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When Childe arrives at the front gates of Zapolyarny Palace, traveling bag in hand and Zhongli on his arm, he looks at the crystal-cut snowflakes that adorn its onion domes and thinks this might not be so bad.
They are given large, spacious quarters complete with an already-burning fireplace and a solid wooden dining table. The living area splits off into two bedrooms, but one is bare, the bed stripped and the curtains drawn and dark. Childe’s cheeks flame at the implication. Of course everyone in the palace knows about him and Zhongli, but seeing the evidence and expectation knocks him down a peg. Did the Tsaritsa herself assign them their lodgings? Was it the Jester? Maybe Pulcinella—every option is equally mortifying in its own way.
Zhongli does not seem to care. He hums as he sets down his own bag in their lavish bedroom before heading to the window, peering outside with great interest. Outside, snow falls gently, gracefully. The evidence of it still adorns the furs of his coat, although it melts quickly under Childe’s hand.
“I am fine, baobei,” Zhongli says with a small smile. “The cold does not bother me as it would a mortal.”
Indeed, he would have gone gallivanting right up to the gates in nothing but his normal attire if Childe hadn’t intervened, all but begging him to shrug on the thick furs he wears now. It is both infuriating and achingly endearing, and so Childe settles on bumping his shoulder into Zhongli’s and leaning into his body.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he reminds Zhongli. “There are soldiers here who don’t know otherwise. How would it have looked if you’d have waltzed up wearing something more fit for Liyuean summer?”
Zhongli shakes as he laughs. “Indeed,” he says, turning to Childe. “Then I must thank you for always having my safety in mind.” His eyes twinkle as he leans in for a kiss.
After shedding their cloaks, they roam the halls of the palace with no destination or goal in mind. Childe’s not due to report to the Tsaritsa until tomorrow, and Zhongli—he has still not told Childe why he is here at all beyond vague half-answers of “helping.” They linger at the arching, elegant windows that line the walls, watching the snow dust the tops of rosebushes. On the way to the kitchens, they pass Marionette, and Zhongli’s brow furrows when Childe drags him around a corner before she can notice.
“Don’t make a sound,” Childe hisses as he cranes his neck to look. “If you look at her wrong she’ll—” She glances in their direction, and Childe shrinks back, tugging Zhongli with him. “Look, let’s go this way.”
The kitchens are bright and busy despite the late hour. Immediately, they are swarmed by the staff. An older lady that used to pack Childe extra pastries to take to his training pats his hair. The man that used to set out a glass of juice every morning for him grins. Childe suffers through the chatter—Oh, your hair has gotten so long now! Look at how tall you’ve grown!—and sneaks a glance over to Zhongli.
He stands, a pillar of stillness amid the bedlam. A small smile plays across his face and his eyes are bright, but he does not make an attempt to rescue Childe from the myriad of pastries and snacks that have been pressed into his hands.
Thus, Childe does not feel nearly as guilty when a wizened old man tips a basket of warm cinnamon rolls into Zhongli’s arms. Then the chaos really starts. Everyone is eager to please the strange, foreign man at their Harbinger’s side, and they pepper him with food and good-natured threats alike. By the end of it, Childe has to reign in his wheezing laughter to protect the well-being of the sweets in his own arms.
Someone has come and fed the fire in their absence. The room is warm, lit by candles and the crackling fireplace, and Childe and Zhongli deposit their spoils onto the table before sitting. Zhongli’s cheeks are flushed, and his mouth has softened with the ghost of a smile. “They like you,” he says.
“I’ve missed them!” Childe unwraps a cinnamon bun and holds it up at eye level. Steam wafts from its browned top, and his mouth waters. “I used to sneak down to the kitchens whenever training was over. It was warm there, no matter what time it was.” He sighs at the memory, of being enveloped by the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced pastries. “They’d feed me when I missed dinner. Really, it was one of my favorite spots.”
