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The cold didn't affect Zeta's body, but that didn't mean he couldn't feel it. In his opinion, it was worse that way. When a human body got cold, there were ways to warm it; when his Segment body got cold, it felt like there was no escaping it. He could put on as many jackets as he pleased, and it wouldn’t make any difference, because his physical self was never the thing at risk of catching a chill. His sense of coldness came from the inside. It rose within him on the stark-white bleakness of a snowblind day, with the gritty crunch of snow beneath his feet as he skulked through the palace courtyard, in the scenery carrying centuries worth of familiarity but that still felt foreign if he trudged through it too slowly. So Zeta tucked his chin under the collar of his overcoat and started walking faster. And much to his chagrin, the second pair of crunchy footsteps just behind him quickened by the same margin.
“Where are you going?” Childe’s voice was heavy with heat and bewilderment, his breath coming out in thick plumes of steam as he fought to catch up to the Segment’s rushed pace. Zeta could practically feel the humidity settling against the back of his neck as the gap between them gradually closed. Though it shouldn't have been possible for it to do so, it somehow made him feel even colder.
“Away,” Zeta replied dully.
“How come?” Childe finally caught up with him, hugging himself and giving his arms a brisk rub as he slowed down to match the Segment’s pace. Zeta could now see that he’d run all the way out here without putting a coat on first…. Idiot. “I just got here.”
“Congratulations.”
Zeta’s wry response made Childe go quiet. After a moment, he asked, “Are you mad at me or something?”
“Not everything’s about you,” Zeta said. He did not slow down, nor did he make any attempt to meet the dingy blue gaze that was surely fixed on him. “If you want to bother me so badly, why don’t you go back to that other ‘me’ and do it?”
Childe fell silent again, thinking about his response with uncharacteristic care. Zeta could practically smell the smoke coming out of his ears from the effort.
“I was just asking him where you were, you know,” Childe finally said.
The coldness didn't let up. Zeta sniffed loudly, trying to dispel the tickle of frost from his sinuses. “Sure.”
“I still think it's weird to get jealous of yourself.”
“I am not jealous!” Zeta stopped dead in his tracks, finally whipping around to face Childe. The Eleventh stopped with him, giving him a deer-in-headlights look that made Zeta feel colder still; even the blush that had swiftly risen to his ears could do nothing to warm him. After a brief and ineffective stand-off, the Segment turned himself back around. “Will you stop following me, already?”
Zeta continued marching forward. After a beat of consideration, Childe did, too.
“You’ve gotta give me a break every now and again, you know,” Childe said. “Your whole… thing is really strange to most people. I know sometimes you catch me staring, and you always get mad afterwards… But it's not like that. It's just strange. Because they talk like you, and do the same little things with their hands, and stuff like that; they have your eyes.”
“My eyes?” Zeta parroted. “Really? And when did you come into this ability to see through rubberized canvas and tinted lenses?”
Childe sighed. “I was speaking in a general sense. Trust me, if there's anyone you have to worry about, it's certainly not that one. I don’t think he likes me at all… I swear, sometimes I can feel him glaring at me. The only reason we were talking for so long is because he wouldn't give me a straight answer.”
Zeta squared his jaw in annoyance, but said nothing. Oh, that insufferable old crow… Even if Childe didn’t, Lamba probably knew exactly what he was doing. Zeta was appalled that “he” had somehow managed to grow up into such a hideous, pretentious philanderer. What kind of man would choose to coyly fraternize with a boy young enough to be his grandson in broad daylight? Disgusting! And the fact that he was probably only doing it to get under Zeta’s skin didn't help anything. He was always doing that, constantly commenting on the “astounding abundance” of spare time Zeta must have had to be frittering so much of it away on a “know-nothing, backwoods grunt”; lecturing him about “unnecessary attachments” and using it as an excuse to pawn off all his extra work on him, saying it would help keep his priorities straight; calling Zeta a “child” in the same way he called Phi a child, relentlessly reminding him that was all he’d ever be. That guy didn't have any interest in Childe at all. He just wanted to see Zeta squirm. And the worst part was, it worked. But it wasn't even because of Lambda. It was—
“Are you going somewhere?” Childe piped up.
