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“I’m going fishing,” he told a few of his subordinates. “I’ll be back soon.”
They gave him looks he couldn’t identify, and let him leave without objection.
It is only now, as he stares at the sea, cooling the sand that was warmed by the sun, that he realizes that he didn’t bring a fishing pole. He didn’t bring any equipment, in fact, he hadn’t brought anything at all. Perhaps their expressions had been about the unusualness of him going fishing with no equipment.
It is possible to try to catch fish with one’s bare hands.
He is not going to try. He knows he never planned to fish at all. He knows their expressions were of concern.
The beach is empty. It’s one he’s visited a few times, and it has always been empty. There’s nothing that would ward away visitors, no monsters or treasure hoarders. It’s not too difficult to reach. Maybe it just isn’t well-known.
He’s thankful for it now. Lately he has been forced to perform for everyone, a break is nice. The ocean does not expect a Harbinger, a big brother, a weapon, a naïve pawn. It expects nothing. Here he can exist, something other than Tartaglia and Childe and Ajax and the other names and titles that truly didn’t mean anything. The ocean is so vast, it doesn’t notice one person.
To the ocean, he is nothing, and he is free to exist without expectations and labels and preconceived notions. It also doesn’t speak, not in a language that he can understand anyway.
He likes conversation, and talking. No one truly likes talking to him, he’s discovered. Any semblance of interest is a manipulation tactic to get something from him. The ocean cannot manipulate him in this way.
Taking his boots and socks off, he sets them aside by a rock and rolls up the hems of his pant legs so that they don’t get wet. The water is cool on his skin as he wades into it, the push and pull of the waves sinking his feet slowly into the sand below. Every so often he shifts so that his feet aren’t entirely engulfed by sand.
Even as a child, he had always liked the sea. In Morepesok it is far too cold to wade like he is now, and it’s very satisfying to do something he knew he had only hoped to do ten years ago. However, his child self would not be envious of how alone he is.
The worst part is that he realized he is, just recently. Lust for battle has consumed his life, to where for years and years he didn’t think about his lack of friends, his mind too caught up in the possibility of combat. It was only when he had a friend, then lost that “friend”, did he notice.
He misses him, doesn’t he? How pathetic. To miss someone who was tricking him and never actually cared the whole time. In general, he’s pathetic. Good for battle, not for being a person. He shouldn’t try to be anything but what he is, a weapon. That was his first mistake.
And yet- he feels bad about Osial and he misses him and his body still hurts from mistakes from trying to make his little brother happy and even after he defeats every powerful opponent he’ll still be scrambling to find someone to praise him and no one wants to listen to him and he wants to cry but he can’t, he can’t cry, because crying is him admitting he’s weak and not in control.
And yet- he pretends that none of it matters, that he’s completely unbothered. If he doesn’t, he might lose it all.
But to the ocean he is nothing, there is no need to pretend.
He leaves the water for a moment to take off his jacket, sash, mask, and gloves; and this time walks in until the water reaches his shoulders. His pants and shirt will be soaked, but he doesn’t trust the emptiness of the beach enough to completely strip down. Having to fight while naked seems like a nightmare, one that he is not risking even if it means his clothes becoming crusty with salt and sand.
Fighting. It’s what he was born for. His father named him after a tragic warrior, inadvertently setting him to follow his namesake. He’s alright at other things, sure. Dancing, cooking, cleaning- he’s complimented on them all. But it’s only his battle prowess that gives him worth, that makes him have a purpose. It’s what people want him for.
If he wasn’t an incredible fighter the way he was, he would not be wanted.
He doesn’t fight to be wanted. He fights because it’s the only thing that consistently makes him not feel empty, that consistently brings him joy. Nothing compares to the thrill of giving his all and the uncertainty of his own survival. That feeling is addicting, and he continuously searches for it and draws it out so that he can drink it like a thirsty man in a desert. And the euphoria of winning a difficult battle… It is in those moments that he likes himself.
Succeeding where others couldn’t and being praised for it is something he covets and cherishes. For he is better than the others. One day, he will be better than everyone. He will be the strongest, all of his foes crushed beneath his heels. Then, he won’t be afraid of anything.
Leaning his head back, he feels the coolness of the water on his scalp, soothing in its chill. His hair floats around his head like a halo of dark orange, more tame than it ever is while dry. He needs to get a haircut soon, it’s starting to get long, which he has been told looks scruffy. The length is something he struggles with. Too short, and his youth is seen too easily: the lingering roundness of his cheeks and the softness on the edges of his jawline that signals him barely being older than a teenager.
His age causes people, especially his fellow Harbingers, to disregard his skills, his intelligence. It annoys him to no end, having to prove himself even more because they can’t believe someone younger than them is just as competent, if not more. He’s aware he is more naïve than them. That should mean that they would guide him. Instead, they exploit him.
The sun is starting to set, the sky becoming covered in vivid oranges and pinks and purples. It reflects off the sea, and he is swimming in oranges and pinks and purples, and for a second he imagines he is part of the sky, and what is above him is actually the sea. He thinks of it a moment too long, and sees himself falling. That convinces him to return to land.
He sits on the sand, facing the ocean. The damp of his hair and clothing and skin draws in a chill, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he watches as the sun slowly disappears below the horizon, as the remaining sun rays glitter on the waves. Distantly, he hears soft footsteps.
“You’re going to get cold,” a voice says from behind him, deep and familiar and honey-like. There’s a waft of a scent he knows too well, one that smells like a forest at the start of autumn. He wishes it wasn’t comforting.
Ignoring the voice, he continues to stare straight ahead at the waves lapping at the shore. There’s a weight gently placed on his shoulders, and he registers that a coat, warm from wear, is being placed over him. It’s stupid. He has a jacket set down a dozen feet away, and this coat is far too expensive to be getting seawater on it. Still, he says nothing.
Zhongli sits down next to him, careful of the sand. “Do you know how difficult you are to find?” Zhongli asks, his tone light, though something lingers underneath it.
“I haven’t been trying to hide,” he says, monotone.
“No, you are just unpredictable,” Zhongli agrees. “And good at avoiding me. I’ve been wanting to speak with you, Childe.”