Zhongli’s smile fades, but his voice is soft and fond. “I am glad you felt safe there.” He accepts the bun from Childe, but before he takes a bite, he pauses. Frowns.
“What’s wrong?” Childe asks, mouth full of strawberry pastry.
When Zhongli speaks next, his voice is too even, too calm. “Perhaps I may have forgotten to bring my tea.”
Childe freezes. If Zhongli ran out of tea back in Liyue, he’d have his choice of local stores to pop over to and restock at his leisure. There’d be too many options to count, all fresh and locally grown. Here, in Snezhnaya, any tea Childe’s seen would be woefully inadequate for someone as selective as Zhongli.
He remembers, too, meticulously packaged tea tins and bags arranged atop their dinner table back in Liyue. Zhongli had prepared for this trip. He’d remembered his clothes—although he’d neglected to bring a coat—and Childe had seen him with his nose buried in a book on the train ride over.
“You… forgot,” he says slowly.
Zhongli pats his pockets, like the missing tea may appear if only he searches hard enough. He pulls something out, and Childe blinks. A thin wallet dangles from between his fingers. When Zhongli drops it onto the table, it falls open, utterly empty.
Hysteria bubbles from his chest in the form of a strangled laugh, and he chokes it down along with the rest of the pastry in his mouth. “Okay,” he says. His head spins; whether from disbelief or panic, he can’t tell. “Okay. I—fuck. Zhongli, you can’t say that. There’s nothing good here. Do you want me to buy you some from the next town over? I don’t think there’s any place that sells tea here. Snezhnayans drink coffee, Zhongli.”
“There is no need,” Zhongli says, his eyes doleful. “I will endure.”
Zhongli does not endure. The first few days are tolerable. Sure, Zhongli mopes, but he tries to hide it. When they are separate, Childe attending to his duties and Zhongli to his, Childe cannot wrench his mind away from Zhongli’s lack of tea. When they are together, cuddled up in their too-big rooms before the fire or in bed, Zhongli casts longing looks at where his bag sits, now empty of clothes and devoid of tea, and sighs. Childe gets by on coffee just fine, although by the second day, he stops that, too, in the hopes that solidarity will improve Zhongli’s mood.
It doesn’t. When Zhongli stumbles out of the bedroom on the morning of the third day, he is the picture of misery. The burnished tips of his hair are dull. His shoulders curve inward. He casts a longing glance at the coffee maker on the counter and mournfully collapses into a seat, avoiding eye contact. Childe is torn between a senseless sort of amusement and fear that Zhongli will eventually snap.
“Xiansheng,” he says, pressing a poppyseed muffin into Zhongli’s lifeless hands. It falls to the table and rolls onto its side. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Finally, Zhongli flicks his gaze to Childe. “I am fine,” he says, although his voice is monotone and lacking its usual verbosity. “Thank you for your concern.”
Yeah, if they’re going to be here for the next two months, Childe needs a solution that’s faster than importing teas all the way from Liyue. At this rate, Zhongli won’t survive another two weeks. It’s true that most of the harbingers prefer coffee, but he has fond memories of tea parties in Marionette’s rooms, listening to the chatter and arguments of the others while the fire warms his face.
He’s just not sure if Marionette would let him walk out with his face intact if he asked her about borrowing any of her possessions. Still, to love is to go face his extremely intimidating coworkers, or whatever the phrase is. He drinks in the sight of Zhongli’s beautiful yet forlorn face one more time, committing it to memory. If he’s going to die, at least it’ll be in service to Zhongli.
“I’m going for a walk,” he says, pushing to his feet. Usually, he’d have to convince Zhongli to stay behind, but this time, Zhongli barely even looks at him. Instead, he curls in on himself, pillowing his cheek on his arm. His golden eyes are unfocused and hazy, although longing pools within their depths. Childe does not have to look behind him to know that Zhongli is looking at the coffee pot.
“Be safe, baobei,” Zhongli says absently. “I will be here when you return.”
