Chapter Text
The rainfall had been much more persistent than originally perceived by Tartaglia’s new business associate. The two cower under an underpass of a mountain, staring irritatedly at the raindrops. Well, at the very least, Tartaglia was irritated by it. His companion seemed almost entranced by it.
“You know, it’s incredibly balmy out here, Mister Zhongli,” the Harbinger says. The other man glances over, taken out of his daze. “I doubt we’ll catch a cold in this weather.” He had been leaning against the wall of rock, arms crossed in a childish pout. Determined to fight his boredom, he bounces off it and saunters over to the consultant. “Afraid of a little water? Is that why you won’t duel me?”
Zhongli stares stonily at him, and his gold eyes stare so sternly Childe almost feels compelled to apologize. “You are quite the nuisance,” he scolds, but Childe’s almost sure his mouth curves up a bit. Could he be… teasing him? Childe grins. “I have engaged in enough combat for a lifetime. I certainly will not fight a friend.”
Friend. It rolls so casually off of the Liyuean’s tongue, though the Snezhnayan feels as though he were zapped by his Delusion. “I’d forsake our friendship in a heartbeat to witness your combat, Mister Zhongli.” Elbows bent and hands clasped behind his back, Zhongli takes a large step forward, so that Childe can see the full intensity of his stare, the growing curve of his smile. “You didn’t deny being afraid of the water.”
“Certainly I would have declined your invitation to the beach if that were true.”
Childe takes another step closer. “Certainly. Though I think your insistence to wait until the rain stops to go down to it is a bit suspicious. You’ve scarcely let it stop you before.” He raises his eyebrows, smirking at Zhongli’s smile faltering. “You are afraid. Scared of the creatures that lie beneath?” He can feel Zhongli’s breath against his skin. “You never do eat seafood.”
To this, the consultant restores his faint smile. “I would have no interest in participating in combat with you, rain or shine.”
Tartaglia laughs heartily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, I will see you fight one day, Mister Zhongli. Mark my words.” He hopes it’s as convincing to Zhongli as it is to him. “Though I won’t force you to the beach. I thought you’d appreciate a day away from your… boss.” He doesn’t hide his disdain for Hu Tao, and neither does Zhongli. “Maybe it should be you, a native of this harbor, that should be inviting me to better spots.”
To that, the consultant chuckles, finally exposing his full grin. To Childe, it’s as though he won a prize. “Maybe so. I did not think you were a tourist; you’re here strictly on business, no?”
“Business is slower than expected.” Childe sighs, glancing out at the dreary sky. It’s probably even more miserable back in Snezhnaya. “I grow tired of the same people and same settings day in and day out.”
Zhongli’s expression softens. “Sounds as though you’ve grown quite homesick.”
Obviously, he wants to say, but bites the remark and smiles sorely. “Liyue is nothing like home. Days like this, when the weather is miserable, makes me yearn for it even more.” Childe had barely restrained the secret of how he ached for his siblings. Knowing they were growing up without him and without his true protection made him even antsier than he already was. He gnaws on the inside of his cheek. “I’m here to serve My Lady proudly, but I…” He restrains himself once more. “I’ll get to go home soon. I just need this… procurement to speed up.”
Zhongli studies him carefully, not saying a word for a while. He did that a lot; sometimes Childe wondered if those golden eyes were somehow seeing right through him. “Perhaps your vacation won’t be too painful,” he says finally, almost carefully. He turns away from the other, facing towards the rainstorm as well. “Perhaps I will be able to show you sights that make you soften to Liyue’s warm weather.”
The rainfall fills their following silence. Childe glances at Zhongli out of the corner of his eye, and finds his gaze locking with eyes of golden confusion. He quickly darts his eyes away.
“Childe…” He dares to look at Zhongli. Their arms are brushed up against each other, and if he were to turn to fully face the man, he’s sure they’d be nose to nose. Instead, Childe chooses only to exhale a sigh. “Have I ever told you the story of the Adeptus Alatus?”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes and staring back out at the storm. “No, but I’m sure if you told me it all, the rain would have time to clear up enough for us to go down to the beach after all.” The threat is not empty; the downpour had already begun to noticeably slow.
With a sigh, the consultant crosses his arm and steps forward — and away from Childe. “Many find deeper meaning in his story. He is almost doomed to a life of suffering.”
“Subtle.”
Zhongli ignores him. “He is the most gentle soul underneath his battle wounds,” he continues, as if speaking from personal experience. It compels Childe to step after him. “He is condemned to an eternity of being a warrior.” Suddenly, he turns on his heel, standing nose to nose to Childe, eyebrows narrowed. “Is this the life you want?”