Tartaglia sighs. He hasn’t wanted to speak with Zhongli. “Have you considered that maybe I am busy?”
“You don’t look very busy right now,” Zhongli says pointedly. “Did you know that this beach is unpopular with the residents of Liyue? It is too small for large gatherings, and the lack of aquatic plants make fish avoid this area. The distance from the harbor is a hassle compared to beaches that are closer. Finding it is difficult due to the thick foliage that surrounds it.” He hums. “Once I realized I was not going to be able to speak with you in the harbor, I checked many spots that monsters are drawn to, thinking that you might be there fighting. That was to no avail, and I lowered myself to asking your subordinates. They said you had gone fishing.”
His brow furrows, both at Zhongli searching for him so fervently and at his subordinates. “They’re not supposed to be giving out that information.”
“You’re not fishing though, are you, Childe?” Zhongli says. “I anticipated your anger, but I anticipated you directly confronting me and attacking me, not this. Even after all the time we have spent together, I can’t predict your thinking.”
That makes him turn his head to face Zhongli. He’s always thought Zhongli was unnaturally good-looking, with no scars or blemishes marring his skin, his hair perfectly tousled, his teeth too straight. That remains the case presently. Of course, he knows why that is now.
“What do you want from me, Morax?” He asks, sounding more tired than he means to. “To mess with me more before I go? Can’t you just leave me alone?”
Zhongli looks pained. “No, I wanted to speak to you. You left the bank before I got a proper chance.“
Tartaglia laughs at that, sharp and bitter. “Why bother? You made your thoughts on me quite clear.” He digs his fingers into the sand. Zhongli is right, there is anger that boils in him, though it is nothing compared to the hurt.
“I didn’t make them clear enough,” Zhongli says, shaking his head. “I enjoy your company, and our time spent together is something I treasure.”
Weeks ago, Tartaglia would’ve believed that. Now, he knows better. “Again. What do you really want from me? We both know that isn’t true.”
To his surprise, Zhongli makes a low sound of frustration. “I want to be forgiven and I want to spend time with you again. I don’t want anything from you, I want-” he cuts himself off.
Tartaglia knows that the contract Zhongli had made with the Tsarista couldn’t be broken, and that it was the Tsarista who had sent him. Zhongli hadn’t decided to drag Tartaglia specifically into it all and make him the catalyst, the Tsarista had chosen him. Once Zhongli had slyly slipped information on Osial under the guise of historical information, he could’ve reasonably stopped talking to Tartaglia. The plan would’ve gone just fine without him eating lunch or dinner with him almost every day. It definitely would’ve gone fine without them taking many walks that would accidentally last hours and hours, as they would lose track of time while talking.
That all added up to it being possible that an Archon, the oldest of them all, liked being his friend. Possible, not certain.
“I’ll forgive you if you fight me,” Tartaglia says forcefully. Morax is not as powerful without his Gnosis, but he was still a god. He has never fought something at that caliber before.
A cool breeze washes over them, and he involuntarily shivers, regretting not taking the water out of his soaked clothes using his Vision. Unfortunately, Zhongli notices.
“Alright,” Zhongli agrees. “I will fight you, but later, when you are at peak health. And when you are not- ahem, why is it that you are wet, anyways?” His gaze goes to Tartaglia’s hip where his Vision is, then back to his face.
Tartaglia crosses his arms. “My health is fine. And I went for a swim.”
Zhongli’s eyes flicker down again to Tartaglia’s chest from the movement of his arms, but it seems to be unintentional this time by how quickly he looks back up. “In your regular clothing? And no, you are not. Both your arms and legs are covered in bruises and scratches.”
“They always are. And what else was I supposed to do, be naked? I figured anyone could arrive unexpectedly, and I was right. You did,” Tartaglia says. “Plus, I can dry my clothes, they will just be a little crusty from the salt and sand.” He does exactly that, his Vision glowing as he moves the hydro out of the fabrics. Once it is dry it is instantly uncomfortable, and he makes a face.
“Then why go swimming-“
“Look, I’m dry now. Fit as a fiddle for a fight. Let’s go.” He stands up, forgetting about the coat draped over his shoulders, which Zhongli catches before it falls entirely into the sand.
Zhongli gets to his feet, far too smoothly for one who was sitting in loose sand. He dusts off the coat, and places it neatly back on Tartaglia. “We will fight when I determine you are in your best condition. Currently, I believe you are not,” he says.
“I am! And uh, what are you doing, exactly?” Tartaglia questions, holding the edge of the coat out with a hand.
“You looked cold,” Zhongli says.
It must have been his previous shivering. Regardless… The coat is embroidered and decorated to designate Zhongli as an employee of the funeral parlor, and was crafted using very high quality materials. Tartaglia is ruining it by wearing it.
“I’m fine, and even if I wasn’t, my jacket is right over there. You’re just getting your coat gross for no reason- unless you’re wanting it to be beachy?” Tartaglia says doubtfully.
Zhongli opens his mouth, then closes it, like a fish. He clears his throat. “No, that is not it. My main reasoning may anger you.”
Instantly he is on guard. “What is it,” Tartaglia says, his voice low in warning.
“When I came across you on this beach,” Zhongli starts. “You appeared to be very melancholic. I suppose I wanted to remedy it… I did not think about it much, admittedly, other than knowing it was a better idea to give you my coat rather than hugging you. I figured that would not tide over well with your current sentiments towards me.”
He can’t help it. Tartaglia bursts into laughter. The laughter is light and genuine and bubbles out of him, entirely different from his earlier stiff laughs. That whole explanation was so ridiculous, and not at all what he was thinking when Zhongli said it might make him angry. The heaviness he’d been carrying for weeks lifts for a moment as he shakes where he stands, clutching at his sides from laughing.
“You thought I needed cheering up, like a child?” He says, trying to alleviate his giggles, and only partially succeeding. “That is the opposite of flattering, Zhongli. You’re correct, that does further my perception that you think of me as weak and insignificant.” He turns away, moving to go grab his discarded boots and jacket.
“No, that is not what I think at all. Your strength could be greater than Celestia itself, and I would still have given you my coat.”
Tartaglia stops.
“I don’t know how to convince you that truly, I care for you deeply,” Zhongli continues. “There’s no one I enjoy talking with more than you.”