This unnecessary interjection immediately irritated Zeta, especially considering that his self-implied destination had just been reached. They’d finally come upon a large, stained-glass atrium in the southeast corner of the palace courtyard. Zeta reached for the door’s long, ornate metal handle and swung it open with a huff.
“No,” Zeta droned sarcastically. A rush of warm, pleasantly humid air rushed out to meet him as he stepped inside. Alas, even that was not enough to dispel the cold that had settled into his bones. “I’ve actually been completely stationary this entire time.”
“You don’t mind if I come with you, right?”
The question was so audaciously moronic that Zeta was rendered speechless. Was he seriously asking him this now, when he had already followed the Segment all the way out here like a lovesick puppy? Furthermore, what point was there in asking a question that he already knew the answer to, and when he clearly had no intention of using that answer to change his course? Zeta wanted to punch him, refraining only because he knew the Eleventh would probably consider it some sort of coquettish flirt.
They both entered the atrium, with Zeta making no effort to hold the door open behind him, but also making no attempt to bar Childe from entering on his heels. Zeta removed his overcoat, draping it over one of the hooks on the hanging coat rack provided just at the entrance. The atrium was heated to a temperate balminess to maintain the various specimens of flora it housed. They were mostly of a Natlanese variety, as these were generally considered by northerners to be the most pleasant to look at, but there were a few spatterings of windwheel asters and padisarahs here and there… Not that Zeta was either particularly impressed or disappointed by the selection. He didn't come here to just gawk at the greenery as others might have; he simply came here because it was warm. It did not always successfully bring him any warmth, but it at least occasionally helped clear his mind when it was mired in ice. It was usually serenely unoccupied, as well, given the tendency of Snezhnayan natives to believe they were made of untempered chocolate and thus would simply perish in a puddle of their own sticky, melted essence should they bask in a pleasant climate for too long. Unfortunately, Zeta knew he wouldn't find a moment of peace in here today. Then, as if on cue, Childe let out a whoosh of air from his cheeks.
“Man, it's toasty in here, isn't it?”
Zeta briefly considered that perhaps the solitary remoteness of their situation was a blessing. Should he decide to throttle the Eleventh with his bare hands, he might be able to get away with it cleanly.
In the meantime, Zeta ignored him. He trudged silently through the winding red-brick path for a while—naturally with Childe still right on his tail—coming to a stop in front of a pale stone bench nestled in with the scenery. He sat down with a sigh, fixing a distant stare on a patch of succulents directly across from him. Childe—again, naturally—took a seat beside him without asking, sitting entirely too close in the process. Their shoulders and hips bumped together the moment his ass hit the bench, and Zeta shot a glare at him before scooting away himself. He pulled the leg closest to Childe up on the bench with him as a makeshift barrier between them, loosely hugging his knee to his chest and resting his chin atop it. He sniffed again. It was still too damn cold.
“You’re obnoxious,” Zeta muttered.
Childe sighed lightly. “Yeah, that’s what the other one was telling me, too.”
A silence fell over them that seemed to fall just short of meaningful, and Zeta returned his attention to the greenery. He had no real interest in any of it, but it was better than having to look at Childe. Though he was persistent as always, Zeta couldn't help but notice he was quieter than usual today. It should have been nothing but a good thing, but it started to make Zeta wonder what kind of expression was on his face back then, just before they’d both left the palace.
