.
“You are coughing up flower petals,” he said flatly. “This is not trouble. This is terminal.”
Childe leaned back against the examination table, gaze drifting to the ceiling.
“Hanahaki’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“You are avoiding the issue.”
“Mm.” Childe smiled faintly. “I do that.”
Baizhu’s voice softened, just slightly. “You need surgery. Soon. If the feelings remain unreturned, the condition will worsen.”
Childe closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“Then why are you here, if not to be treated?”
Childe hesitated.
“…I wanted to make sure I had time.”
Baizhu stiffened. “Time for what?”
“For him,” Childe said quietly.
—
Zhongli noticed the changes gradually.
A missed meal here.
A cough there.
The way Childe’s laughter sometimes cut off too sharply, like breath stolen mid-sentence.
“You should rest,” Zhongli said one afternoon, watching Childe struggle to hide a wince.
“I will,” Childe replied. “Later.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I meant it yesterday too.”
Zhongli frowned. “You are unwell.”
“I’m fine.”
The lie was bright and practiced.
Zhongli did not press.
He told himself that some truths would surface in their own time.
He did not yet understand how little time they had left.
—
At night, alone in his room, Childe coughed flowers into his hands and whispered apologies to a man who would never love him back the way he wished.
If this was the price of seeing Zhongli smile again—
Then it was worth paying.