“What else is there?”
It’s an invitation — no, another challenge. Hopefully one more enticing than a trip to the beach to a man that abhorred the water.
As if deciding to oblige at the same time, the two both move forward, reaching up to cup the back of each other’s heads. Their lips crash, then their tongues engage in the very combat Tartaglia had promised.
He rakes his fingers through brunet hair until it is surely disheveled, and soon, his pushing and desperation to get closer to the other has Zhongli pinned against the rock wall. Zhongli gasps in surprise, and Childe bites down on his bottom lip, drawing a bit of blood that he hastily kisses away. The taller groans as Childe leaves kisses of blood on his cheek, his jaw, and fainter and fainter down his neck.
“So many damn layers in this heat,” Childe scolds, ripping through the buttons that bound Zhongli’s collar tightly together. He bites down again against Zhongli’s pale neck, and presses himself against the other’s chest before pulling back to catch his breath.
The rain has slowed to a near stop, and the redhead glances out at the clearing skies. All that can be heard now are their labored breaths and birds chirping with relief.
“So…” Childe grins widely. “Will you fight me now that the storm has passed?”
The day that the Tsaritsa arrives, she sends a letter four hours before her intended descent. The message slips quietly underneath the door, the cold wind that pushes a nearby window open helping the letter reach its intended destination. Childe had been found by it with his head asleep on top of the kitchen table he had been using as his desk. He startles awake once it pokes his face, summoning dual hydro blades and standing up abruptly enough to knock his chair on the ground. The letter begins to freeze, and, with trembling hands, the Harbinger hastens to reveal its contents.
Dearest Eleventh,
Her Majesty intends to arrive in four hours after you receive this letter.
Please ensure the proper arrangements have been adhered to generously and carefully.
The letter had not bothered to have been signed, but it certainly did not need to be. Tartaglia wouldn’t have bothered to read it regardless; he had already set down the letter and dashed outside. Coughs had begun to creep up his throat, but he determinedly locks his jaw and attempts to clear his throat.
“Her Majesty arrives in four hours!” He shouts into the snow. Obediently, multiple agents appear, standing up tall, and looking stoic behind their masks. “Make haste to finish the final preparations. Ensure we will not be disturbed upon her arrival.” The agents wait for dismissal, but he carelessly reopens his front door — almost running straight into Teucer. Childe swallows a curse word.
“You shouldn’t be here, Teucer,” he scolds, crouching down in front of his brother. His lungs rebel, and he finally submits to a coughing fit that makes him fall further down to sitting on the floor. “I’m okay,” he assures his concerned youngest. Through somewhat disoriented vision, Ajax watches as Teucer sits down right next to him, holding onto his arm rather tightly.
“Everyone’s worried about you,” he laments. Ajax cringes, but plays it off with a laugh.
“I’m sure now they’re worried where you’re off to.” Childe stands up, pulling his little brother up with him. “I’m very busy, Teucer. I’ll have to have Aunt Natalia walk you back.”
Teucer pouts, arms crossing. “No! I’m not leaving without you.” Childe coughs a bit, causing a lapse in Teucer’s dismay. “You need some hot soup and a nap, Tonia says.”
The sentiment makes him laugh almost bitterly. With a jaded expression he can’t quite mask, Ajax glances down at the dark purple mark that briefly reaches out from a vein in his wrist. The mark had only grown longer since he first noticed it in the hospital. “I will gladly submit to those terms, my dear brother, but you must obey mine. Oh, Aunt Natalia!” As he calls her, his lieutenant emerges from the shadows of the stairs without her Fatui uniform on — and instead, a perfectly normal Snezhnayan young woman’s outfit. She opens her arms wide for Teucer’s inevitable hug. “I’m afraid I’m terribly wrapped up in work, dear Aunt. Would you please take Teucer home to Papa and Mama?”
“Of course, my dear,” she obliges, holding her “nephew” close. “Why, they’ll be terribly worried that you ran off again. You mustn’t make your parents worry, Teucer.”
Tartaglia watches on, smile melting away as Teucer’s attention falls off of him. This rebellious streak from his younger brother began to concern him. It’s certainly not far off from his own adolescence.
No. While Teucer would grow to be strong, he had a while yet before his childhood would have to end for it. He had a while yet under his big brother’s careful protection.
As he grows older, though, Ajax wonders if his brother will think kindly of his deceit. Though he knows what he does is for his family protection, will Teucer so easily understand that? It seemed to get harder and harder for Tonia and Anthon to appreciate his efforts. Would it all be in vain?