Zeta had been returning to the lab from the cafeteria, ready to report back with Lambda and conclude the project they were currently sharing. Childe had been away for quite some time, as he often was, so Zeta was quite surprised to see him in Snezhnaya at all, let alone down in the lab at Lambda’s side. And they were only talking; in hindsight, it really wasn't anything to fuss over. Lambda’s attention was occupied by other things—or rather, he was desperately pretending it was—offering the Eleventh nothing more than the barest shakes and nods of his head as the latter attempted to converse. Childe had on a grin that was just beginning to wither as the eldest Segment continued to pay him no regard, still maintaining his usual charming candor despite a fairly clear desire to exit the situation. It was as inconspicuous an exchange as you could get, but perhaps it had ruffled Zeta’s feathers just a little bit. Just enough to make him stop and watch them talk for a little while longer, almost waiting for some tawdry betrayal or tacky faux pas to occur so he would have an excuse to be angry. But it didn't happen. There was nothing but that old crow’s hooked mask occasionally bobbing with barely restrained contempt, and Childe’s soft and amicable features gradually waning and yet still filling their drab laboratory with inexplicable light. And at some point during this, something had struck Zeta square in the center of his chest.
Childe eventually turned his head in Zeta's direction by pure coincidence, finding the Segment’s eyes and coming aglow with delight. But then, all at once, his expression faltered. It looked like he’d seen something he knew to be beautiful in the distance, only noticing on second glance that something had warped it beyond all comprehension. So what exactly was it he saw before Zeta whipped around and stormed out of the lab? What was the look on his face? Was it like the stormy look that Tau would sometimes give him if Zeta spoke out of turn or had the nerve to offer any suggestions regarding his personal projects, looking like he wished to scrub some puny, insignificant creature off the face of the earth? Or was it more like those ugly little scrunched looks that Phi would give him whenever Zeta tossed his childish “inventions” in the trash or knock his silly little drawings to the floor and stomp on every last one, and the youngest Segment had to summon every last ounce of willpower in his unsettlingly small body just to keep from bursting into tears and crying out for a mother they both knew was long gone? Zeta wished it were the former, but he didn't have much hope. Perhaps “he” had the right idea to begin donning a mask in his later years… They were all far too expressive for their own good.
As Zeta continued to grimly muse over these things, he suddenly felt something brushing against the top of his ear. He jerked away in surprise and instinctively swatted at the intrusion, looking over just in time to see Childe’s hand deftly dodge the blow. Zeta was prepared to bark at him to keep his hands to himself, but the realization that there was still something sitting against his ear made him stop. He touched his fingers to it, tracing its shape and soon mutely identifying it as a small flower tucked behind his ear. He could even just barely see it out of the farthest corner of his eye, a pale violet petal resting daintily against his head. The chain of events felt so jarring that Zeta found himself frozen solid, fingers stuck to his ear as Childe gave him a soft but slightly impish smile.
“That really suits you,” Childe said with a chuckle, yet no trace of irony. He skewed his head to one side with satisfied regard, as if it warranted taking in at another angle. “It really brings out your eyes.”
For one fleeting moment, there was warmth rising in Zeta’s breast. But it merely ascended and settled in his cheeks, leaving him just as cold as he was before, and now feeling vaguely sunburnt. He frowned deeply and plucked the flower from his ear.
“You’re not supposed to pick the things in here,” he chided. He looked down at the small flower pinched between his fingers, twirling it around scrutinizingly. “And this is a nightshade, you idiot. You’re lucky you’re wearing gloves.”
Childe gave him a closed-mouth grimace. “Sorry… You don't have to keep it.”
“I don't need your permission. I know I don't.”
And yet, the little flower remained clasped in his fingers. Zeta put his chin back on his knee and faced forward, holding it up in front of him and spinning the thin stem between his thumb and forefinger. He watched the soft violet petals spin in silence, remotely transfixed on them. After a moment, he finally heard Childe sigh.
“I just wanted to hang out with you,” Childe announced softly, and a bit despondently. “Is that really so bad?”
Zeta’s eyes flickered downwards as the flower continued to spin. He wanted to say yes. He probably should have said yes. But he didn't say anything. He could feel Childe’s gaze linger on him for a few moments, but he soon turned to the flowers in front of them, too.
