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I. The Florist
Madame Ping always said Liyue Harbor was the beating heart of the nation, and Huixin had to agree—it was full of life, bustling and vibrant, from the scent of grilled tiger fish curling through the air to the clipped, hurried footsteps of merchants bartering over silk and jade. She had worked at Lotus and Lilies for three years, long enough to learn that flowers were more than just gifts; they were messages, confessions, tributes to the dead and oaths to the living.
It was also long enough to learn that people never knew what they wanted.
“I’m looking for a bouquet,” said a man in a crisp navy coat, the cut and gold embellishments screaming Fatui so loudly that Huixin had to force herself to keep smiling. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered, with ginger hair tied back and sharp blue eyes that scanned the shop like he expected an ambush behind the peonies.
Fatui were bad news. They only came to Liyue when they had business, and their business was usually war, politics, or something equally troublesome.
Huixin took a slow breath, pressing her fingers into the counter. “Of course, sir,” she said in the customer-friendly voice she reserved for difficult patrons. “For what occasion?”
The man—a Harbinger, definitely a Harbinger, why was he here—paused. Then he did the strangest thing.
He grinned.
A wide, boyish thing, full of teeth, dimples creasing into his cheeks. It didn’t match the sharpness of him, the I could kill you in three moves aura hanging off his shoulders.
“I don’t know,” he said. “What do you get for a guy who likes history, long walks, and lecturing people on the socioeconomic impacts of the Archon War?”
Huixin blinked. This was not the sort of thing Fatui usually asked her.
“Uh…” She turned slightly, glancing over her shoulder at the arrangements stacked in neat bundles. “Are we talking about a… friend?”
That made him laugh. It was a nice laugh, which was alarming. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.”
“Right,” Huixin said, because she was absolutely getting robbed today. “Well, if he’s interested in history, maybe something classic. Glaze lilies symbolize old memories and elegance, but if you want something more unique, silk flowers are resilient, like contracts and—”
She hesitated. Archons, was it even legal to say the word ‘contract’ around a Fatui?
The Harbinger—because what else could he be, standing there with that Snezhnayan arrogance and big, stupid grin—raised an eyebrow, amused. “Like contracts and what?”
“…And devotion,” she said carefully.
His eyes gleamed. “Huh.”
For a moment, he looked less like a Fatui and more like a regular guy, someone wandering the market picking out flowers for a partner he cared about.
Not an enemy of the state, not the kind of person who should be banned from polite society, just a man in love.
It was weird.
It was so weird.
Huixin cleared her throat. “I can wrap up a bouquet for you. Any color preference?”
The man hummed, scanning the selection before plucking out a few stalks of silk flowers, a handful of glaze lilies, and—oddly—a single qingxin.
Huixin hesitated. “Are you sure about the qingxin?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” she said, even as she internally screamed. “It’s just, uh… qingxins symbolize solitude. A lot of people use them for mourning.”
The Harbinger paused, then laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”
Huixin carefully wrapped up the bouquet, tying the stems with a golden ribbon. The entire time, she kept expecting someone to rush in screaming FATUI! FATUI! and arrest them all, but nobody did.
When she handed the bouquet over, he flicked a coin onto the counter—a fat pouch of Mora, way too much for what he was buying.
“Keep the change,” he said, voice warm, easy. “You’ve been a big help.”
“…Thank you, sir.”
He grinned again and strode out, flowers in hand.
Huixin exhaled.
That was a Fatui Harbinger. Buying flowers. For some history nerd.
What the actual hell.
Two days later, she saw Zhongli—the Zhongli, the ex-consultant, the most polite and composed man in the entirety of Liyue—walking through the market. With the Harbinger.
And the Harbinger had an arm slung around his shoulders, leaning in too close, talking in that same laughing, teasing, lover’s voice.
That history nerd was Zhongli.
Huixin very nearly passed out.