No one truly likes talking to him, he’s discovered. This is a fact.
His throat feels dry, and he bites his lip, like that along with him blinking rapidly will prevent the inevitable. “I didn’t know you liked me so much,” Tartaglia jokes, his eyes fixed on what is ahead of him. “Usually one does not puppeteer people they hold in such high esteem.”
“‘Like’ is too inadequate a word to express what I feel for you,” says Zhongli.
Tartaglia, unable to read his expression through his voice, turns back to see Zhongli’s face. It’s in shadow, night having fully crept up on them without him noticing. He’s thankful for the darkness, for in turn Zhongli shouldn’t be able to see how hard he is trying to keep his own expression neutral.
Zhongli looks less imposing without his intricate coat, more like a regular man than a god hiding in plain sight. He holds himself with uncertainty, something Tartaglia has not seen on him before.
“I love the people of Liyue, for they are my people, the children of my land. I watch them from when they are born to when they die, and all the things they accomplish in between. Guizhong-who is better known as the Goddess of Dust- and I crafted and shaped the earth, setting the foundations for them all to live and prosper. I love what they create, what they dream of, what they think. The people of Liyue will always be tied to me, as I am tied to Liyue itself,” Zhongli says, then briefly pauses.
Tartaglia does not know where Zhongli is going with this.
“And somehow I find myself experiencing an entirely different kind of love and adoration. One that is far more consuming, for someone who is not one of my people, for someone who is from Snezhnaya, a place so unlike Liyue in its snow and ice. It is not platonic nor familial. This love holds my attention and has a selfishness to it, where it has nothing to do with Liyue or my duties or my image, it is simply from me and me alone. A love where I am unsatisfied by friendship, though I will hold it and keep it precious the same if that is all I receive,” Zhongli says.
For a moment, Tartaglia wonders if he is dreaming or hallucinating. He can’t entirely process what he just heard. “That is how you feel… towards me?” He can barely be heard over the noisy waves.
“Yes.”
And suddenly, Tartaglia remembers certain things, things he had dismissed when they had happened. Zhongli keeping hold of him with a hand against the small of his back while they walked through crowded areas. Zhongli always inviting Tartaglia to sit next to him, then slowly scooting his chair over to be even closer. Zhongli lightly leaning on him while adjusting his grip on chopsticks. Zhongli offering to massage his hands to help, and Tartaglia declining, out of feeling strangely embarrassed.
Besides those little excuses for touches, there were other things he now thinks of. Zhongli explaining different varieties of a flower species, then offering one to him. Zhongli never forgetting his food preferences, although Tartaglia never told him them in the first place. Zhongli waving off Tartaglia’s apologies after Tartaglia accidentally chattered about something for half an hour, and saying he would have stopped him if he hadn’t liked listening. Zhongli smiling softly whenever he sees him, something that always makes him feel light and airy.
They decided one day to buy matching black leather bands with gold detailing, mostly to support the woman who was selling them to get a studio space for painting. They had figured they both could tie it around the hilt of a weapon and use it as an easy identifier. Tartaglia ended up wearing his every day as a garter band around his thigh, and had no idea what Zhongli did with his band until now. Without Zhongli’s coat on him to cover, Tartaglia can see that Zhongli wears it on one of his arms.
Those memories all collide into an obvious conclusion, and Tartaglia exhales sharply. “I must be pretty dense for not noticing, aren’t I?” He says, picking up his jacket as an excuse to not look at Zhongli. He folds it with his sash, mask, and gloves placed inside, tucks it under his arm, and grabs his boots with his free hand. It is time to go. He needs to go.
“You were focused on other things. Taking the Gnosis was your goal, so you were not trying to solve other puzzles. I also was trying to hide my affection for you, which proved to be difficult. There could be no interference with the plan formed with the contract, and that would have derailed it entirely, if you found out.” Zhongli’s long ponytail ripples behind him, reminiscent of how his Adeptus form curves through the sky.
Logically, Tartaglia knows that is true. Someone being romantically interested in him wasn’t something he was paying attention to, not when he was trying to kill a god. And yet, he feels very, very stupid. Again. Feeling stupid because of Zhongli seems to be a reoccurring theme for him lately.
“I’m not sure why you’re making excuses for me.” Tartaglia approaches him and sets down his boots for a second. He takes off the coat and holds it out to Zhongli. “Here. You wouldn’t want more rumors going around in town, no? I know Wangsheng has had a downward spike in business because of us- I mean, me being seen around you often. The funeral parlor doesn’t need to lose more potential clients due to me publicly wearing its insignia.”
Zhongli’s brow furrows, but he takes it nevertheless and puts it back on. He’s then motionless, his eyes glued to Tartaglia’s face.
“Zhongli…?” Tartaglia peers at him. He wonders if he has sand on him or something, and brushes at his forehead with the back of his hand. Nothing.
“It’s almost difficult to see in the moonlight,” Zhongli says, his lips creeping into a smile. “I thought, due to your lack of a reaction and acknowledgment, that that was your answer, and our previous interactions where I thought otherwise was a fluke. Now that you are close, though…” He swipes a thumb delicately across one of Tartaglia’s cheekbones. “I see that is not the case.”
The darkness, to his despair, isn’t enough to hide what must be a lingering blush from Zhongli’s declaration of feelings, and his touch only makes it return fiercely to full force. “I’m just sunburnt,” he clumsily lies.
“Mmhm,” Zhongli hums, amused and failing at hiding subtle delight. “I suppose I should properly ask you, then. Do you share the same feelings for me that I do for you?”
It’s as if everything has gone quiet. He is devoted to the Tsarista. His existence is to be a weapon for others, to fight and kill and cause chaos. He cannot be like other people, he can’t pursue a normal career and fall in love and have a family. It is not in his nature, and it never will be. He’s not a person at all.
“I think you know the answer already, Zhongli,” he says, clipped.
For what he remembers in Zhongli’s past actions, he remembers his own as well. Finishing his work early so that he can walk with Zhongli somewhere unimportant. Waiting patiently in the lobby of the funeral parlor for Zhongli to finish speaking with a client. Spending time reading about Liyuen idioms so that he doesn’t have to disrupt Zhongli’s flow of speech to ask what he means. Being comfortable enough with him to accidentally fall asleep on Zhongli’s shoulder after exhausting himself from working.