“It's been a while,” Childe remarked. The way he said it was almost humorously wistful, as if it had been years. It made Zeta a little envious—he could just barely remember the days when time felt too slow, another life where he’d been just as young as he felt and there was nothing to do but wait for some unknown enlightenment to find his desperately reaching hands. Now, the years went by too fast. The months, even faster. If Zeta ever blinked too slowly, he was bound to lose too many moments to count.
“I know,” Zeta muttered, unblinking. He stole a glance at Childe while his attention was occupied by the flowers. Then, against his better judgment, he said, “You look older.”
Childe’s features scrunched for a moment, looking amused and taken aback in equal parts. Then, he burst into laughter.
“Do I?” Childe asked curiously. Zeta averted his gaze just in time for Childe’s to return to him. “It hasn't been that long, surely. And I’m pretty sure I’m through growing...”
Zeta gnawed at the inside of his cheek, and the little purple flower’s stem began to thin out from all his rolling, twisting over itself like a string of twine. “Not completely. Your bone and muscle mass continue increasing after puberty, and your testosterone levels don’t peak until at least your mid-twenties.”
He spoke very clinically, and there was purpose to that, because he always found people easier to understand in a clinical sense. In his head, he started writing a report: Subject One is male, and eighteen years of age. (Or was it nineteen now? When was his birthday again? Had it managed to come and go during his absence, and without Zeta’s notice?) The subject presents as healthy with no specific medical complaints, though the investigator observes a lingering case of mild solar erythema. (How many times did Zeta have to tell him to wear protection if he knew he’d be in the sun all day? He was so ridiculously fair-skinned, he was bound to burn himself to a crisp one day… Not even the great Tartaglia could win a fight against UV exposure.) Subject was previously observed to have an outwardly ectomorphic build, though exceptional muscle mass was noted on physical examination. (He was… sturdy. That was the only way to describe it. He had more strength coiled in his lithe body than he had any right to, so much so that it should have made him volatile. But he just felt sturdy. Like something you could hold onto.)
“What does that mean?” Childe asked with marked interest.
“You start filling out,” Zeta explained. The report in his head continued: Subject now presents with marginal hypertrophy. Likely a result of naturally increasing bone and muscle mass, and a known history of exceptional physical activity. (His face was rounder when Zeta last saw him. Now the angles of his jaw were starting to stick out squarely, and he somehow looked both easier and harder to hold onto than ever before.) “It’s not easy to see; you wouldn’t notice it because you can see yourself every day. But when someone doesn't see you for a while, they can tell. And you look older.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
Zeta scoffed quietly. In his head, another report was being written: Subject Two is male, and 362 years of age. The observable physical age of the subject is eighteen. In light of the subject’s physical inability to appear in any other way, subsequent observations of the same nature shall not be noted on record. Subject presents with complaints of a persistent sense of coldness. In light of the subject’s physical inability to be affected either negatively or positively by changes in climate, all prior and subsequent complaints of this nature shall be dismissed as lunacy. Subject also presents with several other mental disturbances, including an ongoing history of sociopathic tendencies, interpersonal hyperfixation, and quixotic delusion. Despite the fact that no such organ is present in the subject, extensive and irreversible brain damage cannot be ruled out.
“Why don’t you get lost?” Zeta mumbled.
“Why?”
“Because I’m sick of you.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not, though.”
Zeta's chest tightened, and the flower in his fingers stopped twirling. “You will be.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You can't help it,” Zeta said quietly. He finally released the poor, bruised flower from his worrying clutches, watching it drift all the way down to the ground. Its petals and crushed stem splayed out wanly against the red-brick path, wrung dry for everything it was worth. “You’ll outgrow me eventually.”
Childe grew quiet. But soon, his hand came back into Zeta's field of vision as he leaned down to pick the flower up from the floor. He slid it back behind Zeta's ear, to which the Segment offered no protest or resistance, then paused before moving a lock of blue fringe away from his eye. Zeta glanced over at him dully and saw that he was still smiling.
“Not today, though,” Childe said plainly. “And probably not tomorrow, either.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Zeta droned. “You don’t plan past the two next steps in front of you.”