II. The Tea House Incident
Shiyun had worked at Third-Round Knockout for years. She had seen all types—wealthy merchants flexing their wallets, travelers stopping in for a drink, dockworkers blowing off steam, and scholars deep in debate over obscure historical texts. She knew the regulars, the ones who always ordered the same thing, the ones who tipped well, and the ones who thought they were too good to tip at all.
She had also developed a keen sense for trouble.
So when Childe walked in, she immediately tensed.
Fatui. Again. Why is it always Fatui?
It wasn’t that she was afraid—Liyue Harbor was safe, and she doubted even a Harbinger would cause problems in broad daylight—but she had heard the rumors. That Childe wasn’t like the other Harbingers. That he was more brutal, more dangerous, that he had nearly drowned the city in an unholy battle between gods not too long ago.
Yet here he was. Strolling in like he belonged.
Shiyun grabbed a teapot and a cloth, using the pretense of wiping down tables to watch him without looking like she was watching him.
He picked a seat in the corner, where the sunlight slanted through the wooden latticework in soft golden beams. When Xiangling came to take his order, he was all smiles and easy charm.
"Hey, Xiangling! You got that black-back perch stew today?"
"Of course! Want your usual?"
"You know me too well."
His usual?
Shiyun turned her head slightly, listening. Childe had a usual here?
This walking war crime, this human embodiment of ‘your life expectancy just dropped’, was a regular?
"I'll bring it right out!" Xiangling beamed before disappearing into the kitchen.
Shiyun exhaled. Okay. Fine. Maybe he just liked food. Maybe this wasn't a diplomatic crisis waiting to happen. Maybe—
The bell above the entrance jingled.
Zhongli walked in.
Shiyun froze.
The Fatui Harbinger looked up, and his entire face changed.
His easy, boyish charm softened, something fonder, warmer settling in his expression as he leaned back in his seat.
"Hey, xiansheng," Childe called lazily, draping an arm over the back of his chair. "Took you long enough."
Zhongli didn’t respond to the nickname, which was already weird, because Shiyun had seen people call him that before, and the man never seemed particularly amused by it. Instead, he just exhaled through his nose and took the seat across from Childe like this was normal.
Like this was something he did often.
Shiyun immediately turned and speed-walked to the backroom.
"Xiangling!" she hissed, nearly running into the chef. "Did you know—"
"Oh, they're here? Nice!" Xiangling grinned, expertly flipping something in a pan. "Hey, can you take their tea out for me? I’ve got my hands full."
Shiyun just stared. "You're not surprised?"
"By what?"
"By—" she flung a hand vaguely toward the door— "by the fact that Zhongli is sitting with Childe like they're best friends?"
Xiangling blinked. "Oh. Yeah, they come in all the time."
Shiyun grabbed a shelf to steady herself.
Xiangling. Sweet, kind, oblivious Xiangling.
"They come in all the time," Shiyun repeated.
"Yeah! You should see them. It's kinda funny. They argue over the bill every time." Xiangling laughed, adding a handful of spices to the pot. "Childe always insists on paying, and Zhongli always tries to stop him, but then Childe just does it anyway. It's like a ritual at this point."
Shiyun was having an out-of-body experience.
They had rituals?
The Fatui Harbinger and Liyue’s most distinguished historian and former consultant had rituals?
She turned back toward the door, heart hammering.
"Shiyun? You okay?"
"I need to— I just—" She shook her head. "I need to see this with my own eyes."
Xiangling laughed, already moving on to the next dish. "Have fun!"
Shiyun balanced the teapot and cups on a tray and made her way back to the front, keeping her expression neutral.
They were talking—or rather, Childe was talking. Zhongli was listening with his usual air of polite interest, one elbow resting on the table, his fingers loosely curled.
"...so then he just screamed and ran straight into the river, and you should’ve seen the look on his face when he realized it was knee-deep. Honestly, I think the embarrassment did more damage than I did."
"Mm," Zhongli murmured. "And you found this amusing?"
"Oh, come on. You would’ve laughed too."
Shiyun set the tray down as carefully as possible, trying to process the absolute absurdity of what she was witnessing.