He remembers wanting. It is not a new feeling to him, it is something that drives him, and yet it’s a different type of want than his dreams of conquering. He’s had to stop himself from reaching and twirling Zhongli’s tasseled earring with a finger, from touching Zhongli’s hair to see if it was as silky as it looked, from using his thumb to see if he could smear the red makeup that always sharply lines Zhongli’s eyes. He’s had to stop himself from inviting Zhongli to Morepesok, from bringing him homemade soup, from asking him to dance with him, from telling him his real name is Ajax.
He remembers pretending to be mildly upset by Zhongli handing over the gnosis to Signora, and leaving to go sit pitifully by himself in his empty assigned rooms, wanting to cry but unable to. At that moment, he accepted he was weak and not in control of things. His only friend, going so far in tricking him to where he was stuck not seeing his family for months, and had to resort to summoning a potentially catastrophic monster to get a mission completed. That friend not caring about the deception, and saying that he used him too.
Zhongli’s job is being a funeral parlor consultant who specializes in local Liyuen culture and history. Childe never asked him for anything beyond what was already part of his job description. But sure, asking Zhongli where the library was was equal to making him think he had no other choice but to summon Osial, who had the potential to drown Liyue Harbor.
He never knew Zhongli. Zhongli was a fake identity worn by the Geo Archon. How could you know something that wasn’t real? So he cried, about everything.
Now, he does not hide. He stands still as Zhongli(for Zhongli is not fake, it’s simply a name that Morax uses) searches his face for confirmation of anything.
Zhongli’s uncertainty is back. “You’re not happy with them.” It’s not a question.
Tartaglia looks down at where his mask peeks out from his bundle of clothing. “I pledged my loyalty to the Tsarista. To worship another god is sacrilege. Already what I feel for you is a betrayal of my allegiance. And with how you have treated me? I do not hate myself enough to willingly subject myself to more of that.”
Zhongli is startled. “Worship? That is not what I want from you. I have plenty of followers to choose from if that were the case. I was referring to-“
“Is romantic love in such a way not a form of worship? To wholeheartedly offer oneself in mind, body, and soul to another? To see that person in such a holy light, where your eyes are clouded with stars and you thank the earth for letting you share the same dirt to tread upon?” He steps closer, to where he’s about a foot away from Zhongli. “Tell me, do you really not want me to give myself to you? To call out your name, and your name only? I don’t appreciate lying, Morax.”
As he expected, those words trigger something in Zhongli, as his eyes glow dimly in the darkness that surrounds them. “Childe- That’s not- If you insist on using such comparisons, then I will tell you in those terms. It is not the same, for I want to worship you . I do not want you to be lesser than me, or follow my command. You’re not a thing for me to possess, why must you keep pushing that narrative?” He huffs.
Tartaglia feels dizzy for a moment, what Zhongli said clouding his head like thick smoke. He can’t quite comprehend it. “Oh,” he says. “That’s… Oh. But I- I can’t be distracted from my Harbinger work, and I don’t know how to do, um, this sort of thing, and I’m supposed to leave Liyue soon anyway and I don’t know when I’ll be back, and I’m still mad at you and-“ He sighs. “I can’t. I need to get over this, and you too, Zhongli. It will end terribly.”
He doesn’t say what else he is thinking. That he’s not meant for love. That he’s meant for battle, and anything else he is bound to bring crashing to the ground. It all sounds silly.
“How cowardly.”
It is a challenge. Tartaglia has faced many challenges. And oh, how he wants. He’s never denied how self serving he is. Zhongli got him there. Those two words change his mind so easily.
“I hope I do not end up saying ‘I told you so’,” Tartaglia replies. “Yes. We can, um. Try.”
Despite the choppy answer, Zhongli beams. Tartaglia attempts to not smile back, and fails. A giddy warmth spreads through him, like the heat of a fireplace after a day in the snow.
“I am very happy to hear that.” Zhongli leans forward, and plucks out something from Tartaglia’s hair. It’s a small piece of seaweed. “I believe my home is closer to here than where you are staying. You can wash the sand off and borrow some clothing so that you are more comfortable before journeying back, if you wish.”
He hasn’t been to Zhongli’s house before, and he’s not sure if that was actually him implying something. However, it would be nice to not have to trudge through the harbor up to his rooms by the bank while looking like he badly lost a fight to a fish. He’s also curious about what the inside of Zhongli’s house will look like, since he’s seen(and helped) him buy such random items. The Tsarista stays in Zapolyarny Palace, which is giant and lavish and very empty. Zhongli’s personality is so different, that Tartaglia knows that even with Zhongli’s former Archon status his home will be entirely different from the Palace.
“How generous,” Tartaglia says half jokingly. “Very well. Show me to your humble abode.”
~
Zhongli’s house is relatively small and unremarkable on the outside, with a neatly tended garden and worn steps. It’s not as ostentatious as Zhongli’s clothing or tastes in general, and Tartaglia can tell that the house was chosen for its regularity. A classic attempt at hiding in plain sight.
Inside is where it is made clear that the house belongs to Zhongli. There are books and scrolls in messy stacks everywhere. The amount of useless items and knickknacks is not as bad as Tartaglia thought it would be, with them placed relatively normally on nice furniture. It’s the books that are utterly overwhelming.
“Zhongli, this is a fire hazard!” Tartaglia says, stepping over a pile of stacked books. “And when was the last time you dusted? Dust damages paper- I bet you can’t wash the floors either, there’s no room! Thank goodness you don’t wear your shoes inside. Zhongli, are you listening to me?”
He’s looking at Tartaglia with a small, fond smile that turns embarrassed. “Yes. I have not had much time to organize. I did not know you were so passionate about cleaning.”
Tartaglia decides not to bring up that if he had time to search for him, he definitely had time to put books and scrolls away properly. “It’s important for one’s health. Wards off sickness,” Tartaglia explains instead, crossing his arms. He is not ‘passionate’, he is normal about wanting cleanliness in a home.
