Chapter Text
Stoicism is one of the first masks a Fatuus must don — and the only one he happens to forgo. A façade to placate he can understand, can go along with just fine, or with the theatricality of one meant for intimidation, but that manufactured coolness... more than anything, it's boring. To waste time pretending that the cherry-red, cherry-sweet taste of his enemies' essence brings him anything but exhilaration — isn't life far too short for such meaningless pretenses?
At least, that's the philosophy that Childe's been a lone adherent to for many years now. It's far simpler to extend easy amiability to his subordinates over the disciplinary tactics that his fellow Harbingers tend to prefer. Even if the Fatui at Northland Bank still tend to approach him with the sort of cautious fragility one would extend to an unexploded bomb, were a bomb sensitive to the mien of its handlers.
Admittedly, progress has been made — the breakroom does not fall into a hush the moment he steps in anymore, and on one occasion, Vlad had even forgotten to salute him. It would have been a lovely professional milestone, had he not immediately blanched and apologized when Childe smiled at him.
All this to say: when Ekaterina opens the door to his office like a sinner to his gallows, he finds himself instantly on alert.
“Katya,” He says, angling his gaze away from the stray paperwork he'd been flipping through. Whatever it was that had her hesitating at his threshold, he hoped it would be more engaging than the monthly ledgers. “Something the matter? Have we an unruly customer on our hands?”
Would that it could be so. Most respectable citizens of Liyue strove to pay off whatever money they'd borrowed from the Bank as though the Mora would grow teeth if they weren't fast enough. As for the non-respectable end of the spectrum... well, they did not show up as much as they were found.
“Ah. No.” Ekaterina's tone suggests that that outcome would've been a more favorable one. She holds out a letter for him to take, which he does, if only to rid her from the ordeal of having it in her hands. ”A letter from Lord Pulcinella, addressed to the Lord Harbinger.“
Hm. Yeah, that makes sense, he supposes. His subordinates may have eased up marginally around him, but the concoction of awe and terror for the Harbingers inspired in every recruit is not easily — if ever — forgotten.
As a person who only ever gazed at impossible heights to measure the steps between himself and the summit, Childe had never quite understood the fanfare. At least, not until the time he'd had the fortune to be witness to Capitano indulging his old squadron in some hands-on training.
Aah… just the thought of the tang of blood that had filled the crisp-cold air that day has him sighing longingly.
”Thanks, Katya,“ He says, easing the wax seal off with his nails. ”If there's nothing else, you can go now.“
She does not go. In fact, she produces a package from within her coat — some sort of curious looking box? It reminded him of the Sumerian jewelry boxes he'd sent to Tonia — and places it at the edge of his desk. “This was included with the letter.”
He turns the box within his hand. It feels imbued with the faintest traces of elemental energy — the buzz of Electro, branching out in all directions in hopes of resonance.
“I trust standard protocol was followed in examining the contents?” He asks absently. Pulcinella might be the only one of his coworkers he didn't actively distrust, but it was still best to account for any and all interferences.
“Indeed, sir. It appears to be a mere Casket of Tomes.”
Casket of Tomes... ah, hadn't his siblings mentioned something about one of those in their letters? Right — the last one had included a very carefully scrawled post-script from Teucer, asking for the new King of Invokations book (which Childe did not think he read himself, given Tonia's previous complaints about Teucer nagging at her to read aloud the books he'd sent... truly, distance did not make mediating these conflicts any easier).
Not that Pulcinella had ever displayed the slightest inclination towards the nostalgic indulgences of childhood. There'd always be an air of polite bafflement about him whenever they visited Childe's family, a sentiment which his parents returned wholly.
He pushes the box's clasp open, and its contents slip out with a faint sigh of paper.
The first thing he sees is Signora’s face, coolly judgmental. This is understandably disturbing, given that the last he had seen of her was in an urn the Guuji Yae had pressed into his hands with a pleasant smile.
Worse yet: when he places the card face-down on the table, what emerges from within is a lookalike of him, trapped in the same glossy veneer as Signora. Their expressions are frighteningly similar. He immediately sets them aside for the letter.