Childe laughed freely, like he wasn’t a walking international incident, and Zhongli—the most composed man in Liyue, the one people whispered about in awe—just let him.
Did he even smile? Did Zhongli ever smile? Shiyun had never seen it, but here, in this moment, he looked…
Not amused, exactly. But indulgent. Like this was all familiar, like this was just another afternoon for them.
And then Childe did something truly insane.
He reached over and plucked a piece of lint from Zhongli’s sleeve.
Like it was normal. Like it was casual.
And Zhongli let him.
Shiyun’s soul left her body.
This was not normal. This was not how Liyueans behaved with Fatui Harbingers.
Childe, completely unbothered, poured himself some tea, taking a sip.
Zhongli reached for his own cup, but Childe tsked, grabbing the sugar and dumping way too much into it before sliding it over.
"Try it like that," he said, grinning.
Zhongli gave him a long, measured look before taking the cup and drinking.
Shiyun waited for him to complain. To correct him. To say anything about the fact that he had just been force-fed sugar water by a Fatui war criminal.
Zhongli exhaled slowly, set the cup down, and—not a word.
Nothing.
Childe smirked.
Shiyun was having a mental breakdown.
She cleared her throat. “Will that be all?”
Zhongli turned to her, the perfect picture of poise, as if nothing about this situation was strange.
"Yes, thank you," he said.
"Yeah, thanks, sweetheart," Childe added, flashing her a wink.
Shiyun turned and walked away as fast as humanly possible.
What the hell was that?
When they left an hour later—after Childe paid the bill with a triumphant flourish and Zhongli sighed like he had long since resigned himself to this battle—Shiyun collapsed against the counter.
"Xiangling," she said weakly.
Xiangling poked her head out from the kitchen. "Yeah?"
"Are Zhongli and Childe…" Shiyun struggled to even say it out loud. "Are they—?"
Xiangling tilted her head. "Dating?"
Shiyun choked.
"Maybe! I dunno," Xiangling said cheerfully. "But they sure act like it, huh?"
Shiyun had to sit down.
III. The Millelith’s Very Bad, Horrible, No Good Day
Yelan always said that the most dangerous thing in Liyue wasn’t an assassin, a rogue Adeptus, or even a Fatui Harbinger—it was misplaced assumptions.
Corporal Yingwei of the Millelith was learning this the hard way.
It had started as a normal patrol shift. Liyue Harbor was peaceful, the afternoon sun casting golden streaks over the rooftops. His squad had spent most of the day breaking up small disputes, escorting drunkards home, and making sure nobody tried to sell fake Vision enhancements again.
And then someone ran up to them, panting, eyes wide with panic.
"Sir! Sir!" The woman was breathless, gripping Yingwei's sleeve like it was a lifeline. "You have to stop them!"
Yingwei straightened, instantly on guard. "Stop who?"
She whirled around and pointed toward the northern part of the harbor—where a tall, ginger-haired man was practically dragging Zhongli down the street.
Yingwei’s heart dropped.
He knew that man.
Everyone in the Millelith knew that man.
Childe. Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers.
There were many things Millelith officers were trained to deal with. Pirates? Easy. Smugglers? Routine. Even Qilin-beast stampedes during the Lantern Rite? Manageable.
But a Harbinger kidnapping Liyue’s former consultant in broad daylight?
That was the sort of problem that got people demoted.
"Form up!" Yingwei barked, his soldiers snapping to attention. "On my mark, we—"
"ZHONGLI, COME ON!"
The voice cut through the air, too loud, too casual, the sort of public disturbance that made Millelith officers reach for their weapons on instinct.
Yingwei turned just in time to see Childe all but throw an arm around Zhongli’s shoulders, steering him toward what appeared to be a small food stall.
And Zhongli?
Zhongli just let him.
Yingwei exchanged a panicked glance with his squad.
"Go!" he hissed, and they moved as one, weaving through the crowd with practiced precision, hands on their polearms, ready for a confrontation.
They were not ready for what they found.
"Zhongli, you’re killing me," Childe groaned, leaning dramatically against the counter of the food stall. "Come on, you promised."
