zhongli x childe short stories

if you kissed me now, i know you'd fool me again

He makes a stunning man, that Morax.

Childe gazes at the god warily from across the ballroom. His posture is perfect, as always. Of course, it is. What about him wasn't?

The god stands perfectly poised amidst the crowd. He's chatting cordially with someone Tartaglia does not recognize, some Sumerian official, perhaps. Tartaglia cannot find it within himself to care who.

He's dressed most regally in traditional Liyuean attire that Zhongli has once described to him. Silver pauldrons rest upon his broad shoulders, adorned with that geometric pattern Zhongli is so fond of. A chang shan of the deepest browns clings to his slim waist, with a pattern akin to dragon scales shifting on the fabric as it catches the light of the ballroom.

Childe scoffs at that. Although Morax is no longer walking around with horns protruding from his head as he did in the old days, it's still crystal clear who he is. Even without the scale motifs on his chang shan, or that aura of divine energy radiating from him, Childe would recognize those eyes anywhere. Some nerve he had, showing up in his homeland, in the palace of his queen as if to remind him of his failures.

Whatever. He had no business with Morax. He will not be paying him any mind.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep sip of his wine before sighing as he swallows. This will be a long night.

He'll stay out of the god's way. Chances were, with how crowded the ballroom was, Morax wouldn't even notice he was there.

Would he even recognize him? It's been a year, it wouldn't surprise him if he didn't. After all, who was he but a puppet on his string? He had served his purpose, and there was no need to keep him in mind.

It's not like he wanted to talk to Morax either. He thinks he just might die if he has to be subjected to the god's unmovable gaze once more. His eyes can't help but flit about the room nervously, planning out potential escape routes. But it's only a matter of time before his gaze gravitates back to the god.

Morax's eyes crinkle kindly as a small smile hangs on his lips. It looks so familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Perhaps it's simply been a while since Childe's seen his face.

Childe looks away. The murmur of people in the background is getting rather irritating, but he is obligated to stay as a Harbinger. He toes at the floor with his boot and frowns.

Amidst the crowd, a singular voice rings clear as a bell. Zhongli's sonorous baritone sinks into Childe's head like honey in water.

He's talking about rocks again. Childe looks for something new to fiddle with, something to distract him from the pounding in his head, the stinging of his nose, the echoes of Zhongli's voice ricocheting off the corners of his mind, repeating over, and over, and over again.

Flashes of gold, the warm Liyuean breeze, the smell of dumplings. It's all coming back to him now. Childe takes another sip of wine.

No.

Zhongli is gone.

Zhongli is dead.

Zhongli was never real.

He's a stunning man, that Zhongli.

Childe looks across the dinner table at the man sitting there. His posture is perfect as he brings a dumpling elegantly to his mouth.

Childe looks down at his own chopsticks, resting clumsily in his hands. He frowns. He just doesn't know how this man does it. He wields the sticks with such dignity and grace, it's ridiculous. Who knew an act as simple as eating could carry so much beauty?