Pulcinella's letters tended to have the same feel about them as the monthly ledgers of Northland; clear-cut precision, only ever mentioning what he deemed necessary. His eyes skim along the page for anything at least relevant to the two-dimensional likeness of him he'd hastily shoved back into the Casket.
—asked Sandrone about the "mini Ruin Guard" per your last letter, though she immediately rejected the idea when I mentioned it was a request from you. I suggest the best course of action be to begin looking for another birthday gift for your brother.
Speaking of your siblings, young Anthon seemed to favor the beginner's alchemy kit, though he insisted he'd use it with you, even after I informed him that some of the materials within the kit were perishable in nature, not to mention your lack of alchemical prowess, but perhaps he would listen to you better than—
...of course, the parameters of necessity tended to vary from the usual when the primary subject of his letters were updates on Childe's family. He makes a mental note to ask around for any crash-courses on alchemy offered around the Harbor.
—lastly, enclosed with this letter is a mock-up of a product intended to be brought into distribution in a few weeks' time. With the rising popularity of this "Genius Invokation TCG" (I assume you must be familiar with it) within and outside of Snezhnaya, coupled with its practice of utilizing well-known figures across Teyvat as "character cards", the Fatui could serve to capitalize on it. Hence: a limited edition Fatui Harbingers deck. What do you think?
Should you have any suggestions regarding the deck, send them along with your next letter. Note that we have no control over the mechanics assigned to each card itself, nor the skills attributed to it. Any problems regarding that front should be addressed to the department of the Sumeru Akademiya responsible for "Genius Invokation TCG", whose address I have—
Childe seals the letter back into its envelope.
⋆ ☀︎ ⋆
Barely a step outside of the Bank, and Childe can already taste the tang of seaspray in the air. Liyue's summer harbors the same blithe indifference towards its revolving-door of visitors as its people do; impersonal in their assault, commerce and heat. Incomparable, to how the chill of Her Majesty's winters twines its way through layers of clothing to nestle between your ribs.
Zhongli would surely furrow his brows with that gossamer expression between thoughtfulness and distaste if Childe were to voice this observation aloud, as though such praise transgressed upon Liyue's honor. That was hardly ever the intention, though the plausible sacrilege of it all was delightful.
The spice-laden scent of Chihu Rock's streets ensnares its every passerby, though Childe has long grown accustomed to weaving around the crowds that inevitably form around lunch-hour. It's honestly a relief to have crowds to weave around to begin with; it wasn't too long ago they'd be cleaved clean through any time some Fatui personnel passed by.
He cranes his head, sweeping through the crowds for the instigator of his and his comrades' disrepute. A flash of Geo-gold from within Wanmin — and, ah, there he is, seated leisurely at the bar table just by the stove, with of course not a piece of his summer-inappropriate attire out of place.
"Zhongli- xiansheng ," Childe greets, already shrugging off his coat as he slumps onto the stool beside his.
"Have you ever been to Sumeru?" Zhongli asks, in lieu of a greeting.
He had — one of the first missions he'd been assigned after getting promoted to first lieutenant. He'd always suspected that Pulcinella had orchestrated the entire affair, throwing him someplace his reputation had not reached to keep him on his toes; that he was grateful for, though the humid, clingy heat had been unforgivable — but Zhongli tended to ask such questions as preface for something more long-winded, and so he merely leans forward with a hum.
"Are you aware that Liyueans who have settled along the harbors of Sumeru tend to repurpose what is to us — local cuisine, though of course whilst also keeping Sumerian sensibilities in mind?" His gaze is firmly fixed on the stove, where Xiangling is, with her usual enthusiasm, sautéing an assortment of vegetables. It is truly a testament to her dedication to her craft that she does not appear even a little affected by the critical scrutiny she is under.
"Huh."
Zhongli offers him a brief sideway glance, so quick that Childe can't quite gauge whether it's meant to be acknowledgement or a curt expression of his disapproval with his audience's engagement. Apparent lack thereof. "Indeed. Though such syncretism in cuisine is and has been commonplace for as long as international trade has, the dish that Xiangling has taken the liberty of preparing for us today is one that, to my knowledge, has origins neither in the gastronomy of Liyue nor that of Sumeru. Instead, the interaction between the two throughout the decades appears to have given birth to a dish which is simultaneously neither, and both. Could such a new creation be described as a fusion, or would the fact that it borrows from both styles despite not foundationally originating in either make it altogether novel?"