Zhongli—elegant, composed, revered by scholars and elders alike—sighed.
It was the sort of sigh that scholars made when students submitted papers arguing that Rex Lapis and Morax were different people.
"I did not ‘promise,’" Zhongli said, voice calm and steady as ever. "I merely stated that I would consider it."
"Yeah, yeah, consider it. That’s basically a promise."
"That is not how linguistic contracts work."
Childe turned to the stall owner. "You believe in love, right?"
The stall owner—a teenage girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here—blinked. "Uh."
"Great, so you agree with me. Two against one." Childe grinned, victorious, before turning back to Zhongli with a frankly ridiculous amount of triumph for someone arguing about street food. "Come on, just try it. One bite."
The Millelith stared.
Yingwei had spent years in Liyue’s military. He had faced treasure hoarders, abyssal creatures, and the occasional sociopathic debt collector.
Nothing had prepared him for this.
Nothing had prepared him for a world-renowned Harbinger standing in the middle of the street, whining at Zhongli like a bratty boyfriend who got denied dessert.
"Childe," Zhongli said, rubbing his temple. "This is absurd."
"No, what’s absurd is that we’ve been dating for over a year and you still refuse to try a deep-fried octopus."
Yingwei almost dropped his weapon.
His squad was silent, barely breathing.
Had they… heard that correctly?
Had Childe just said ‘dating’?
One of his soldiers, a rookie who had apparently not learned the art of shutting up, whispered, "Wait. They’re dating?"
The whisper was not quiet enough.
Childe whipped his head around, eyes glinting like a predator catching movement in the brush.
Yingwei’s blood ran cold.
They had been caught.
For one horrifying second, he thought Childe might fight them on the spot. His grip on his spear tightened, mind already racing through the worst-case scenarios—Harbinger declares war on Liyue in a street food stall, Millelith officer gets promoted posthumously, funeral held next Tuesday—
And then Childe grinned.
Wide, toothy, practically beaming.
"Hey! Good to see the Millelith looking out for Zhongli’s well-being," he said, far too cheerfully for a man who had once tried to drown the city. "Appreciate the concern, boys, but no need to worry. I’m just trying to get him to expand his culinary horizons."
Culinary horizons.
CULINARY HORIZONS.
Yingwei was going to pass out.
Zhongli, to Yingwei’s horror, looked entirely unbothered. He turned to the Millelith with the same mild patience one might reserve for discussing a weather report.
"Is there something you need, Corporal?" he asked.
Was there something they needed?
What they needed was a priest, a drink, and a vacation.
But Yingwei was a professional. He had a duty to uphold.
"Sir," he managed, forcing his brain back into working order. "We… had a report of potential distress."
"Distress?" Zhongli echoed, brow arching slightly.
"Yes," Yingwei said, trying very hard not to look at Childe, who was now leaning against Zhongli like a man entirely confident in his life choices. "A civilian believed you were being taken somewhere against your will."
Zhongli actually looked amused.
"Rest assured, Corporal," he said, tone as polite as ever, "I am in no danger."
Childe beamed, like this was a glowing recommendation instead of a diplomatic nightmare.
"See? He’s fine."
He’s fine.
Yingwei was not fine.
Yingwei’s entire squad was not fine.
Yingwei was about to demand an explanation—how long, how serious, how did Liyue’s most composed ex-consultant end up dating a war criminal—
And then Childe grabbed Zhongli’s hand.
Casually. Easily. Like he had done it a thousand times before.
And Zhongli let him.
Yingwei saw his own death flash before his eyes.
"You’re still eating the octopus," Childe said.
"We will discuss this later," Zhongli replied.
They walked away.
Hand in hand.
Yingwei turned to his squad.
"We will never speak of this," he said.
Nobody disagreed.
IV. The Catastrophic Dinner at Xinyue Kiosk
Xinyue Kiosk was known for many things.
It was known for its exquisite seafood, its spectacular view of the harbor, and its reputation as a gathering place for Liyue’s elite. If you were a person of importance, wealth, or both, it was the place to be seen.