Childe laughed at that, resting his hand against Zeta’s face and stroking his thumb over the apple of his cheek. “I’ll make an exception just this once, then, okay?”
Then, without another word, he leaned forward. Their lips met, and it wasn’t quite warm, but it was at least cool like a spring breeze instead of frigid like a blizzard. Zeta didn't know if that was right—he never knew how these things were supposed to feel, his perception of intimacy skewed on such a fundamental level that he used to think that it was the one thing he would never fully understand. But somehow, with Childe, it did feel right. When they parted, it was with a soft click of their loosely suctioned lips and a flutter of Zeta’s lashes. He had closed his eyes without knowing it, but to his surprise, it didn't feel like he missed a thing. Childe was smiling at him just as he was before, still petting the Segment’s flushed cheek as his eyes seemed to deepen in thought.
“It still feels strange sometimes,” Childe finally admitted. It was said very matter-of-factly, as if he considered it no great bother and merely a quaint fact of life. “And I know there's a lot of ‘you’ running around, and only one of me… But I don't really care about all that. It doesn't matter how old I get. You’ll always be the ‘you’ that’s mine.”
The world seemed to shrink to the size of a pinhole at that moment. The only things inside it were Childe, Zeta, and the little blue flower still perched behind his ear. In a numb sort of panic, another report began to form in the Segment's mind: Subject Two presents with an illness of unknown origin. Persistent chest palpitations, acute disorientation, sudden onset clamminess of the extremities…. Underlying brain damage still cannot be ruled out. Investigator’s recommendation: A cold shower, with consideration for humane euthanasia if all else fails.
Childe took Zeta’s hand, bringing it to his lips and taking a moment to pepper kisses across his knuckles. When he had his fill, he let them linger there, giving Zeta a strangely knowing look.
“So those other ‘yous’ can't shake me off that easily—neither can you, for that matter,” Childe continued. A playful and almost challenging gleam played in the murky recesses of his eyes and twitched upon his lips as a smirk. “That’s a promise.”
Subject Two presents with complete and utter insanity; no matter the means of intervention, he still believes every silly little word that comes out of that boy’s mouth.
Final assessment: Subject is a lost cause. Oh, well….
Zeta’s internal report finished itself like a book being slammed shut. It startled him back to reality, and he came to with the realization that Childe was now looking far too smug as he continued to gawk at him. Zeta shuddered to think what kind of expression was on his face now. He quickly rectified the issue by frowning deeply and snatching his hand back from Childe with a scolding hiss.
“You’re obnoxious,” Zeta grumbled. He let his leg slide off the bench, slouching forward and giving Childe a very lackluster glare. “Who said I even want you around for that long, anyway? Unlike you, I have no interest in being seen cavorting around with old men.”
Childe snorted in amusement, slouching back on his hands and looking up at the domed, stained-glass ceiling in a bit of a wistful manner. Then, a look sprang to his features that Zeta did not like in the slightest.
“Is that so?” Childe purred leadingly. He threw a coy glance in Zeta’s direction. “That's not what I’ve heard…”
“Wh—what?!” Zeta leapt to his feet in an instant, cheeks burning. “How do you— What did you hear? Was it one of the others? Was it—” A lightbulb switched on in his head, and he balled his hands into furious fists that were thrown to his sides. “Oh, it was that miser of a banker again, wasn't it?!”
“Who knows?” Childe trilled. He then stood up very abruptly, turning towards the exit door and waving a hand over his shoulder. “Anyway, if you really are that busy, I guess I can get out of your hair now.”
Zeta was left stunned, watching Childe’s rapidly receding back in disbelief. Now he was suddenly so eager to leave? Oh… Curse that stupid boy! And curse Pantalone, too! What business did he have blabbing about the Doctor's very private affairs? Did the two have nothing better to do than mull around like gossiping hens? Zeta shook himself from his stupor and started to chase Childe down.