"Isn't that —" They press against the bar as Chef Mao clambers past with a veritable pile of dishes stacked on one hand, "— pretty much the definition of a fusion? It seems pointless, introducing meaningless complications when there's a straightforward answer."
At last, the honor of Zhongli's scrutiny is ceded to Childe, shifting to look directly at him; and, ah — seems he was wrong. Zhongli's popped open the topmost button on his shirt; the collar's fall dipping, only slightly, to bare the line of his throat.
Zhongli leans his weight on his elbows in a much more stately mirror of Childe's posture, revealing another sliver of skin. Enough for him to fit his thumb against, feel the quickening of Zhongli’s pretense at a pulse underneath.
Like a caught thief, his gaze skitters past this; past where his hair is caught in the dips between his knuckles where he rests his chin on them, nearly melding with his gloves, and grasps itself, firmly, to his. As ever, he's struck with the desire to blink away sunspots. As ever, he stubbornly perseveres.
"There is a distinction between 'meaningless complications', and nuance."
"Evidently one which eludes you, dear consultant," Childe teases.
It's standard fare as far as their conversations tend to go - but the absence of friendly fire from Zhongli brings them to a stuttering halt.
Beside them, Xiangling's pan sizzles under the crackle-pop of the stove's fire. The chatter of the rush-hour crowds outside smuggles itself in through the window in the occasional spurt of laughter; the clatter of cutlery; the clink of a plate against a table.
"Does something trouble you?" He asks, not bothering with any superficial discretion by leaning into Childe' space or dropping his voice to a whisper. Such disregard for inessential etiquette is nothing new from Wangsheng's most esteemed consultant, though the curious glance Xiangling sends their way does not help much.
"Ah," Childe says, feeling strangely caught out. "Is it that easy to tell?"
"Not at all," Zhongli says, which is undoubtedly worse.
Childe draws back, a little, as though this could help him evade the weight of Zhongli’s regard whatsoever. It only puts him directly in the way of the sun coming in through the doorway, like an ill-intentioned spotlight.
Liyue's sun has a rather infuriating tendency towards leaving little by way of shade, or relief. It charges relentlessly through overhangs, awnings, the trappings of branches and leaves; sharper than the glint off a spearpoint — and nearly as blinding. Perhaps the sun was carved from cor lapis, too?
Those who measure their steps in the shadows as he does know better than most how quickly light scatters away their hiding-places. Which is to say: Childe ducks away from Zhongli's gaze to rifle through his coat; pulls out the Casket of Tomes and slides it over the bar. The sun catches along the woodgrain as Zhongli turns it over in a hand, with the same thoughtful regard one would provide to a puzzle.
" Xiansheng, " Childe begins, like one begins extracting a tooth, "have you heard of Genius Invokation TCG?"
He has, of course.
Zhongli holds the damnable cards between his fingers, extending the same care to them that he would to the new jewelry parure at Mingxing, or to little Lulu's dreams of piracy. "Director Hu introduced it to me," He explains, "within the context of proposing that we set up a room for players within the parlor. It was to be a step towards transforming how the people of Liyue viewed houses of death such as Wangsheng."
"Her business acumen is beyond her years," Childe says, less out of his belief in Hu Tao's ingenuity and more for the slow sigh it draws out of Zhongli.
"It is also beyond Liyue Harbor's," Zhongli says, more absently as his gaze flits along the cards, "Per usual, I did not know where to begin offering constructive — hm."
Childe tips his stool forward until he can catch sight of which card Zhongli's looking at that has grasped hold of his focus so. His own face leers back at him. "Hope you're not jealous, xiansheng . With all of the trinkets Rex Lapis has modeled after him, surely the rest of us deserve a chance in the spotlight, too?"