Which is why Ganyu was currently regretting all of her life choices.
She had been so excited. It had been years since she had seen Zhongli in a proper social setting, and when he finally agreed to a small dinner gathering with a few respectable figures of Liyue, she had thought—perhaps—he was taking steps toward reconnecting with mortal life.
That was before Childe showed up.
Ganyu, to her eternal misfortune, was the only person at the table who did not realize they were dating.
She had always prided herself on being observant. Wise. A woman of experience.
She had lived centuries. She had seen dynasties rise and fall, watched Liyue change and change again, and never in all that time had she been so completely, catastrophically, utterly blind.
And it all began with a single misplaced assumption.
The dinner was going beautifully—at first.
It was an intimate affair, a gathering of Liyue’s most well-respected figures. Ningguang, of course, was the host. The guest list included Keqing, Yanfei, Shenhe, and Zhongli—a pleasant collection of old friends, intellectual minds, and one former god whom Ganyu was determined to set back on the right path.
She had even invited one of the more tolerable foreigners, the ever-charming Mr. Childe, in the spirit of diplomacy. A Harbinger, yes, but a well-mannered one.
She had expected good conversation. Gentle company. A quiet night.
She did not expect Childe to sit next to Zhongli and immediately start feeding him.
"Here, try this," Childe said, holding up a piece of glazed pork with his own chopsticks. "You’ll like it."
Ganyu watched in horrified fascination as Zhongli—her refined, elegant, well-mannered Zhongli—leaned in without hesitation and took a bite straight from Childe's chopsticks.
He chewed thoughtfully. "A pleasant balance of flavors."
"Right? That’s what I said!" Childe grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.
Ganyu blinked.
Surely—surely she was imagining things.
This was an act of diplomacy, yes? A foreign custom? Something she had failed to account for?
And yet, as the dinner progressed, she found more and more things to account for.
Childe refilled Zhongli’s cup before his own.
Zhongli, in turn, took food from Childe's plate like it was his own.
At one point, Childe casually reached out and brushed a stray grain of rice from Zhongli’s sleeve, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And nobody else at the table reacted.
Not Keqing, not Yanfei, not even Shenhe, who usually regarded human interaction like a scholar studying a particularly confusing legal document.
They were all completely unbothered.
Which meant one of two things:
Either Ganyu was going senile, or she was missing something very, very important.
She leaned slightly toward Keqing, lowering her voice. "My dear, is there something I should be aware of?"
Keqing looked up from her plate. "Hmm?"
She tilted her head meaningfully toward Zhongli and Childe, who were currently engaged in some kind of intense, silent argument over a dumpling.
Ganyu cleared her throat. "Are they… particularly close?"
"Oh," Keqing said, unconcerned. "Yes. They’re together."
Gaynu's mind went blank.
Together?
Together where?
Surely not in the way she thought—surely, she would have known—
"I’m surprised you didn’t notice," Yanfei added from across the table. "They’re not exactly subtle."
Not subtle?
Ganyu looked back at the two men in question.
Childe had now won the battle over the dumpling and was holding it out for Zhongli, wiggling his eyebrows like some mischievous street vendor trying to lure in a customer.
"You know you want it," he said.
Zhongli sighed, but still leaned forward and ate it straight from Childe's chopsticks.
Ganyu nearly dropped her own.
She turned slowly back to Keqing and Yanfei, betrayal simmering in her chest.
"You mean to tell me," she said, voice dangerously calm, "that Zhongli and a Fatui Harbinger have been courting, and no one thought to inform me?"
Yanfei gave her a look that could only be described as deeply amused.
"I mean," she said, "I just assumed you already knew."
Ganyu exhaled through her nose.
This. This was why she hated misplaced assumptions.
A few seats away, Childe laughed at something Zhongli said, his entire face lighting up.
And damn it all, Ganyu realized, he looked happy.
She pursed her lips.
Perhaps, she thought, she should reevaluate her stance on certain Harbingers.
