Chapter Text
You’ve lost count of the amount of times you've shown up here, week after week when time and distance allows. Just as you’re unable to keep track of the amount of times you’ve firmly planted him in the dirt, long limbs sprawled across a gilded floor as he looks at you with some wildness in his eyes you can’t place.
It’s only until Signora is gone after a hard-won battle that you realize what the wildness is - madness in its purest state.
A haze like that should’ve been a warning sign, but you’d fallen into complacency after so many meetings with strict rules. No form changes - it hurts, he’d whined one day after you inquired about it - and no one but the two of them. You’re used to having someone at your back, but a disarmingly easygoing smile has been your downfall every time.
Liyue Style, he’d called it. Honorable and strict in its ruleset of not fighting to the death - only incapacitation or inability to continue. Entirely unlike him, but perhaps the need to hold himself back is a challenge all on its own for him. Maybe he just doesn’t want to kill you.
So when you lay him out again, foot on his chest and sword pointed into the hollow of his throat so precariously that a singular bead of red begins to form, Childe raises his hands and admits his defeat once again. In that same breath, he drops his head back into the floor and looks up at you with deceivingly friendly eyes as he suggests, “Let’s change the rules up a little, huh?”
“For next time?”
And any time you suggest the two of you go at this again, Childe’s face lights up as if you’ve offered something divine in exchange for nearly nothing at all. Perhaps an hour of your time, longer if he’s feeling particularly spry that day. Just like always, his eyebrows shoot up and his mouth turns into something of twisted delight as you agree to yet again humor him.
“Have I upset you so badly that you want to get rid of the non-lethal rule?”
“Not yet!” And he callously sits up, swatting the sword away now that your fingers are just on the edge of letting it drop. It disappears in a flurry of sparks, ones that drift through the air and land in his hair. For a moment, you regard them and wonder what he’d look like against the backdrop of rolling green hills with the City of Freedom in the distance, fireflies landing on his skin and in his hair.
Pretty, you think quietly. Childe would be pretty.
As you mull over thoughts of red hair and blue skies, Childe either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that you’re drifting off while staring over his shoulder. You’ll be back soon enough, he’s come to realize - your mind likes to take you places he can’t follow. But he wants to-
“Maybe we drop in some Snezhnayan rules, hm?” The metal articles of his clothing jingle in uncharacteristic merriment as he straightens and slaps his hands down his body to beat away invisible dirt. As if Ningguang would allow even a speck of dust here.
His suggestion is unfamiliar, enough that it brings you back to the present and cues him to explain with a knife edge of a smile. “Winner gets a prize from the loser. No holds barred, anything they want.”
“Why do I feel like this is some ploy to get me to give up some secrets to the Fatui?”
Childe has the decency to look wounded, a gloved hand to his chest in a bold display of melodrama that’s entirely fitting for the man who’d attempted to distract you two weeks ago by using his Hydro vision improperly to feign tears. It was with great shame that you told him it almost worked.
“If that’s what you’re worried about, then we’ll agree to leave anything Fatui-related out of the deal. Deal? Deal?”
Later that night, after you’ve begrudgingly shaken his hand and silently marveled at the softness of it, you’ll wonder why he sounds so elated at the end. As if he’d already won and was only waiting to get what he wants from you.
—
Zhongli is not pleased when you tell him of the situation over your tri-weekly dinner meetings. It’s not a date, you tell Paimon, even though she’s all but forced to stay home or find something else to do. The real reason is she’ll eat you out of house and home if you let her get away with it - and boy, you’ve let her get away with it far too many times.
Pinching his chin as he considers the plate of bean curd in front of him, caramelized brown sauce wafting tendrils of steam into the air. I prefer the consistency when it’s cold, he’s told you once. His chopsticks lay untouched at the side until he’s good and ready. There’s a gentle vibration through the table as the toe of Zhongli’s shoe taps against one leg in a familiar habit.
Zhongli is thinking.
“Well, technically an official contract was made. It would be… unwise to go back on your word after shaking on it.”