The Tsaritsa would bring him clarity with Her presence. He’s sure of it.
Time passes glacially in the final stretch of waiting for Her arrival. Tartaglia stands with his knee already bent, head lowered with unwavering respect. Despite the impeccable structure of his position, the man is unable to prevent his trembling. Each interaction with Her Majesty that he had been blessed with always caused him to shiver for the remainder of the day.
When his fire goes out, he knows Her Majesty’s presence is imminent.
Excitement nearly persuades his better judgment to raise his head, to gaze upon the beauty and regality of his Lady. Heart pounding in his ears, he digs his nails into his palm in an useless attempt of stilling his persistent shaking.
“My darling,” a strong voice coos.
Tears pile up in his eyes, and they shatter like icicles when they slip down his face. His teeth begin to shatter, though he tries to clench his jaw to keep it still. It’s no use. “Raise your head so I may see you, my Eleventh.” He sobs to her kindness, melting into the frozen hand that lifts his head up to greet his Tsaritsa.
“Y-Your Majesty,” he wails.
Through the storm that runs through the cabin, he’s unable to fully see the beauty of the Cryo Archon. He sees only the snowflakes that pile up on her wrist. “You serve your country and your Archon well,” she whispers, squeezing his face. It grows numb. “Open your mouth, my darling.” Without question, he obliges, staring up with half-lidded, obedient eyes. “Good boy.”
The Hydro Gnosis appears in her hand, and, gingerly, she places it against his warm tongue. He breathes in through his nose, and he stares up and his Archon with perplexion.
“The Knave speaks highly of your contribution in Fontaine, as did our fallen comrade for your work in Liyue. You’ve done extraordinarily, my pet.” More icicles slip down his cheeks, slicing his skin open a bit. “All of this power belongs to I.” She removes her hand, leaving the Gnosis in his mouth. The storm slows, and he watches her gown of snow follow her as she steps further away.
His heart aches. Desperately, he crawls after her, keeping his mouth open in obedience to her commands. When he finally sees his Archon’s face, she, too, is weeping.
“What is it you love the most, young Eleventh?”
Mouth full, he stares up at her helplessly. She seems to have realized, and scoffs a bit at herself before kneeling down before her soldier. As though he were a snowflake of hers, she is precise and gentle with her touch as she raises his jaw. “If it is power, then you must swallow.” He straightens up. “If it is love for me, then you must swallow this gnosis to serve me at your best.” He closes his lips. “If it is your family, then spit it out.” He hesitates.
Mornings came earlier as winter came to pass, and thus, they’re fortunate enough to travel with the sun’s rays keeping them warm and more readily awake. Ajax prepares the fish bait the night prior: always before his mother starts preparing dinner and after purchasing worms in dirt at the market. He’s had to keep the container of them near his room’s small heater, as he’d be instructed to keep them alive — and Snezhnayan nights were not habitable for the creatures.
Beyond that, he checks the lines and hooks, preparing them for their ice fishing journey. Despite the benefit of warmth, ice fishing could be a bit harder with warmer weather due to increased likelihood of just wet flurries that could create enough sound that made the fish hide away. Sometimes the sun made the ice easier to pierce, at least.
The two had gone ice fishing together every Saturday morning for five years by the time Ajax is thirteen.
Having overestimated the sun, the young Ajax had forgone a layer of protective clothing. As a natural result, he was shivering and clenching his jaw tightly to avoid chattering his teeth. Unaware, his father’s weary eyes were trained patiently on the line that awaited to be pulled. It had taken longer than usual today.
“You haven’t begged for a story,” Boris points out, his blue eyes meeting his son’s matching pair. “Something the matter, son?” Ajax curtly shakes his head, guiltily glancing away. “You’re freezing.” Ajax shakes his head quickly. “Then speak otherwise.”
“I-I’m n-”
“Go set a fire in the woods.”
“I-I’m f-f-fine!” Ajax insists, teeth incessantly chattering now that he had unclenched his jaw shut. He audibly shivers.
“We’re not catching anything today,” Boris decides, ducking out of the igloo. “Come, Ajax, let’s warm up and go home.” After a second’s hesitation, the teenager ducks out as well, and his father wraps an arm around him. “Now will you believe me when I tell you to wear all of your layers until the solstice?” His father scolds.
Ajax nods hastily, rubbing his mittens together. “Y-y-yes, P-Pa!”
Soon his shivering ceases after his father builds them both a fire to enjoy. Whilst completing the task, he tells the old folk tale of Antatole the Brave. He was an adventurer who had once been a young boy afraid of even the smallest of creatures, but received a blessing from the then-Cryo Archon to overcome his fears. It’s Ajax’s favorite story; he’d always demand retellings over and over when he was younger.