(But only this one. Only by necessity. And only because Zhongli had terrible taste, but it was his terrible taste to make.)
She sighed.
"Well," she muttered, reaching for her cup of tea. "At least he’s feeding him properly."
V. The Time They Caused a Diplomatic Incident
If there was one thing Keqing hated, it was incompetence.
If there was a second thing, it was unnecessary distractions.
Which was why she was currently one breath away from snapping a tea cup in half, because Zhongli and Childe were both.
The delegation from Fontaine had come to discuss trade agreements—important, delicate matters that required the full attention of Liyue’s finest minds.
Instead, the meeting had devolved into absolute absurdity, because somehow, some way, no one had informed Fontaine’s representatives that Zhongli and Childe were involved.
And Keqing—who had suffered long enough—had been forced to watch it all unfold in real time.
The meeting had started well enough.
The Fontaine delegation—a group of four, dressed in the latest extravagant fashions, dripping with pearls and lace and arrogance—had arrived at the Liyue Qixing’s chambers, where Keqing and a handful of others waited.
It had been a civil discussion at first. Terms were exchanged. Proposals were made.
And then Childe showed up.
The Fontaine delegation had immediately bristled—because of course they had. The Fatui were not beloved in Fontaine, and their representative barging into a Liyue-Fontaine meeting was somewhat akin to a stray dog wandering into a fine dining establishment.
Keqing had prepared herself for the inevitable diplomatic fallout.
She had not prepared for the fact that Zhongli’s entire composure changed the moment Childe entered the room.
For a brief moment—just a flicker of a second—Zhongli’s stoic, unshakable mask of professionalism slipped.
His eyes softened.
And Keqing hated that she noticed.
Childe, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, as if waltzing into a government proceeding uninvited was something he did on a daily basis.
(And it probably was.)
"Hey," he said, striding in like he owned the place. "Sorry I’m late."
Keqing’s jaw tightened.
"You weren’t invited," she pointed out.
Childe flashed her a completely unrepentant grin before turning his attention directly to Zhongli.
"Thought I’d sit in," he said. "Y’know. Learn a thing or two."
Zhongli studied him for a long moment, then, in an utterly damning display, simply said, "Hmph."
Keqing’s soul left her body.
It was not the hmph of irritation, nor the hmph of dismissal.
It was a fond hmph.
A pleased hmph.
A hmph that carried the weight of a man who had long since given up trying to get rid of the reckless menace who had inserted himself into his life and instead had simply accepted his fate.
And that was when everything began to go horribly, catastrophically wrong.
The Fontaine delegation was watching this interaction closely, their expressions ranging from confusion to suspicion.
The youngest delegate, a woman named Marceline, leaned forward slightly, her gaze flickering between Childe and Zhongli with sharp, analytical interest.
"So," she said, tone carefully neutral, "this is the Fatui representative you’ve been working with?"
Zhongli inclined his head. "In some capacity, yes."
That was, unfortunately, the worst possible way to phrase it.
Because Marceline’s expression lit up with immediate, scandalous realization.
"Ah," she said, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "So you two have a—" she gestured vaguely between them "—working relationship?"
Keqing’s entire body tensed.
No. No, no, no.
Do not give them the wrong impression. Do not—
"Not quite," Childe said, before Zhongli could respond.
Keqing inhaled.
For one blessed moment, she thought, perhaps, somehow, by some divine miracle, Childe would set the record straight.
Perhaps he would phrase it in a way that did not result in an international scandal.
Perhaps she had not yet lost complete faith in humanity.
And then Childe, with the smuggest, most insufferable expression Keqing had ever seen, continued:
"I prefer the term 'intimate alliance.'"
Keqing saw red.
The Fontaine delegation collectively lost their minds.
Marceline choked on her tea.
One of the other delegates gasped audibly.
The third delegate, an older man with a spectacular mustache, squinted at Zhongli and Childe with genuine horror, as if mentally reconstructing his entire worldview.
Zhongli simply exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Keqing, meanwhile, was actively contemplating murder.