Zhongli murmurs something inaudible, then clears his throat. “Ahem. Would you like me to draw you a bath? I have hot water.”
“Oh. Sure.”
Tartaglia waits for Zhongli to leave the main room, and sits down next to a book pile and starts sorting and restacking. He tries to do it alphabetically by the author’s last name, but around half of the books are written in Liyuen. Those he puts in a separate pile, as he has no idea what order Liyue characters go in.
By the time Zhongli comes back, he’s gone through three stacks of books and is starting on a fourth, putting them neatly against the wall in order. He needs to go through all the books and scrolls in the room before he can start actually reshelving them.
“Childe.”
“Hm?” He doesn’t look up, engrossed in his task.
“It is not necessary for you to do that. Also, the water is ready. I placed some clothing in there as well for you,” Zhongli says.
Tartaglia places a final book down and stands up, stretching as he does so. The soreness and stiffness from the last time he transformed has yet to leave. “Oh, thank you. Um. You need to get another bookshelf,” he says.
Zhongli shakes his head. “I need to sell or give away a lot of these,” he admits. “Ah, it’s this room over here. You can call out if you want or need anything.” He guides Tartaglia over, then hovers for a second. “Excuse my awkwardness, I have… not had guests over in some time.” He gives a small bow of his head, and leaves.
The bathroom is thankfully less messy than what Tartaglia has seen so far of the house. There’s a tiny container of red makeup on the countertop, and a few bottles of various toiletries. He finds that the scent he associates with Zhongli is a perfume, rather than a blend of different soaps.
He closes the door, and strips out of his sea-crusted uniform. The bath water is a pleasant temperature, but he doesn’t want to linger long at Zhongli’s place. He washes off the grime with the available fancy soaps, trying to be as fast as possible. As he scrubs his face, he takes note to look into buying better soap for himself. It isn’t a luxury he’s thought much about, but there is no reason he needs to keep purchasing the cheapest option. Money hasn’t been a problem for him in a long time, and yet he continues to choose what is on sale for most things.
The towel he was given is high quality of course, as he is coming to realize all of Zhongli’s things are. He’s wary of whatever Zhongli gave him for clothing. While they are close enough in height and build to be about the same in standard sizing, he has never seen Zhongli in anything that wasn’t impeccably tailored. Clothing created to fit Zhongli exactly, down to the width of his shoulders, is not going to fit Tartaglia. It occurs to him that it is not normal to inherently know that.
To his relief, Zhongli does own clothes that are not impeccably tailored. What he was given is simple black clothing that is soft and loose, with ties to adjust the fit. He looks at himself in the mirror above the counter, and he doesn’t look like a Fatui Harbinger, he doesn’t look like a creature from the Abyss, he doesn’t look like anyone of significance. He looks tired, and nothing else.
Zhongli is in the kitchen, which is small to the point of being cramped. From what Tartaglia can see, there are more neatly organized herbs and containers of tea leaves than any food items. With how much passion Zhongli has for tea, the contents of the kitchen show that he does use it often- albeit mostly not for eating. He doesn’t look up right away, and Tartaglia comes to his side, picking up the container of tea to read the label. It’s in Liyuen, and Tartaglia sets it back down, not recognizing the characters.
“Albizia flower,” Zhongli says, turning to him. “It has properties that aid in- Oh.” His eyes zero in on Tartaglia’s face.
“Hm?”
“You have freckles. I must have not noticed before.” Zhongli gives no indication on whether that is a good thing or not.
Tartaglia raises a hand to his face absentmindedly. “They’re usually too faint to see unless you’re really close, but I get them everywhere. I must have been in the sun a lot lately.” He had barely been inside today.
There’s a mild sigh from Zhongli, and he goes back to preparing the tea. As he pours he says, “What I find charming when it comes to you is unprecedented. I do not tend to think much of freckles, and here I am, finding yours utterly captivating.”
He doesn’t pay any mind to Tartaglia, who is once again struggling to keep himself collected. “Complimenting me is not going to make me forgive you faster, you know,” Tartaglia says, ignoring the fluttering in his chest.
“I know. That is why I am speaking my mind, rather than attempting to sway you.” Zhongli pauses. “And you blush very easily, I enjoy it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tartaglia says. He knows what he’s talking about.
Zhongli hands him a cup of tea, having finished preparing it while Tartaglia was distracted. “Then you will see. As I was saying, this is made from the Albizia flower. It helps relieve the symptoms of insomnia, and can ease stress and improve overall mood. Albizia trees are also known as silk trees, and along with the uses for their flowers, they provide adequate timber. The brewing time is longer due to it being an herbal tea, and if one loses patience, the tea will be weak. I added a small amount of sugar for taste, however it should not be enough to make it overly sweet, as I know that is not your preference,” Zhongli explains.
Tartaglia looks down at the tea, then at Zhongli. “Do I appear to be needing those benefits?” He’s not offended, he knows he looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple days.
“…Yes,” Zhongli admits. “Although you are always lovely, you look like you need to rest.”
Always lovely. Always lovely. Always lovely. Always lovely. Always lovely. Always lovely-
“Let’s go to the drawing room, it is more comfortable,” Zhongli says, and nudges Tartaglia with his elbow as he leaves the kitchen, his own tea in hand.
He trails after Zhongli, lost in the words echoing in his mind. Seeing the amount of books and scrolls in the room again snaps him out of his reverie. At least the couch and chairs have nothing on them. They’re old and beautifully made, and he prefers to not think about what they could have possibly cost.
Tartaglia settles on the couch and Zhongli sits across from him in a cozy-looking chair. They stare at each other blankly.
“I’m leaving in two weeks,” Tartaglia says, and takes a sip of his tea. It is alright, definitely medicinal over flavorful. “Something about Inazuma, I think. Thank you for the tea, by the way.”
Zhongli contemplates that. “It’s been centuries since I myself have visited. My information is probably outdated, otherwise I would give recommendations on what to enjoy while you are there. Will you be able to send letters?” Zhongli leans forward, like the answer to that question is crucial.
Writing letters is something Tartaglia does often, yet they are all Fatui business or to his family. His agents are given the roles of mail deliverers more times than they are involved in any fighting. He would have no difficulty sending letters from Inazuma.