“One day, I’m going to be a brave adventurer,” Ajax solemnly vows. The fire reaps the last of a branch, and it loudly cracks throughout the forest. “Just like you once were.”
Boris smiles fondly at his son, reaching over and patting his head. “You are a good boy, Ajax, with a kind heart, just like your mother.”
“I want to be strong like you!”
“There is strength in kindness,” the man reminds his son patiently. He stands up, watching as the fire begins to quell without its appetite being satisfied. “You’ve yet to become a man, son. You have not been properly tested.”
To this vague statement, the teenager debates arguing further, but decides instead to reish in his father’s mercy for the day. “One day, I’ll make you proud. I’ll be a great adventurer!”
Laughing fondly, the father wraps his arm around his son’s shoulders. “I have no doubt you will be the best adventurer the world has ever seen.” He cranes his head to look down at his child. “But don’t forget about your family, understand?”
Eyes lit with admiration, Ajax grins and nods in obedience to the request. “Family comes first.” He says it like it’s a mantra.
When the sun rises to the peak of the sky, the two head back home where crackers and (frankly frozen) cheese await them for supper. Ajax complains heartily of how it was much too early for it to be supper, but his father reminded him coldly of how they had failed to bring home actual supper. He tables his concerns promptly.
Regardless, the younger three siblings all get to finish off the last two fish that Mama and Ajax work together to prepare.
“We’re the men of the house, Ajax,” his father explains by the fire after supper. “It is our job to protect and provide for our young, even if we can’t provide for ourselves.”
Ajax scowls. “That’s not fair,” he groans. “You never picked on the other two like this.”
“I didn’t have to.” Boris shakes his head, laughing mirthlessly. “They always took care of you.”
“No, they didn’t! They always picked on me, too!” Ajax stands up off of the living room floor, standing eye to eye with his father who lounged on his chair. “I’m going to become a strong adventurer.” Tears boil up in his eyes. “I don’t even like Tonia and Anthon. And Teucer cries all of the time!”
“They’re weak,” his father reasons. “And that is why we must protect them.”
“That's stupid!”
An abrupt pop startles Ajax out of his rage, and instead in terror over the hole his father punched in the wall. Sighing heavily, the elder runs a hand down his face. Before his father can utter another word, the child flees into his room, closing and locking the door swiftly before hiding under his covers.
About ten minutes of crying consumes the room, interrupted by a gentle knock at the door that makes him recoil.
“Go away!” he snaps at the door.
“Ajax, it’s Mama.” The ginger sits up in his bed, rubbing his puffy eyes. “Can I come in?” He says nothing, but obliges to unlock the door. Mother closes the door behind her before pulling her son in for a warm hug. “You were very disrespectful to your father,” she whispers in his ear. He pulls away from the hug, arms crossing protectively over his chest. “You’ll apologize in the morning. Don’t forget to wash yourself up.” She cups his cheek, but he steps away from her. “Ajax.” A frustrated sigh ruins the mood further. “Don’t be such a child.”
Ajax waves his arms up in the air with frustration, crawling back into bed and hiding himself back under the sheets. “Ajax, family comes first. You know this.” She sits on the edge of his bed and he dramatically scoots away. “You’re ungrateful now, Ajax, but one day you’ll understand everything.”
“Go away,” he hisses out through his tears. His mother listens, thankfully, shutting the door harshly behind her.
“You hesitate.”
Ajax stares up helplessly at his Tsaritsa. His mouth remains closed around the Gnosis, but he soon parts his lips to reveal it back to Her Majesty.
“You love more than my other Harbingers.” A cold gust travels up his throat. He gags. “Love hurts you more than others, doesn’t it? Your family, your comrades, your beloved.” A bright light glimmers amongst icy blue eyes. Delight. “I saw your love in Liyue.” If possible, Tartaglia begins to shiver even more, teeth chattering without any hope of restraint. “I saw it save you in Fontaine, my dear Eleventh.”
He makes an attempt to repeat “save me?” back to Her Majesty, but the gnosis proves a worthy opponent to his speech. She seems to recall the object and takes it promptly from his tongue. Freed now, he repeats his words clearly: “save me?”
The Tsaritsa tilts her head to the side, icicles falling mere centimeters from his head now. “You ache for Morax even now, do you not?” Childe stammers. “Oh, it’s alright, my darling.” She raises up the Hydro Gnosis to the light above, and it gleams a brighter blue. Ajax can feel the velocity of the waves within from down on his knees. “It has softened you.”
Her voice is startlingly so frigid.