"You’re telling me," Marceline said, giddy with scandal, "that Liyue’s esteemed consultant and a Fatui Harbinger are—"
Childe grinned.
"Sleeping together?" he said cheerfully.
Keqing saw her life flash before her eyes.
Marceline made a noise so shrill that Keqing was convinced a Fontaine engineer somewhere was scrambling to record it for future study.
"Childe," Keqing hissed, her eye twitching violently, "shut up."
"What?" Childe said, clearly having the time of his life. "I’m just saying—"
"Do not say it," Keqing snapped.
Childe said it.
"—that Zhongli’s bed is the safest diplomatic territory in all of Teyvat."
Silence.
Pure. Unholy. Silence.
Keqing prayed for lightning to strike him down.
Marceline, meanwhile, looked like she was about to combust from sheer excitement.
"This," she whispered, eyes wide, "changes everything."
"Nothing has changed," Keqing interjected, trying to salvage the meeting before Childe could cause an actual war.
Marceline ignored her entirely.
"This could explain so much," she mused, her mind already racing with conspiracy theories. "The Fatui’s movements in Liyue, the diplomacy efforts—Zhongli, are you a double agent?"
Zhongli gave her a long, exhausted look.
"No," he said, in a voice that suggested he had been dealing with this kind of nonsense for far too long.
"But you would say that if you were one," Marceline pointed out.
Keqing pressed a hand to her forehead.
The conversation had completely derailed.
The Fontaine delegation was now furiously whispering amongst themselves, discussing god-knows-what, and Childe was sitting there looking pleased as hell, as if he had just contributed something valuable to society.
Zhongli, unfathomably, was simply drinking his tea.
Keqing exhaled slowly through her nose.
It was official.
Zhongli and Childe were Liyue’s greatest diplomatic disaster.
And Keqing had never known suffering quite like this.
+1. The Time Madame Ping Knew Before Anyone Else Did
Madame Ping had lived long enough to see civilizations rise and fall, to hear the songs of old gods and the laughter of young fools, to watch the rivers carve the earth and men carve their own fates.
She had watched Zhongli—her dear, foolish, stubborn boy—play at being human for centuries. And she had seen many things.
She had seen the way he carried grief like a second spine, the way he clung to reverence for the dead more than love for the living.
She had seen him give away his divinity, piece by piece, until he was nothing but an old man in fine robes, drinking tea like it could fill the void left by fallen gods and forgotten wars.
And she had seen, long before anyone else, the way Childe wrecked him.
Not like a battlefield wrecked a soldier. Not like war shattered and broke and ruined.
No—Childe wrecked him beautifully.
Like the sea against the shore, reshaping it, returning again and again.
Like the wind against stone, carving something new into something old.
Like life itself, refusing to let death be the final word.
And that, Madame Ping thought, was exactly what Zhongli needed.
It started innocently enough—or at least, as innocent as Childe was capable of being.
The young man had a particular habit of showing up at odd hours, lingering near the harbor, hovering around Liyue Harbor’s markets like a restless tide waiting to surge in.
Always waiting.
Always searching.
Always seeking.
(And wasn’t that what all young men did? Seek, seek, seek until they found something worth keeping?)
And Madame Ping had watched, from her quiet corner of the city, as Zhongli found himself being kept.
Not immediately. Not easily.
But surely.
Slowly.
Softly.
—
The first time Madame Ping ever saw them together, Zhongli had been scolding Childe over tea.
("You cannot simply throw mora at every problem and hope it disappears.")
("Worked on you, didn't it?")
Madame Ping had stifled a laugh behind her sleeve, watching as Zhongli sighed the sigh of a man who had long since lost control of his own life.
The second time, Childe had been buying flowers.
("Are these ones romantic? They look romantic.")
("What, precisely, do you define as romantic?")
("Something that says: 'I want you so bad it hurts, but in a classy, respectable way.'")
Madame Ping had hummed, arranging her own blossoms with amusement.
The third time, Zhongli had been adjusting Childe's collar.
("You are the most reckless man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.")