“Give me your official address before I go, or I’ll send them to the funeral parlor. I can’t have you missing hearing about the Inazuman combat styles, the idea is preposterous,” Tartaglia says, smiling into his tea cup. “Could you tell me about the ones you remember?”
Zhongli’s posture relaxes, and he starts giving a detailed description of sword techniques. That topic goes into rules that dictate honorability, which goes into traditional ceremonies. Although Tartaglia is very interested in the topic, the combination of the calming tea and Zhongli’s soothing voice, along with his lack of sleep, end in him accidentally dozing off.
~
“Childe,” Zhongli says.
Tartaglia awakes with a start, his heart racing. He doesn’t recognize where he is at first, and his head whips around as he frantically scans the room. It’s relatively dark, and he scrambles to sit up. He can’t see what’s in the shadows, anything could be in there.
“Nothing is there,” Zhongli adds, appearing to be glowing faintly, which reveals his presence. He’s hovering near Tartaglia, and he’s in casual clothing for once. His hair is out of its neat ponytail, and it spills over his shoulders like ink in the dim light. “You’re alright.”
The dream Tartaglia had still races through his mind, despite being awake. He steadies his breathing. “Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep and overstay my welcome. That was rude of me.”
Zhongli shakes his head. “I would have woken you sooner if I were bothered. The reason I woke you now is because you seemed very troubled in your sleep.”
In general, Tartaglia tends to dislike sleeping. He knows it is necessary and that is why he attempts to get adequate sleep, but he dislikes it. Being awake is much better than having to relive his memories over and over. They’re twisted to be worse than what really happened.
“That happens sometimes.” Every night, although it is more common for him to wake himself up. “It’s nothing, honestly,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
Zhongli sits down next to him on the unused part of the couch. “Abyss energy lingers around you. I used to think it was from you possibly constantly fighting Abyss creatures that made their way here. Currently with you having bathed and time passing by, it should be completely gone. Instead, it is stronger than before you fell asleep,” he says, curious. “It never crossed my mind that it would be coming from you.”
Tartaglia wraps his arms around himself. “I didn’t know people could sense it so easily,” he mutters. He digs the fingernails of one of his hands into the flesh of his arm, using the sharp pain to ground his racing thoughts.
“No,” Zhongli disagrees. “Not regular mortals. And even I thought you were completely human until now. I’ve never met an Abyss creature so intent on hiding their identity.”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Zhongli,” he says. “I am human. Whatever you are thinking, make your mind up on it.”
His hand is pulled away from where he is close to drawing blood, and Zhongli holds it, far too tenderly than what he deserves. “You are not getting rid of me so easily. I love you, whatever you may b- What are you doing?”
Tartaglia has become fixated on Zhongli’s hand, conversation forgotten. He’s never seen it without the gloves and long sleeves that always cover Zhongli’s arms. To his astonishment, some of the faint glow is coming from golden skin that changes color into charcoal black as it goes up Zhongli’s arms. Intricate gold patterns in geometric shapes interrupt the black, creating a unique effect. Tartaglia’s thumb swipes over Zhongli’s knuckles, which are only calloused rather than feeling like the rock they look like.
“Oh, I must have slipped on holding my mortal form,” Zhongli says hurriedly. “Apologies, I’ll-“
“Beautiful,” Tartaglia says, transfixed. He isn’t fully aware he is speaking out loud. “You’re so pretty.”
“Childe,” Zhongli chastises, but the glow brightening gives away his true feelings. “It is me losing concentration. A sign of weakness, more than anything.”
Tartaglia makes a dismissive sound, and begins tracing the patterns with a finger. It’s helping him calm down somehow, and it is amusing to see Zhongli struggle to keep still, which is a rarity. He hears Zhongli say, “I will ask another time,” an auditory acceptance of his fate.
As he holds Zhongli’s hand with one hand and goes along the golden lines that adorn Zhongli’s arm with the other, his heart goes back to steady beats. It’s quiet and dark, which is a bad sign. Zhongli is warm and bright, and that cancels it out completely.
It’s inevitable, really, that he falls back asleep.
~
Morning light is what wakes him this time, peeking out from behind curtains. He’s achy from sleeping on a couch, and there’s something heavy on his side that’s keeping him from getting up. As he blearily opens his eyes, he sees that the heaviness is from Zhongli curled up against him. Zhongli’s hair is incredibly messy, and he’s clutching Tartaglia’s hand close to his chest.
He’s still mad at Zhongli.
He’s still mad at Zhongli.
He’s still mad at Zhongli.
Even after a fight, he doubts he will forgive him. (It’s getting harder to convince himself that he hasn’t forgiven him already.) (Being cared for is crumbling his resolve.)
He reaches and moves the hair that’s fallen over Zhongli’s face, and tucks it behind his ear. “Zhongli,” he whispers. “You’re on my legs.”
There’s no movement, so Tartaglia wiggles his hand away from the grip and tries to physically push Zhongli off. To his despair, Zhongli takes his duty as the Lord of Rock seriously, and he does not budge. If it weren’t for the achiness and Zhongli probably having work today, he would’ve let him stay awhile longer. But there are those two things, and Tartaglia wants to get up..
“Zhongliiiii,” Tartaglia says, abandoning the whisper. He gently flicks him on the forehead. “Zhongli. Are you doing this on purpose? Morax!”
That causes him to stir. He shifts, and sits up, finally allowing Tartaglia to free his legs. His expression conveys mild puzzlement, and complete sleepiness.
“You need to respond to Zhongli better. People are going to notice if you only react to Morax,” Tartaglia says, yawning.
“No. It caught my attention because I’m not used to you calling me that.” Zhongli sounds sleepy, which should not be as cute as it is considering who he is. “Or hearing it in your voice.”
Tartaglia tilts his head, unable to read his tone. “If it really bothers you, I’ll stop.” He’s not sure why he says that, since before he was weaponizing it.
Zhongli contemplates, his brow furrowing. “I am trying to embrace this self and discard that identity, but…”
Him being conflicted over it makes Tartaglia laugh. He leans in close to see his expression clearly, putting a hand on Zhongli’s thigh for stability. “Do you like when I call you Morax, Mr. Zhongli?” He asks, somewhat mischievously.