The hallway to Marionette’s room is cold and devoid of decor. Childe’s footsteps echo against the marble. He encounters not a soul on the way over, for which he is grateful—but when he knocks on her door, heart in his throat, he does not expect there to be no answer at all.
He jiggles the handle. To his surprise, the door swings open, revealing a familiar setting, although not nearly as bright as his memories recall. The fire has gone out completely. The bed is made, but the pillows on the couch are misshapen and slouched. It is empty.
So, maybe he hadn’t realized one of the possible outcomes could be her absence. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps in, feeling much like he had when he was younger, when he’d stepped onto the cloudy ice on the shoreline before his father had deemed it safe. The back of his neck prickles. Surely, as the engineer she is, she’d have some sort of robot protecting her dwelling, but everything is still and dark.
And there, sheltered behind a glass cabinet, is his target. Several elaborate tea sets, each pot different and elegant, sit before neatly arranged tins that, Childe knows, are filled with extravagant and fresh loose-leaf tea. He knows this, because once he’d made the mistake of upending an entire tin, and Marionette had chased him from the room with a claymore and banned him from her tea parties for an entire month.
To cover his bases, he selects a few of the fancier boxes and, even though the room is empty save him, glances around once more before stuffing the tins up his shirt.
Perfect.
He takes a tea set, too, for good measure. There’s a whole cabinet of them, and unless Marionette spends her time before her cabinet admiring her collection, Childe’s certain she won’t miss one set. He’d hate for Zhongli to have to boil his tea in anything other than a proper teapot.
With the tea set in his hands and the tins up his shirt, the travel back takes longer. He takes the long route around the kitchens in order to avoid any possible interactions, and so he is entirely unprepared when he rounds a corner and comes face to face with Marionette herself.
Like any respectable Harbinger, he does two things: First, he makes a very loud, very undignified sort of squeaking noise. Second, he turns tail and runs, clutching the tea set to his chest.
She thunders after him, her voice raised in a shout. “Tartaglia!”
If it weren’t for that Archons-damned teapot, he thinks as he skids around a corner, he might have gotten away with it. Might have been able to continue sneaking tea from her rooms for the entire duration of their stay or at least get away and buy some more time for Zhongli. Instead, Marionette sets her robot on him, and in an attempt to keep a teacup from rattling out of the little box, he is not fast enough to dodge its sliding tackle.
They crash to the floor in a tumble of machinery and fine porcelain. Childe’s head knocks against the floor and then the robot’s enormous skirt. His vision goes red, white, and red again as he blinks open his eyes to stare at the rich carpet below him.
“Just what,” Marionette hisses, looming over him, “do you think you are doing? Do you think this is funny? Is this your idea of a game?”
Childe winces. “Look. Between watching my dragon boyfriend wilt away because he has no tea or facing your wrath, I’d pick this any day. Make it quick, please.”
Her expression is murderous. “Make it quick?”
Childe screws his eyes shut and makes a valiant attempt at melting into the carpet. “The Tsaritsa expects me back by noon,” he offers. “It would be great if you could kill me before then. You’ll have to tell Zhongli, though.”
She makes a sound not unlike a hissing teapot. “Oh, no,” she says. “No, I have just the thing for you.”
Which is how he ends up in one of Marionette’s large underground bunkers, Hydro daggers in hand. Zhongli—Zhongli—sits behind a shield of glass, happy as a clam as he sips his tea. The Damselette sits beside him, a serene smile curving her lips. At the center console, Marionette stands, one hand on her hip, the other flying over the tablet. Two assistants stand at her side. One holds a clipboard. The other holds a pen, and they’re snickering as the clipboard one holds it out for her partner to write on.
Childe sighs, shifting his daggers to a polearm. Anything can be a two person job if one tries hard enough, he assumes, which is a shame because Zhongli wasn’t permitted to come into the arena with him.
“Next is a modified ruin guard,” she calls. “Try not to disable it too quickly, why don’t you?”