("But you keep knowing me, don’t you?")
Oh, Madame Ping had thought then, sipping her tea.
He’s fallen.
—
And yet.
Some things in this world could still surprise her.
“Ah, dear one, would you mind helping an old woman with these?” she asked, carefully balancing a basket of freshly bought rice cakes as she looked up at the young man who had been browsing the market stall beside her.
A Harbinger.
One of the Fatui’s strongest.
She had seen him in the city before, of course—Childe, they called him—but she had never spoken to him directly. Not that she needed to.
She knew his kind.
Young and bright-eyed, but with that edge—that sharp, terrible thing lurking behind his smile, the kind of wound that festered beneath armor.
But he turned to her immediately, grinning like a boy who had never touched a blade in his life.
“Of course, Granny!” he said, already moving to take the basket from her.
Granny.
Ah. So he was one of those.
Madame Ping had lived long enough to recognize the two kinds of warriors that passed through Liyue—those who saw old age as frailty and those who saw it as something soft, something to be protected.
Childe was clearly the latter.
She filed that knowledge away as she let him take the heavier portion of her groceries, watching as he balanced the weight with an ease that spoke of instinct rather than practice.
“You are quite strong,” she mused.
“You should see me fight,” Childe said cheerfully. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want to scare you, Granny.”
Madame Ping laughed, genuinely amused.
This boy had no idea who she was.
She gestured for him to follow, setting a slow pace down the winding streets of Liyue Harbor, past old temples and young merchants, past the bustle of children and workers and travelers.
“So,” she said, conversationally, “how long have you been courting Morax?”
Childe choked.
Spectacularly.
One moment, he was walking beside her, confident and easy, and the next, he was gasping for air like she’d punched him in the ribs.
Madame Ping simply watched as he stumbled, nearly dropping the basket.
And then came the real performance.
“What?!” Childe screeched, voice cracking in what was—without a doubt—the most undignified sound Madame Ping had ever heard from a trained warrior. “I—who—what—who told you that?!”
Madame Ping kept walking, perfectly calm. “No one told me.”
“Then—then how—?”
“My dear, I have watched Morax for thousands of years. I have seen him in love and in war, in grief and in triumph. I have seen him keep secrets that spanned centuries. I have seen him pull mountains from the earth with a single touch.”
She stopped, glancing at him.
Childe was still standing there, looking like his soul had left his body.
She smiled.
“I have never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you.”
Childe froze.
And then, just as suddenly, he turned red.
Madame Ping had seen many things in her long, long life.
She had never, however, seen a Fatui Harbinger turn the color of a sunset and cover his face with both hands like an embarrassed teenager.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
Madame Ping waited.
Eventually, Childe seemed to remember that breathing was important, because he slowly—very slowly—lowered his hands and looked at her, expression caught somewhere between despair and reluctant curiosity.
“...You really think he looks at me like that?”
Madame Ping chuckled.
She had watched Morax wander the world alone, had seen him surrounded by mortals yet never quite among them.
She had seen his silence, his distance, his eternity.
And she had seen that eternity crack open, just slightly, whenever Childe was near.
She had seen Morax smile.
She had seen Morax laugh.
She had seen Morax let himself be human.
“It is rare,” she said, gently, “for a god to learn how to be held.”
Childe swallowed, hard.
For a moment, he looked young, younger than he had any right to be, like a boy who had wandered too far into something he had never meant to find.
And then—
“Oh,” he groaned, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I can’t tell if this is romantic or terrifying.”
Madame Ping patted his arm.
“My dear,” she said, “it can be both.”
---
So when the rest of Liyue finally found out—when the news spread like wildfire, when the Qixing lost their minds, when the Millelith started taking bets, when Madame Ping’s fellow elders clutched their pearls and wondered how no one had known—
Madame Ping had simply smiled.
Because, of course, she had known.
She had known before Zhongli did.
She had known before Childe realized.
She had known because she had lived long enough to recognize the exact moment a man stopped trying to resist and started letting himself be loved.
And really—what a foolish thing to try and hide.