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Childe is bored.
He sits, slumped and half asleep, in one of the stuffy meeting rooms of Zapolyarny Palace, listening to some underling debrief him and an array of equally bored soldiers about Archons knows what. The man at the head of the table isn’t even anyone he knows, just some fool with a spreadsheet in his hands.
Utterly boring. Absolutely infuriating.
It’s taken him several months of being back in Snezhnaya to fully realize what plagues him so. He’s homesick. Homesick for the drowsy warmth of Liyue. For its unfrozen lakes, its sandy shoals. For Xiangling’s cooking. Of course, it’s nice to have the finest cooks in Snezhnaya at his beck and call, but the food at the palace is nothing like the food he remembers from his childhood. He’s not home in that sense, either, with Morepesok being nearly half a day’s train ride away.
It’s probably a good thing. Being fussed over by his mother and trapped in a too-small house with his siblings is a different sort of torture than the endless meetings and planning, but it’s torture nonetheless.
He misses the lazy evenings with Zhongli. Misses trading tea for baiju at the Third Round Knockout as they drink down whatever tale is told that night. He misses Zhongli’s cluttered, chaotic apartment and the space he’s carved there for himself. Their quarters here are nice—extravagant, really. They have a whole wing to themselves, on account of Zhongli’s role in the Tsaritsa’s plan. But they don’t get to enjoy it. Zhongli is out at all hours of the day, doing whatever is required of him, and Childe is stuck here listening to someone who probably doesn’t know which end of a dagger to hold tell him about how very important this meeting is. By the time he stumbles back to their bedroom, he’ll be exhausted, and Zhongli will either be out still or already fast asleep under the covers.
He stifles a yawn.
When the meeting ends, it’s with the snap of a binder and a muffled exclamation. Childe is first out the door, eager for anything besides the smoke-tinged air that fills the room. The true depth of winter is still several months away, and yet nobody thought to open a window in that damned room?
But the air in the hallway is less stale, and he makes for his rooms. He’s lucky—today, he has a rare moment of nothing at all, a thirty minute period where he can either spar or nap, and so he’s not paying nearly enough attention to his surroundings when he blows into the bedroom and yanks at his furs.
Zhongli’s laugh is quiet and fond. “Was the meeting so wretched?”
“Zhongli!” Childe whirls, dropping his gloves. Regal in pale Fatui robes of his own, Zhongli offers him a half-smile before Childe is on him, wrapping his arms around Zhongli’s neck and clinging tight. “Aren’t you busy? What are you doing here now?”
“I’ve missed you. You’ve been working so hard,” he says, pressing a cold nose to Childe’s neck. So he’s been outside, then, perhaps using his knowledge of machines to advise the Tsaritsa’s mechanics. Perhaps instructing a collection of generals on age-old stratagems long lost to history. Perhaps something else entirely.
“I’ve missed you too,” Childe murmurs, drawing him closer. “I’m sorry that we’ve both been so busy.”
“I blame Anastasya,” Zhongli says, voice warm with amusement. “But let me take you out today. Let it be my treat.”
If only. He could show Zhongli every place he’s fond of, from the frost-covered parks to the extravagant coffee houses and cafés. He’ll convert Zhongli to coffee yet, or at least make him see reason, just as Childe’s come to enjoy tea. Alas. He sighs. “I can’t. I have another meeting soon.”
“No, you don’t.” Zhongli’s eyes glitter.
Although he is loath to do so, Childe pulls away. He studies Zhongli at arm’s length, taking in the small smile that curves his lips, his darkly slitted eyes. He radiates smug satisfaction, a cat with its mouth full of fish.
Perhaps not fish, knowing Zhongli. Perhaps… a dragon with an unwitting Harbinger in its clutches.
“Okay,” Childe says, tilting his head up to brush his lips against Zhongli’s. “So, where are we going?”