Zhongli’s expression is one of polite concern. “Miss Marionette—”
“Sandrone,” she snaps.
“Miss Sandrone,” Zhongli says patiently. “I’m not sure this is necessary—Childe has a meeting soon, and while I am ever in your debt for your generosity, I do believe the Tsaritsa takes precedence.”
“We’ll be done soon,” she says. “Do you like the tea?”
“Of course,” Zhongli says instantly. “In Liyue, it is quite difficult to obtain fresh blends from Fontaine. The dash of milk enhances the flavor of berries quite well, although I cannot discern the individual fruits. Now, if you have the original packaging…”
And just like that, Childe’s on his own. He doesn’t mind the fighting, especially if it means Zhongli is back to himself, tea in hand—but, really, why does Zhongli have to befriend the most terrifying of Harbingers?
The ruin guard goes down too quickly, judging by Sandrone’s pinched face. She types furiously on her tablet. Her assistants have gone from scribbling on the notepad to folding its contents into paper boats.
“This is the last one,” she announces as the floor parts. A gigantic mech comes into view, and Childe’s eyes narrow.
It is much like a crab, although without the excess of legs. A modified arm boasts a jagged saw; the other arm, a cannon. Its top hatch is propped open. It is dormant, although no less intimidating for it.
“Get in,” Sandrone says.
“Pardon?” A closer inspection confirms Childe’s suspicions; he’s come across this particular mech before. Its lair is east of the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau, deep below the surface. “Hey, isn’t this thing supposed to be in Nod-Krai?”
From the corner of his eyes, he sees Zhongli lean forward.
“That thing has a name,” Sandrone says irritably. “Krampus is broken. I brought him here so I could fix him. Get. Inside.”
“Miss Sandrone—” That’s Zhongli, but—fuck. Zhongli’ll lose his tea if Childe doesn’t do this.
“Fine,” he mutters. “But I don’t need any of you guys here, do I?” He gestures to Zhongli and the Damselette, who has taken a great interest in the assistants’ paper foldings. “You don’t need to watch this, Zhongli. And I don’t think your—” They’re not boats, he realizes, but hats. “—your little goon squad needs to be here, either.” Archons know they haven’t been doing anything useful.
The assistants burst into snickering giggles.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” Sandrone warns.
Childe gets into the mech.
Inside, it’s dark and cramped. He jams his knee into something solid and metal, and his whispered curse sounds tinny as it echoes. He crawls toward what he thinks is the central compartment before pausing. “Hey?” he calls. “How am I supposed to fix this? What’s even wrong with it—with Krampus?”
Distantly, he hears the Damselette’s dreamy voice. “Everything should be ready.”
Sandrone’s reply is hushed, and Childe can’t make it out over the sudden roaring of an engine flaring to life. The rumbling grows louder, louder, until he has to clap his hands over his ears. Even through all of it, he can hear Zhongli’s shout, and then the distinct sound of a meteor crashing through the ceiling far above—and then he is weightless.
He is weightless for far too long. It is all he can do to cling to the darkened interior of Krampus as the air grows thin, as he has to draw power from his Vision and then, when that is not enough, his Delusion as well. Whatever light remains fades altogether, until Childe cannot tell if his eyes are open and the darkness is absolute or if his eyes are simply closed.
At some point, he sleeps.
When he comes to, the world is different. Krampus’ metal fastenings and outer platings have fallen away. The world is awash in rust-red. A fine dust coats his clothes, and it showers from his eyelashes when he blinks. The landscape is harsh and mountainous, utterly devoid of any marks of humanity. At his belt his Vision glows, drawing upon his energy to keep him alive in the merciless environment. The sky is littered with stars, and when he squints, a planet of deep cerulean blue comes into focus.
It is small, so far away, and a pang of loneliness sears through his chest.
He is so very alone.
He misses Zhongli.