"Ah? No, pardon me; such attentions do not inspire envy. It is merely that..." Zhongli holds the card up beside Childe's face, as though comparing their features. Childe raises a bemused brow. "...though the ability of these cards to capture the visage of those they depict is commendable, I cannot justify their choice to portray you as so solemn."
"Teasing me now of all times! I can be plenty dignified when the situation calls for it."
"I don't doubt that," Zhongli says, "but you have a lovely smile."
The heat within the kitchen abruptly crests, and so too does most of the blood to Childe's face. Like the recoil of a still-smoking gun, he braces himself for that serene, far lovelier smile Zhongli has when he takes to testing his miserably mortal heart. It fails to appear.
"Hah, well —" Childe plucks the card from Zhongli's fingers and sets it face-down on the table. "Us Harbingers do have a reputation to maintain."
Any subsequent ammunition is intercepted by Xiangling sneaking in between them with surprising stealth to set their order on the bar. For the chaos inherent to her process, the final product always look almost too wonderful to eat, dubiously-sourced ingredients notwithstanding.
Sunset-red cauliflower florets — deep-fried, crisp, still leaving curls of steam in their wake — rest nestled around skilfully sliced pieces of fried fish, coated with a rich sauce. The scent takes him back to trawling through the sticky rainforest heat, to wandering the city streets in plainclothes. To memorizing the jut of the cobblestone under his boots until he could pen it in a story home.
“Sumeru recipes usually go for spices made from dried harra fruit, or padisarahs.” Xiangling does not start conversations so much as she picks up at them the way one would at an unfinished piece of knitting “But neither of those are suited for Liyuen climate, and I wanted to add this to the menu, so…”
“Utilizing Jueyun chilis instead - thus sacrificing flavor for greater suitability to Liyue,” Zhongli says, and not much after, presumably to ponder on the philosophical ramifications of the substitution (or so Childe guessed, mostly to amuse himself. Zhongli’s mind remained an enigma he liked to think he could chip away at deciphering).
Xiangling sighs with barely-contained disappointment at the cauliflower. “The color is pretty though, isn’t it? I wanted you to be the first to try it, Zhongli- xiansheng ! Oh — and you, too, Master Childe!”
Childe dismisses the apologetic crease of her brow with the wave of a hand. Whenever he borrowed her stove, she'd stand at his shoulder to puzzle over the Snezhnayan staples within — the dream-soft sweetness of syrniki , or the homely warmth of pirozhki — but the esotericism of Zhongli's wisdom is a little beyond the hushed secrets of a family recipe.
Zhongli promises her a review of the dish, which seems to reassure her into departing to deal with other customers. In the meanwhile, Childe slots his chopsticks between his fingers and gives them an experimental clack , though they predictably betray him the moment he uses them to eat.
The vicious bite of the spice hits him immediately when he manages to maneuver it into his mouth at last - softening into something tangier thanks to the sauce. Aside from the flames licking at his mouth, though, there’s a certain familiarity to the taste. A little like this, but: hovering around a street-stall, shoulders bumping with the crowds; fruitlessly fanning himself against the heat.
He tells Zhongli as much — that it feels rather strange, eating it so delicately now. Nothing like back then, in leaf-plates stitched together with little wooden sticks, switching between hands when they got too hot to hold.
This must be more troubling than the ingredient substitution, for Zhongli sets his chopsticks aside and considers the dish with newfound gravity. “The atmosphere within which a dish is eaten is indeed as much as contributor to the taste as the ingredients that compose it… how curious, to find itself displaced despite returning to its apparent origins.” The quandary is spared a few more moments before being set aside, as he turns his focus to Childe. “But we’ve veered off-topic. What was the exact nature of your distress with the trading cards inspired by you and your comrades?”
Ah, right. That.
Childe exchanges a tense look with the glossy card back. “It’s just that… my siblings have gotten really into the game recently.”
This alone should be enough for someone of Zhongli’s intellect to begin puzzling out the pieces, and yet, as though in foolish self-justification, Childe can’t help but add — “I’ve rather spoiled Teucer, you know? He’s got to have any shiny new toy he sees, even if he never plays with it.”