Their destination, it turns out, is the Grand Opera House. It is utterly empty in a way Childe has never seen it before, and their steps are too loud in the yawning void as they walk straight down the middle aisle. Although candles light the way, it’s the barest of things, and Childe has to squint at the carpeted stairs to avoid tripping on them or the hem of his coat. Ahead of him, Zhongli is sure-footed and quick, the furred end of his own coat sweeping across the floor.
“But there’s nothing scheduled until tonight,” Childe says, hurrying to Zhongli’s side. “Are we even allowed to be here?”
“My darling love.” Zhongli stops so suddenly that Childe nearly crashes into him. The world spins as Zhongli leans over him, a hand firm at his back, keeping him steady. His breath is hot on Childe’s cheek, tea-sweet. “Indulge me.”
So Childe swallows his protests and doubts as Zhongli presses their lips together. Zhongli’s mouth is warm, but his tongue is greedy as he licks into Childe’s mouth, as he pulls him closer. It is like being devoured. Zhongli dips him lower, taking more, and Childe cannot help it—he gasps into the kiss, his breath thin. With this kiss, Zhongli claims him, transforms him into a scrap of a thing that aches for nothing but more, more. There is something so strange about doing this here, in a silent theater, with nothing but the empty seats as their witness. They are exposed, they are alone, they are standing before a great stage with their kiss as the centerpiece.
When Zhongli pulls them back up, Childe is left reeling. Heat races through him, makes him light-headed, and no matter how many desperate breathes he sucks in, it is never enough. Zhongli’s eyes glow in the semidarkness; he, too, breathes heavily. “Do you have any more questions?” he rasps.
“No.” Childe’s voice comes out hoarse. “None at all.”
The sound Zhongli makes is as much of a purr as Childe’s ever heard from him in public. “Good.” He takes Childe’s hand and leads him the rest of the way to the lifted stage, lacing his fingers together to boost Childe onto the platform. “A moment, please.”
With Zhongli gone, Childe is swallowed by the stage. The seats sprawl before him, faceless spectators that do not judge. He is once again ten years old, standing before a crowd of unblinking parents. His mother sits in the front row, clapping. Her smile is so big her teeth shine. The theater is different—it is less ornate, more of a conference room than anything else, but to him, it is intimidating and vast.
He is sixteen years old, sneaking out from the barracks to perch atop the roof of a lesser theater, one of many in Snezhnograd. The music from the orchestra leaks through the shingles, and Childe cannot help it—he moves, he dances for no one but himself until the music falls silent and applause rises from the patrons below.
He is once again twenty. He dances to hone his body, to keep himself flexible and lithe, but he does not forget those stolen moments on the rooftop of the opera house. When watching from the private box grows boring, he leaps onto the stage, to equal horror and delight from the crowd. He lives for the swell of the music, the rise and fall of the symphony, the clarion call of the grand organ whose pipes decorate the wall behind him.
Where is Zhongli? Childe’s breath rattles in his lungs as he takes a deep, calming breath. Another.
Then the music starts.
Soft, at first. A bit breathy; keys pressed too gently. Tentative, even, if one could describe a pipe organ as such. It is Zhongli—it has to be. The melody sounds strange on the organ, but it is too familiar. Nothing like any of the sounds that are commonly played in Snezhnaya. As the music grows louder, filling the empty seats and the spaces between his breaths, Childe shudders in recognition. This is—he’d only mentioned it to Zhongli once, an offhand comment—one of his most favorite pieces from one of his most favorite plays. The organ changes it, turns it from something distinctly Liyuean into a mix of both worlds, and Childe is left breathless in its beauty.
When he closes his eyes, the music overwhelms him. Here, he does not have to be anything but himself. There is nobody to observe him, to judge him beyond Zhongli himself. And what if Zhongli sees? Zhongli already knows his heart, just as Childe knows his.
Breath caught in his throat, Childe extends a hand. Dips into a shallow bow. Though his partner is invisible, he knows exactly how tall Zhongli is, where to reach so that the soft leather of Zhongli’s glove brushes his bare palm.