“Don’t you dare! What did he say? Tau’s the one that—” Zeta thought better of finishing that sentence, otherwise Tau really would kill him. Unlike the Regrator, Zeta did not possess the funds to secure himself immunity from the middling Segment’s wrath… Instead, he just blustered, “Whatever it is, it’s not about me!”
“Mm hm.” Childe shot him another insufferable look over his shoulder. “Just one of ‘you,’ right?”
“Ajax, I'm serious! What did he say?” Zeta fumed. Childe just turned away, practically at the door by then. Zeta squared his jaw furiously as he finally caught up. “Ajax, are you even listening to me?!”
Blinded by indignation and shame, Zeta made a last-ditch effort to be acknowledged, lunging at Childe's back—he didn't know what he expected to happen. He should have known better than to challenge the Eleventh’s physical competence. Childe easily sidestepped him without even looking, sending Zeta stumbling forward by his own momentum. He was on his way to falling face-first into the bricks when, with the same eschewing motion, Childe shot his arm out to catch one of the Segment’s wrists. Zeta was wrenched back, spun around, and then…
Zeta’s mortification could not be understated. In his desperate attempt to tackle Childe to the ground, he now somehow found himself draped over the Eleventh’s forearm like a mink stole, his balance compromised and leaving him no choice but to bend backwards against the arm that had slyly snaked itself around the small of his back. Somewhere in the chaos, Childe had even managed to clasp their hands together, making them look like they were caught between steps in some sort of oafish waltz—and Zeta was being dipped. He simply gawked at Childe with a mixture of sheer horror and something else he dared not name, too gobsmacked to even think of wrenching himself out of the position. Childe just smirked at him, taking the opportunity to lean in and kiss him once more. And whereas the one before could almost be described as chaste, this one… certainly could not.
And in his head, only one thought pattered through Zeta’s mind, free from the constraints of a report: All that fuss, and it turns out he’s just as easy to hold onto as he was before….
After some time, Childe pulled back, helping Zeta stand securely on his own two feet while still holding him close. He took a moment to gaze into the Segment’s eyes, then seemed to lose focus before suddenly letting out a chuckle. He raised his hand to pluck the small purple flower from Zeta’s ear—which, at that point, Zeta had almost completely forgotten about—and held it out to him.
“You should hold onto this,” Childe suggested. “I wouldn't want it to blow away.”
Zeta took it from him a bit numbly. He found himself just staring at it as Childe let go of his waist and stepped somewhere just behind him. His first cohesive thought was rather cruel, but a question that did beg asking: what the hell was he supposed to do with this? Other than the small potential to give someone with human skin a nasty rash, it served no purpose whatsoever. All it did was, allegedly, “bring out his eyes.” And what did Childe know about color theory, anyway? He probably didn't know what he was talking about.
But for some reason, Zeta slipped it into his pocket. He did not know it yet, but much later on, it would be pressed inside the pages of a small, inconspicuous journal—one stashed behind an impressively convoluted series of locks and safes to prevent one of his other selves from sniffing it out, of course.
“Come on, Zandik,” Childe said. When Zeta turned around, the Eleventh was holding his coat out for him. Zeta took this as well, but merely let it fall over his arm without putting it back on. “Let’s head back inside. Maybe I can tell you the whole story there… Or maybe you can.”
The last part was delivered with a sly lilt, and it made Zeta remember the righteous fury he had abandoned.
“You—” Zeta started to bluster. But inexplicably, it fell flat. Instead of giving Childe a piece of his mind, he merely gave him a disparaging scoff. “You’re a child, you know that?”
Childe just laughed, turning to the door and pushing it open. “It's a good thing, isn't it?”
A good thing?
With Childe’s back to him, Zeta found himself smiling at the ridiculous statement.
Yes. Maybe it was.
Childe held the door open for him, and Zeta followed close behind. Without realizing it, he had neglected to actually put on his coat after it was handed to him. As a result, the snow-powder wind that greeted him was particularly bone-chilling, biting at his flushed cheeks and whipping his hair back to nip at his ears. The day was unpleasantly cold.
But finally, he was warm.