Not that he minds, usually — he would seize the world with his fists alone, if that was the shape his family’s happiness took, but some truths are better looked at when they are misshapen beyond recognition by the long shadows cast upon them. And, despite everything, when it comes to the guileless smiles of the ones he holds dear… well, he’s always been a little selfish.
“I see. This is a conundrum indeed,” Zhongli says, which is very sweet of him, considering that even Childe is not oblivious to the inherent ridiculousness of the situation. “Would it not be possible to simply keep news of these cards from them, whenever they are released to the public?”
“ Xiansheng underestimates the power of a braggart schoolchild,” Childe says, because his darling little brother is one. “Besides, my family’s never been very keen on my little toy salesman act. It’d be unfair to ask them to play a part in keeping it up.”
“You cannot hide an awl in a bag,” Zhongli muses.
He is, at first, far too disproportionately pleased at the sound of Snezhnayan — lightly accented — in Zhongli’s voice to register what he’s actually said. When he does, he laughs, wry. “Something like that.” And then, despite already knowing the answer — “Where’d you learn that one from?”
“From you,” Zhongli says, indulgently, lifting his chopsticks back up, but only to push some of the cauliflower in Childe’s direction. It would cool down soon, so Childe obliges. “Three months ago, the story about your sister burning breakfast.”
“Ah.” Tonia had buried the burnt, blackened pot in the snow and written him a tearful letter confessing her crimes. Regrettably, Childe’s reply had reached Mama’s hands before hers. “I wonder if I should start charging you a consultation fee now instead?”
The remark is mostly an idle one, given that most of his focus is on dragging the floret through the sauce, then pinching it between his chopsticks. Naturally, this is where his hands decide best to fail him and drop the food — only for it to be intercepted midair by Zhongli.
“Master Childe had best concentrate on one thing at a time, I think,” Zhongli says, his chopsticks hovering close to Childe’s lips. He leans forward, curling his fingers around Zhongli’s wrist to steady his grip. A small mercy, that his face is already flushed from the spice. “That said… if you cannot control the distribution of the cards, then perhaps you can their appearance.”
The weave of their gloves catches as he pulls away. “The letter did say to contact the Akademiya in case of any issues…”
Though, realistically speaking, he doubted this would be an issue solved over a single letter; not to mention that the cards were slated to be released shortly, which meant accounting for the transit period of any correspondence.
Truly, nothing about his job frustrated him more than the trappings of bureaucracy. His patience and discipline were better saved for battle than for paperwork — or, worse yet, for feigned shows of diplomacy.
…Diplomacy. That was the pretense under which the Fatui had stationed their troops all across Sumeru, wasn’t it? Of course, it wouldn’t work now , what with the changes the newly freed Devi Kusanali was intent on bringing about, but that didn’t preclude him from visiting , especially if it related to business…
“Sorry, xiansheng, ” Childe says, pushing the barstool back to stand, “but I think I’ll have to cut today’s lunch a little short. And today’s dinner, maybe. Tell Xiangling to just bill everything to the bank, alright?” He shuffles the cards back into a deck, gathers up his sun-warmed coat from where he’d draped it earlier. “Don’t worry about the cards, either — I think I’ve figured out what to do about them.”
Zhongli’s eyes slowly trail their way from Childe’s seat to him. He blinks; then, again, as though caught up in an afterimage. “That is a relief. Regardless, if there is anything I can —”
“— That’s alright,” Childe interrupts him midway, one foot already in the shade cast by the awnings. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you any further.”
A faint breeze tugs at the sway of Zhongli’s ponytail, at the half-curtains on the entrance, leading the strips of sunlight on the floor in a strange dance — in and out.
“That’s alright,” He echoes, eyes closing into crescents, “I am quite fond of the trouble you bring.”
Her Majesty is gracious and merciful; Childe does not trip and fall flat on his face.
⋆ ☀︎ ⋆
He decides it best to set off as soon as possible, if it means making it to Sumeru within the next couple of days. Sunset smudges the rooftops of Feiyun slope with golden fingers as he winds his way down the stairs, the hawkers’ cries lulled into quiet by the exhaustion that invariably sets in this time of day. Dockworkers hang off of each others’ shoulders on their way home, tutting at the children that weave around their legs, at their impossible way of stretching a few moments to snapping until they could accommodate one last game between them.