And then he moves. The steps come easily to him, all these years later. He moves with confidence, with joy. His steps echo on the stage, loud without a crowd to absorb the sound, but he does not care. Enswathed in Zhongli’s music, he is not Childe, not Tartaglia—he is not even Ajax. He is nothing, nobody, wild and free, set spinning like a top from a child’s hand. He is untamable, his is power incarnate, he is just a boy who dreams and a weapon who feels nothing at all. He is the Tsaritsa’s creature, he is Zhongli’s lover, the abyss’s puppet, he is—he is—
Warm salt seeps into his mouth. His cheeks are wet. He stumbles—and then the stage is rising to meet his knees, the wood rough against his palms. His head spins. Music rings in his ears, music and echoing, empty silence, and then Zhongli is there, kneeling beside him, a hand on his shoulder.
“Baobei,” he murmurs. “Ajax. Darling.”
He has no words. He can only tremble, clinging to Zhongli as traitorous tears slide down his face, as his breath burns hot in his throat. He is not sure what he feels—if it’s ecstasy, sorrow, or some mixture of both. He hides his face in Zhongli’s coat, taking solace in the darkness.
Zhongli holds him tight, surrounding him with steady warmth, the comforting resonance of Geo. He strokes Childe’s hair, teases the knots from it. He croons soft words of comfort into Childe’s ear until Childe’s shakes subside, until he’s more ashamed than anything else.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, rubbing at his cheeks, his nose. Zhongli passes him a handkerchief, and Childe takes it, grateful. “It was nice. It was really nice.”
Zhongli lifts Childe’s other hand. Presses his lips to Childe’s wrist. “I did not mean to for this to become a burden.”
“It’s not that.” Childe pushes at his shoulder, and Zhongli leans against him as Childe stands. “It was—something else. I’m okay. But you—that was incredible. I didn’t know you knew how to play the organ.”
The look Zhongli gives him is playfully affronted. “I know many things,” Zhongli says, pushing himself to his feet.
Warmth floods Childe’s veins. With Zhongli here, his anguish fades; instead, he feels grounded by Zhongli’s being, caught in a web of serene tranquility. “But the organ? Does Liyue even have those?”
Zhongli huffs. “Of course.”
Their hands meet as Childe passes him the handkerchief, and when Zhongli makes to pull back, Childe threads their fingers together, halting his retreat. “Dance with me, Zhongli.”
“Are you sure?” Zhongli’s brows furrow.
“Of course.” He tugs Zhongli up, rearranging their hands. “Hold me here. We’ll do something easy, since we don’t have music unless you split yourself into two.” He thinks he sees Zhongli’s eyes twinkle at his words, but then Zhongli dips into a shallow bow, and after that, nothing matters but the man before him. Zhongli moves with an ageless grace, tempering Childe’s wildness, and together they sink into the echoes of Zhongli’s music. They are perfectly matched, an even give and take, and Childe’s eyes grow damp once more as he drinks in Zhongli’s smile, the light in his eyes.
Damn the dance, the vestiges of music. Childe pulls Zhongli into his arms and presses their lips together. There on the stage of the Grand Opera House, before an empty crowd, Childe kisses him fiercely, desperately, and Zhongli responds with equal fervor. He cradles Childe’s head, draws him closer, until Childe cannot breathe past the swell of affection in his chest. Childe kisses Zhongli until his lungs burn, until his pulse pounds in his ears and his head spins. Only then does he pull away, gasping for air, for any sense of the outside world.
Zhongli’s soft laugh sends the butterflies in his stomach into flight. “You have nothing scheduled for the entire rest of the day,” he says. “Would you show me your grand city? Or would you rather go back to the palace and rest?”
“Hmm.” Childe buries his face into the soft fur of Zhongli’s coat. “I suppose I could show you around.”
And so, hand in hand, they leave the opera house. Nobody looks at them oddly—nobody pays them much mind at all—but Childe does not care either way, for Zhongli’s hand in his is all he needs.