Idly, he wonders if he’s missed his noon meeting with the Tsaritsa. As the minutes creep into hours, he amuses himself by imagining what Zhongli could have done to Sandrone—surely, as a god, it is far more impressive than anything he could have accomplished on his own without recompense. He tips his head to the skies, and he waits.
It doesn’t take long. Three hours, perhaps. A little more. A golden glow lights the sky, ever so faint. In the distance, something bright hurtles toward him, shining with the light of a thousand stars. Five minutes later, Zhongli’s hand is on his shoulder, cupping his chin. His thumb pulls over Childe’s lips.
“Hello, baobei,” he says, eyes bright with a fondness so open that Childe aches for it. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Xiansheng,” Childe breathes.
When they kiss, Childe doesn’t care that he’s wasting precious air. He sinks into Zhongli’s warmth, curling his fingers into Zhongli’s silky hair. He reaches up, tugging at the band that holds it together, and Zhongli’s resulting purr vibrates through Childe’s entire body.
Zhongli pulls away first. He holds Childe at arm’s length, eyes flicking up and down his body. “Are you well?”
“That depends on if it’s noon or not,” Childe grumbles. He reaches out, and Zhongli pulls him in for a hug, his body warm even through all his layers. Zhongli’s fingers wrap around his, and Childe realizes with a start that he is so cold he is shaking. It is different than the coldness of snow—the entire atmosphere seems to drain him of his vitality, and he makes a small noise as Zhongli’s other hand cards through his hair. His tongue is thick in his mouth. “What did Sandrone do?”
Zhongli snarls under his breath, although his words are still sweet. “A nasty trick,” he says. “I regret that I did not notice it sooner. Rest assured, baobei, they will not bother you again.”
“But your tea,” Childe protests. It seems like such a silly thing, when they’re standing before a vista of haunting crimson mountains, when Childe is slowly asphyxiating, but it’s the only thing he can focus on.
Zhongli tilts Childe’s face up. Sweeps his thumbs across his cheeks. Zhongli’s eyelashes are dark, his eyes narrowed as he observes Childe’s expression. “Thanks to you, I have tea,” he says. “Do not worry, my love. All is right in the world.”
“Except we’re very far from Snezhnaya,” Childe points out, “and I’ll either die of lack of oxygen or get dismissed with disgrace. I think the first one would be preferable, actually.”
“Ajax.”
“Yeah?”
Zhongli kisses him. Childe gasps, uncaring of his air, of the way his head spins. He closes his eyes, winding his hands into Zhongli’s hair, and Zhongli’s arms wrap around his waist. They kiss until colors bloom across the inside of his eyelids, until darkness chases those colors away, until he slips into the hazy in-between space between exhaustion and total unawareness.
When he comes to, they are in their rooms, back in Snezhnaya. Childe is tucked into bed, wearing nothing but Zhongli’s oversized shirt. Zhongli himself sits beside him, a book open on his lap, a hand tangled in Childe’s hair. A cup of tea sits on the nightstand, still steaming. He notices Childe’s attention right away, and without hesitation he sets his book aside and leans over Childe.
“How are you feeling?”
Not too bad, all things considered. His chest doesn’t hurt at all, and there’s only a faint ringing left in his head. He tells Zhongli as much, and warmth blooms in his chest when Zhongli smiles.
“I canceled your meetings for the rest of the week, so you may recover,” Zhongli tells him smugly. “Perhaps you may show me around your beloved city. And fear not, baobei. I am well-stocked on tea now, thanks to your valiant efforts. Anastasya was most generous after hearing of my plight.”
Childe narrows his eyes. Looming above him, Zhongli looks more like a god than ever. The light shines a halo around his face. The tips of his hair glow. His expression is satisfied, serene, like a cat with a mouse in its claws. “What did you do?”
Gentle fingers pet through Childe’s hair. Zhongli hums. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I suppose she was more willing to bargain when I told her that I had two of her Harbingers in my possession, and I would only let them go if she ceded to my very reasonable demands.”