Easily Tartaglia deciphers that it is not a power thing. If that were the case, Zhongli would like it when Tartaglia uses Rex Lapis, the actual acknowledgment of his status, rather than being visibly annoyed. Instead it appears that he likes his full self being acknowledged by Tartaglia, not being limited to the Zhongli persona he handcrafted.
To Tartaglia’s surprise, Zhongli’s eyes dart away, a clear sign of him becoming flustered. “It is fine, if we are not in public. It is my name, after all,” he says. “I don’t mind if you use it. However, I would prefer that you refrain from using any titles. Those are… uncomfortable.”
Tartaglia tucks away that information. He’s a bit smug about being right.
“It goes with Ajax,” he says before thinking about it. His blood runs cold, and he begins berating himself for giving out that name like that. He’s supposed to be angry at Zhongli. He’s supposed to not be giving away those parts of himself, it’s compromising. “Ax and ax.” He needs to stop talking, why can’t he shut up?
“Ajax?” Zhongli repeats, confused.
Now it is Tartaglia who looks away, his grin gone now. “Um, it’s my real name. I don’t really use it anymore, and no one calls me it. But, um, I was pointing out that it matches your real name. Morax and Ajax. Sorry, I should-“ He gets off of him, realizing their proximity, and feeling incredibly idiotic.
Zhongli doesn’t stare at him, or look at him like he’s crazy, or make any indication that Tartaglia is acting like a clown. He smiles up at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and laughs. “You’re right. Ajax and Morax. We match. And here I thought the phoenix and the dragon association was a stretch,” he says, saying the last sentence mostly to himself.
“What?” Tartaglia says, not having any idea on what Zhongli was talking about. Vaguely he remembers those two creatures being on something, but he didn’t think of them being paired as having any sort of meaning. “Wait, like those chopsticks you gave me? Because… chopsticks match? Is that a common design for them?”
And with that, Zhongli stiffens, and coughs awkwardly. “No, uh. That was- Ahem. In Liyuen culture, the dragon and phoenix are considered an aspect of yin and yang, two types of energy that when put together are strong and harmonious. Generally the dragon is seen as a symbol of masculinity and prosperity, while the phoenix is seen as a symbol of femininity and warmth. As such they are commonly used to represent everlasting love, as together they are happy and balanced. And they’re, uh, an oft-used symbol for, um, couples, especially for, uh, weddings and marriage,” he clarifies, stumbling through his explanation.
Tartaglia blinks. Dragon and phoenix chopsticks, gifted to him. The dragon and phoenix symbolizing love, marriage. Chopsticks symbolizing love and marriage, gifted to him. By Zhongli. Zhongli gifting something to him that symbolized love and marriage. And yet Zhongli said nothing, and Tartaglia had to pay for them. He proceeds to start giggling uncontrollably.
“You’re so stupid, oh my god. You gave me those, and didn’t say anything? Was I supposed to know what they meant? You made me pay for them! Also, I know you are a literal dragon, but you better not be assigning me the strictly feminine phoenix,” he says, coughing a couple times from his laughter.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, honestly,” Zhongli says, looking vaguely like he wants to curl up in a hole and die. “You said you didn’t have chopsticks to practice with, and I hadn’t really- I suppose I wanted to express my adoration of you in something you could keep with you. A token of my affection, even if you did not realize.” He pauses. “And no, I am not assigning you the empress, despite my titles and being a ‘literal dragon’.”
Tartaglia huffs in fake exasperation. It is impossible for the chopstick thing to be a manipulation tactic, as Tartaglia didn’t know what they meant. “I am starting to believe that all the stories of your wisdom are falsehoods. And wait, are you the empress, then?”
“No,” Zhongli bluntly says, with impressive patience. “It does not necessarily mean traditional roles of husband and wife. It ultimately means that the couple and their individual traits are harmonious when they are together. Both of us hold traits assigned to both the dragon and the phoenix, as both of us hold qualities of masculinity and femininity combined. The dragon and phoenix are not limited to gender, either.”
“But if you’re an emperor, even formerly, then automatically that’s assigning me to be the empress, and therefore the phoenix, making that all a moot point.”
“I said we hold traits of both, so neither of us are placed cut and dry into one role. I am not feminizing you. And you would not be an empress, you would be a consort-“ Zhongli stops, and narrows his eyes. “You know this already. You’re messing with me.”
Tartaglia stifles another giggle. Along with Tartaglia having fervently studied for his diplomat cover before even arriving in Liyue, Zhongli had also told him a dozen or so stories regarding royalty in Liyue. If he didn’t know how the Liyuen parliamentary republic worked by this point, it would be concerning. “Maybe a little bit.”
“You are so funny, Childe,” Zhongli says dryly. “I confess that I think of wanting to marry you sometimes, and you use it as an opportunity to tease me.”
“You made me pay for those chopsticks, you deserve it.”
It’s really because he’s trying to distract himself from Zhongli saying that he would marry him. He knows it’s not a proposal, but knowing that Zhongli considers it at all is making his insides turn into mush. It’s overwhelming to know someone likes him that much. Especially that someone being Zhongli.
Zhongli slowly reaches and pulls Tartaglia into his arms, making him haphazardly topple onto him with an ‘unfh’ sound. He holds him snugly, and his hair gets in Tartaglia’s face as Tartaglia scrambles to not halfway fall off the couch. Thankfully he is able to grab hold of Zhongli and right himself instead of tumbling to the ground.
“Maybe warn a guy first,” he grumbles. “And when did you get so touchy?” He arranges his limbs so that Zhongli’s hair is not in his face, and so that he is holding him back just as tightly. Zhongli is solid and warm, and Tartaglia can’t help but relax into the embrace.
“It is retribution to the retribution. And you say that as if it were not you who cuddled me onto you last night,” Zhongli says, sounding far too content. “I thought you might be adverse to anything that was not brief touches, which is why I did not attempt anything previously. Is it that you are shy when it comes to physical contact? I must say, that is unexpected.”