And therein lies the hiccup. You’d make the mistake of mentioning this to the god of contracts, and all but locked yourself into participating. Still, Zhongli is far from needlessly cruel, and that gives him enough good grace to bring his hand away from his chin in favor of crossing his arms, a signal of his decision.
“I’ll accompany you there at your usual meeting time to ensure that nothing goes awry. The only stipulation was that nothing related to the Fatui would be brought up?”
“That was the agreement.” Your tone is one of utter defeat as you stir at your noodles, watching the oil separate from the broth before mixing it up all over again. It bubbles together, you stir them once more. Over and over until Zhongli lets out a long breath and picks up his own utensils to finally begin eating.
“Allowing me to continue infringing on your good will constitutes that you’re entitled to my advice and input on these matters. Perhaps next time you use it? Preferably before agreeing.”
There’s a bit of a bite there, an admonition over your irresponsibility as you pointedly stare at a slice of water chestnut going ‘round and ‘round in your bowl. Refusing to look him in the eye is as good as agreeing with him, but you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. So you don’t.
The meeting is in three days, and you’re just now coming up with some semblance of a plan. A trip to Inazuma to resonate with the Statue of the Seven there in an attempt to glean the upper hand by taking on Electro affinity. A Shocking Essential Oil sitting on your bedside table at home for you to quickly down before entering the Golden House. Paimon once again being forced to stay home in order to not act as the distraction she consistently is.
And Zhongli to act as insurance, to make sure Childe doesn’t back out nor attempt to step outside the boundaries of the rather loose deal. There’s a sort of bitterness that still lingers between Zhongli and Childe, and you’re certain that if anything were to happen, Zhongli would be able to wrangle things back on track.
Hopefully.
“Do you have an idea of what he’d ask for, in the unlikely event that he wins?”
A jab at Childe’s martial prowess. Zhongli might have been on the receiving end of your gossip as you relished in the way he seemed to preen at the thought of Childe getting his ass kicked week after week. It’s the little things, you suppose.
“No. It’s not like he needs money, and I already nipped in the bud that he can’t get information that’s incriminating. I don’t have anything he’d want unless it’s to learn from me, for some reason.”
“Plausible. What better way to learn than to learn from the best?”
It’s not a compliment, coming from Zhongli. It’s just something he regards as a fact, whether for good or ill. It’s not an attempt to inflate your ego, rather an observation that he’s come to a conclusion over. Still, you can’t resist the urge to duck a smile into your noodles as you take a bite. Zhongli doesn’t tease you as any other would.
—
The Electro Oil feels foul. It tickles across your skin pleasantly, but leaves a smell that reminds you of Lisa. Due to its viscous nature, it takes a moment for you to spread it across your arms and chest, and another moment further for it to soak in and leave you feeling slightly sticky.
The tackiness of your skin persists until you enter the Golden House and the chilled air finally takes care of the sensation. The scent of Lisa and ozone lingers as your eyes adjust to the flickering sconces of the treasury. Childe is there, back turned to the door as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and stares up at where the Exuvia once existed.
It’s eerily quiet, and your quiet steps are heel-to-toe to avoid breaking it. Zhongli holds no such reservations, the loud click of his shoes echoed gratingly against the walls. Childe doesn’t turn yet - not until you’re in your usual position a few meters away, at least.
“The only change was the bet, not you bringing a second.”
“Zhongli is here to… observe.”
And instead of leaving it at that where it’s wisest to, Zhongli takes up a place equidistant between the two of you and clarifies, “She agreed with my insistence that I come along to oversee what amounts to a contract. I think we both agree that’s within my domain.”
With others, Zhongli may have been spry enough to lead Childe in circles over this. Instead he’s frank and to the point, unwilling to give any room for banter. The obviousness of his tension is palpable to everyone in the room, and it’s with a great struggle that Childe looks from Zhongli to you with raised eyebrows.
“You think I’d be uncouth? After all this time we’ve spent together?”
“Remember that time you used a Cryo delusion to turn your water frigid in an attempt to distract me?”
“That’s no different from you using Electro Oil. I can smell it on you.”