The Millileth at the city gates give him their usual wary looks as he passes by. He often wonders what great act of nefariousness they imagine him committing between the bridge leading out of the city and the dirt path outside, to grip their spears tighter in his presence.
Like most days, the question goes unasked. Unlike most days, his self-restraint has nothing to do with it. Instead, his footsteps trail to a stop at the scene before him: Zhongli, kneeling by a dog, scratching it between the ears with a solemn sort of diligence.
Distressingly enough, this is not at all: another dog pushes through his coattails to butt its head against his knee. Perhaps in the pursuit of fairness, Zhongli spares it his other hand with perfect serenity. It leans into the touch unabashedly.
It should look ridiculous, Childe thinks, woefully.
He’s a little envious, he has to admit. Somewhat, shamefully, of the mutts, but mostly of the easy trust they offer. Ever since his time in the realm below all, no animal seemed to have the capacity to stand him anymore. The sled dogs his father owned would snarl at his approach, and the cat in the alley by his apartment waits until he’s out of sight before going near the food he leaves out.
Sure enough, a few steps is all it takes for their fur to rise on end — and another for them to scatter. Zhongli’s hand remains mid-air where there had once been a dog underneath it, meeting Childe’s eyes as he looks around to account for the difference. He, at the very least, seems pleased with his presence.
“Sorry about that,” He says, as Zhongli dusts himself off and stands up. The silver of the epaulettes on his coat wars with the dying gold of the sun reflecting upon them. “I probably scared them off.”
“I’m certain you did not,” Zhongli replies, brow furrowed. “They rather remind me of you.”
This admittedly warrants some elaboration, but Zhongli fails to offer any. Childe quickly makes his peace with the mystery.
“Did Director Hu decide to let you go early today?” He asks instead. Most of their dinners together tended to be preceded by him lounging around the entranceway of Wangsheng, making unsuccessful small talk with Meng while Zhongli finished his paperwork for the day.
“She did, but only at my request.” Zhongli inclines his head in his direction. In that brief second, the sun becomes his halo. “I was hoping I could join you.”
Ah? Ah.
Well. It’s only natural, he supposes, that Zhongli of all people would figure him out so easily.
…still, a bruise to his pride remains a bruise, even if it was inflicted with such sincere intention. Childe folds his arms with a resigned sigh. “Am I really that predictable?”
Zhongli appears to give this genuine thought, which is deeply hurtful. “It would be more appropriate to say ‘straightforward’, I think. A straight line is easy to predict.”
Coming from someone who only recently deceived his worshipers by puppeteering his own death, Childe isn’t quite sure if that’s a compliment or not. When he says much, Zhongli merely smiles; as though Childe has stumbled his way into a joke he alone is in on. “I admire your insistence on being forthright, even if it may often be at your own expense.”
“ Xiansheng must stop making his compliments so convoluted,” Childe says, instead of, xiansheng must stop looking at me so closely. “And… anyway. There’s no need to deviate so much from your usual routine just to help me out.”
Bewilderingly, Zhongli’s smile turns a shade sheepish at this. “In truth, my motivations are somewhat selfish as well. I was hoping to try the dish we had at Wanmin today, only as it is truly meant to be eaten.”
Trekking to a neighboring country with so whimsical a motive does seem very like Zhongli, doesn’t it. Not to mention — it would ease Childe’s mind a great deal, to think he was actually getting something out of the trip. Undoubtedly, he thinks, this is why Zhongli said it to begin with.
Childe sighs, again, only this time, shaped around the pinpricks of warmth in his chest. Honestly. For someone to be so kind… can he really be blamed for getting the wrong idea?
He puts up his hands in defeat, offset by the foolish smile he can’t help. “A good warrior knows when to yield. Besides — far be it from me, to keep Liyue’s top gourmet from his pursuits.”
“Or from the pleasure of your company,” Zhongli adds, with a silver-platter ease that renders his earlier excuse entirely defunct.
Childe bites back the beginnings of a laugh. Forthright at your own expense, huh? “Alright. That too.”