She stands rigidly above him, hand enclosed tightly around the chess piece. “I’ve come to remind you of your pledge to me. You are honored with this visit.” He hangs his mouth open uselessly. “Do not forget yourself amongst warmth. Remember the bitter cold.”
Childe dares to stand, but his body trembles so achingly that he instantly drops back down on his knees. He coughs roughly as the storm pushes through the door and begins to reap him. Amidst it, he closes his eyes, hearing the wind rip through his ears, feeling the cold beginning to eat his skin despite his many layers.
As predicted by Her Majesty, he dreams of those balmy nights in Liyue. He thinks of Zhongli’s eyes growing warmer and more golden during a festival night, staring at the lanterns igniting the night sky. Zhongli then looked at him, smiling brighter than any star Childe’s ever seen. He thinks of Zhongli’s hot skin against his lips, he recalls those well placed moles upon otherwise unmarred flesh.
“I love you,” he remembers Zhongli whispering into his ear as the fireworks stopped. Their lips crashed quickly after, and though he tried, Childe could never consume Zhongli to keep him with him at all times.
It’s been months since he’s seen him now, and yet his heart still yearns to swallow Zhongli whole. The snow cannot steal him of that feeling.
“I love you,” he whispers to his Tsaritsa as her frozen thumb glides against his pink cheek. He wonders if he’ll be frost bitten by the end of her visit. “I am your weapon.” He kisses the inside of her palm. It does not warm like Zhongli’s hand had, nor does it pull him in for a real kiss.
The Tsaritsa is begrudgingly pleased by this declaration, and squeezes his face affectionately. “Good boy,” she softly coos. He melts. “Stay well, my darling.” Her thumb runs along his bottom lip, pulling it a bit. “I know you ache still from your Abyssal form. Love may be patient, and thus, so may I.” She lifts up his chin once more. “Prepare your heart and body for me, my weapon.”
His blue eyes glisten with complete adoration. Icicles have yet to stop shattering on the ground beneath his chin. “I love you,” he confesses once more.
All of the cold leaves the room, and the fireplace relights with relieving heat. Tartaglia completely collapses, and within seconds, he is covered in heavy blankets supplied by the shadows that had been lying in wait for the exact task.
He lies there for a while, eyes fluttering shut as his body heat strives to return to normal. The shivering slows to a stop, but the chattering seems unconvinced it should do the same. The ghost of the Gnosis on his tongue lingers; he had felt all of its turbulent power resting on top of his tongue, and how it longed to offer it to him. How had he refused it so, when being commanded to him by his Lady? It hadn’t been thoughts of his parents, or even his siblings that had caused him to hesitate.
Tartaglia emerges from the blankets, startling his agents that had begun to prepare the house for his family. “I am to leave and journey back to Liyue.” All of them stop their motions, not daring to look at him. A clear question of doubt lingers in the air. “I have unfinished business. I’ll leave on the earliest ship in two days' time.”
Perhaps a foolish idea. He can only hope that his presence will be accepted by his adored consultant, despite the bitter terms he left on with the entire Harbor. At the very worst, at least he’d be able to recover in better weather.
The issue now is that of leaving his siblings behind so prematurely. After distancing himself for the sake of the visit, he’d now announce his leave again. “Send for gifts for each of my family members,” he mutters to one of his sergeants. “A new toy for Teucer; a fantasy novel for Tonia; a science set for Anthon; cigars for Papa; and…” He thinks of his mother, and tries to pin an interest of hers outside of medicine and anything for the children. “Let’s leave the house in tip top shape for her at least. I’ll mull it over.”
“Yes, sir.”
Family comes first. Ajax reaches for a nearby frame of a photograph of all of them, save for the two eldest. His mother held baby Teucer in her arms, a weary, unfocused grin on her face. The two twins were on a sled in front of the parents; Tonia had been mid-wail, meanwhile Anthon focused quietly on the toy bird in his hands. Ajax, around age eleven, stood in the middle, bandaid on his cheek and crooked grin. Beside him, his father with a plain smile and eyes staring down the viewer. It almost unnerves him now.
The photograph next to it was the picture from the next year, and by the one where he had turned fourteen, he and each smile had disappeared from the picture. He never returned for another, though his mother requested each time.
“I have an idea,” he decides whilst setting it down. With a smile, he brings both hands to his hips. “We’ll round up my family and get a nice photograph.”
Coughing somewhat, he retires in the chair by the fire, legs crossed on the nearby footrest. With a calculating expression forming on his face, the Fatui Harbinger fends off any prying eyes from the shadows. Until he briefly coughs, anyway.