Childe’s point is made, and neither of you continue the line of accusations. Zhongli takes his leave out of the line of fire as Childe draws his bow. In a flurry of sparks, your sword hilt lands heavily in your palm, and the two of you nod in acquiescence. It begins again.
Things go as usual. Your attacks are stronger, now that you’ve gained an advantage over Childe’s hydro effects. It’s a little dicier when he switches to Electro, but his fighting style is ingrained in your mind to the point of it becoming less of a fight and more of a dance. Swipe, turn, duck from an arrow, sidestep the one that follows in the first’s shadow.
And as you continue to outmaneuver him, wearing the two of you down until you’re inches away from putting him on the floor again, the world explodes in sparks of blue and purple. It blinds you with its brilliance, like little galaxies forming and dying in the blink of your squinted eyes.
All at once and with great force, you’re flat on your back with a hand around your throat - tight enough to be a warning, a show of force. A singular frigid-blue eye stares down at you, daring you to make a move that you’d come to regret. With great difficulty, you drop your head onto the floor and stare back with obvious defeat - Childe has won.
Behind him flutters his cape, holding all those galaxies you’d watched implode on themselves. They flex and move with unseen wind, synchronized with his breathing as his shoulders rise and fall heavily from exertion. Not once has he used this form, and with no small amount of distress you realize it was all for this singular moment.
To get your guard down. To trick you into thinking you’ve won, if only to get what he wants. What does he want, though?
“Let her go. You’ve won, Childe.”
It takes far too long for him to heave a shuddering breath and unwrap his fingers from your throat. There may be bruising, but perhaps with some luck you might get off unmarred in your defeat. Watching the Foul Legacy form melt off of him is akin to the thawing of ice in the Dragonspine. Rather than a puddle of water, it’s a puddle of short-lived supernovas that wink out of existence.
Childe’s knees thud painfully against the floor as he loses his strength. At least the pain hadn’t been another lie of his.
Zhongli approaches, one step in front of the other until he’s within arm’s reach of you - a clear favorite despite your loss. It goes unsaid that Childe needs to make his request now, even as his eyes blink slowly and his chest shudders with each hard-won breath. Pity strikes you for a moment as you push yourself up into a sitting position, arms wobbling with the effort.
Childe clears his throat twice, swallows, then tries to speak. It’s an utter failure as he wheezes, but instead of giving up he follows the same procedure until he can finally form syllables coherent enough to stake his claim on whatever it is he wants from you.
“Sn-Snezhnayan tradition dictates in a traditional battle, the winner is allowed to request one thing from the-” another cough, born from phlegm in his throat that rattles wetly, “from the loser.”
“We established that last week.” Your own voice carries farther and holds more sway than his own, despite the phantom feeling of metal claws pressing into the tender sides of your neck. You’re acutely aware of your heart pounding in your jugular. Zhongli lowers to a knee, laying a hand on your shoulder as if to offer support that you don’t necessarily need right now.
Childe’s eyes track the movement as if it personally offended him, a little line appearing between furrowed brows before they’re carefully smoothed out again. If Child could be praised for any skill, it would be his ability to feign an impassiveness to rival the Statues of the Seven. Even in his victory, he only displays an odd sort of stony expression that betrays nothing.
“Nothing related to the Fatui.” Zhongli reminds, and if it’s unneeded, Childe doesn’t snap back at him for it. Instead, the redhead gathers his wits and shucks both gloves off and to the floor. It takes a bit of coaxing to work your hands into his own, cradled gently in his own that carry the calluses of varied weapon usage - they mirror your own.
“Marry me.”
The world stops spinning. Zhongli’s hand falls away from your shoulder. The lights in the Golden House flicker. Your heart skips as you eloquently ask, “What?”
And the bastard smiles. One that cuts into his cheeks as his teeth show themselves, and you’d think it was unbridled joy if you didn’t acutely recognize what could be nothing other than victory. How long had he been planning this? Since last week? Since the first rematch? Your initial fight over the Exuvia?
Since he saved you from the millelith after Rex Lapis’ death?
Questions rattle in your head, ones that can’t be answered now considering Zhongli is blowing a sigh from his nose and asking ones of his own. “Is that your request from the deal?”