It’s true, Tartaglia had wanted to be on his side but hadn’t wanted to lose closeness with Zhongli, and essentially tugged him over. He hadn’t predicted that Zhongli wouldn’t leave, not that he too would fall asleep. “I’m not shy, Zhongli. Of course I’m not going to immediately be affectionate, I’m still angry with you,” he says while being latched onto him like an octopus. “Not to mention that it was only yesterday that you made it clear you had intentions beyond friendship.”
There’s a momentary silence, then Zhongli responds. “Yesterday when you said you ‘Didn’t know how to do this sort of thing’, you weren’t referring to our specific predicaments, were you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Childe?”
He closes his eyes. “Fighting has always been the most important thing to me, followed by taking care of my family. Not much else tends to occupy my thoughts.”
There’s a hum from Zhongli that rumbles from within his chest. He seems to understand what Tartaglia isn’t sharing out loud. “I will not lie, I am certainly pleased to be an exception. We can go at your own pace, Childe. For whatever you wish, and if you do not want certain things, that is fine too,” he says. “I’ll accept whatever you decide.”
In his uniform, Tartaglia wears a garter snug around his thigh, and his gloves show off his wrists. He will lower his voice and choose words to disarm, and steer people to distraction. Early on in the Fatui he learned that people could be weakened considerably just by being faced with something they found attractive. Countless times he’s achieved information with nothing more than a whisper and a wink.
As such, many assume that he has experience. Only his little sister teases him about not having kissed anyone. He doesn’t know how she knows.
“Thank you, Zhongli,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what I want yet.”
“That’s fine. There’s no rush, Childe. I’ll always wait for you.”
~
A few days later, they fight one misty morning in the marshes. Zhongli holds back, and Tartaglia lasts a total of five minutes before being flung into the air and landing in a leafy bush. He’s laughing as Zhongli helps him out of it, and as Zhongli plucks a stray leaf out of his hair, he leans close, and waits. Tartaglia nods, and Zhongli kisses him.
The first try is bad. Tartaglia doesn’t know what to do, and is as motionless as a statue.
The second is much better, and he sees why people like kissing.
Apparently a mild earthquake occurs in Liyue around the same time, but he doesn’t notice.
~
It’s a few months later that he returns to Liyue. Previously, Zhongli would hesitate before putting his hands anywhere that was beyond chaste touches, and not go further, waiting to see if he was wanting anything. The fear of vulnerability would surround Tartaglia, and he’d shake his head.
Now, Tartaglia says, “Go on,” and shuffles closer, giving permission to be unraveled. Wanting to be.
Zhongli is gentle and patient, and is full of reassurances despite Tartaglia not voicing his thoughts. He quickly figures out how much Tartaglia likes being praised and complimented, and lavishes him with them and delights in the results. Tartaglia’s mind quiets for once, and he finds himself content with not being able to focus on anything other than Zhongli.
While they lie together after he worries that he was not doing enough in return, especially because he was being guided along rather than already knowing. Then he feels a tail wrap around him and Zhongli presses his forehead against his, and he hears what he thinks might be the half-dragon-half-qilin version of a purr. How he managed to appease an ancient god with his awkward fumblings and no learned skills whatsoever, he does not know.
He feels safe.
Isn’t that something?
~
More months pass and he brings Zhongli to Morepesok. His younger siblings are ecstatic, and his parents are suspicious. A seemingly mild mannered and high class man wanting to be around Tartaglia does not make much sense to them. His mother promptly asks Tartaglia what’s wrong with Zhongli as soon as they’re alone together. Tartaglia shrugs. A lot.
They decide to take a day trip to a nearby city, and of course that turns out to be the day a huge and horrendous creature appears and starts terrorizing. It’s too large for any of Tartaglia’s normal weaponry to make an impact, and Zhongli is obviously riddled with conflict. He doesn’t want to watch idly as the creature runs rampant, but any of his abilities that would be powerful enough to take it down would give away his identity immediately.
Tartaglia sighs.
In Foul Legacy, he tears the creature into shreds, ripping apart its limbs and turning the snow under his feet crimson red. The creature shrieks, helpless against Foul Legacy’s glaive. It’s unidentifiable by the time he’s done, and the carcass steams in the icy air.
He’s sitting with his knees clutched to his chest when Zhongli finds him again by the side of a building, back to his average self. Tartaglia waits for the rumored hatred of the Abyss from Morax, waits for Zhongli to be angry that he didn’t mention it before. He’s read about the cataclysm, he knows the stories of the Abyssal beasts slaughtered by Rex Lapis and the Adepti. Zhongli knows of his Abyssal ties, but he’s never seen or heard of Foul Legacy before.
The cold seeps past his now blood stained coat, and he shivers involuntarily. He wants to sleep.
Zhongli leans down and scoops him up into his arms, and shakes his head. “While impressive, I cannot say that I approve of that technique if it leaves you so drained,” is what he says. “To combine both Electro and Hydro as one individual so flawlessly.. you truly are a marvel. A marvel that is incredibly heavy in Abyss energy at the moment- I believe it is time we get to discussing that, my dear.”
“I love you,” Ajax says without thinking.
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. He’s known it for a long time, but he’s faltered every time he’s gotten close to saying it. Part of him fears the wrath of the Tsarista, that him loving another god is betrayal at its finest. Is he abandoning his nation, his duty? Has he been so caught up with his own feelings as to get lost?
Rationally he knows he’s always been blasphemous. His blade may belong to the Tsarista, but his heart belongs to Morax, and he can’t find himself to feel guilty. He’s a fool, he knows. He’s going to end up crashing and burning, he knows. His devotion has shifted too much.
Tartaglia is going to conquer the world, he is going to slaughter all those who stand in his way, he will do everything to get everything. He hungers and he will never stop, his appetite for chaos and the rush of battle never able to be satiated. This is not a secret he’s kept to Zhongli. Zhongli knows, and Zhongli knows he intends to keep him by his side.
If he’s not there for Zhongli, Zhongli will spend all his money frivolously and his house will be cluttered with books. If Zhongli’s not there for him, he won’t have anyone to talk to about his favorite plays and types of weapons. And that won’t do.
“I love you too,” Zhongli says, radiating joy at hearing the confirmation.
And for the first time in years, Ajax starts crying. They are not tears of sadness, far from it.
To the ocean he is nothing, and somehow to Zhongli he is everything.