“Yes.” The answer could be left at that, but it’s not enough for him. The point needs to be driven home in Childe’s eyes, and that leaves him to turn to you and repeat his request all over again. “What I want in exchange for winning is for you to be my wife and to take you home to meet my family. And if you’re feeling generous, on our wedding night we can-”
“Enough.”
Zhongli cuts Childe off before he can say something at least two out of the three of you would regret. Your attention is grabbed as he leans into your space, leveling you with a look of stern admonition. “I told you, you should have consulted with me first. Have you learned a lesson?”
“I-... Are you serious? I’m being proposed to here, and you’re concerned if I’ve learned something?”
“Not 'proposed', you’ve technically already agreed.” Childe’s hands squeeze yours, and you realize he’s still holding you. The urge to yank away is strong, but you curb it in favor of keeping your hands limp to avoid any sort of reciprocation. This doesn’t seem to sway him as he blithely smiles. “It’s just a matter of choosing the date, is all.”
“Never.”
“That’s breaking the contract.”
Zhongli’s admission feels like a blow worse than any you suffered at Childe’s hands during your weekly fights. It’s like the descending of a guillotine, one you watch in slow motion as Zhongli examines his gloves rather than look either of you in the eye.
Childe looks insufferably smug as Zhongli clarifies, “This is what he is asking for, and it’s well within the bounds of the agreement. I specifically came along to ensure that neither of you broke the terms. Not just Childe.”
“I’ll treat you well.” That’s not what you’re worried about, yet Childe continues as if it is. “I’ve got mora, homes in nearly every country, a saint of a mother-”
“I don’t care about any of that.” You work up the nerve to cut him off and tug your hands away. They fall into your lap, twisting at the hem of your shirt as you balk at him. “Marriage shouldn’t be just… like that. You don’t even love me.”
“What are you talking about?” Childe looks hurt - genuinely - for the first time since you’ve known him. It’s almost as unsettling as his admission of, “Of course I love you. That’s ridiculous.”
This whole situation is ridiculous, and you open your mouth to say so. It’s the sound of Zhongli laughing under his breath in disbelief and rising that cuts you off. His intent to leave is obvious, yet it doesn’t hit home until the door of the building shuts behind him, a call trailing behind him of, “I’ll be outside when you’re finished.”
“So I’m thinking a Spring wedding in Inazuma. I’ve heard the Sakura trees blooming are perfect that time of year-”
“Back up. You love me? What?”
“Was… was it not obvious? Did you think I kept coming back here for fun? Though having you pin me down was-”
“You’re an idiot.”
The declaration cuts him off, even as his smile cuts into his cheeks again in a way that’s decidedly less malicious than before. It’s almost… serene in the way that it smooths out his angles and edges.
“Say that again.”
What?
“You’re an idiot?”
“It’s like music to my ears.” Childe’s palms land on your cheeks as he leans closer. “Can I kiss you?”
“What? No!”
“Is it because I’m sweaty? I can meet you for dinner later after I clean up a bit.”
Exasperation replaces all the blood in your veins as you scowl up at where he looms over you in his kneeling position. Somehow, your voice carries less vitriol than before, “Are you serious about this?”
“As a heart attack. I wouldn’t have told my family about you in my weekly letters if I hadn’t.”
His family already knows you? You know your cheeks have to be warming under his grip, but he makes no mention of it except for his smile to turn even softer. You weren’t sure that was possible for someone like him.
“And you’re not just saying you love me to get me to agree to this?”
“You already agreed, remember?”
Unfortunately, you do. He must feel you chewing on the inside of your cheek as you roll possible answers over on your tongue. Ones that vary from downright hostile to almost soft. Instead of the easiest choice of pushing him over and wrapping your hands around his neck until he reneges on the deal, you roll your eyes to the ceiling as if you were praying to the gods.
Too bad the one you need most is right outside and decidedly unhelpful.
“At least get me a ring.”
“Done. I’ve been holding onto this thing for weeks!”
The velvet box that lands in your lap is suspiciously heavy.