Seven Months in Heaven [Zhongchi/Tartali]

Chapter 15 - Clearing the Air

Home.

That was where he headed.

It wasn't home any more.

The rain eased into the ever fair weather of Liyue Harbor as Childe strode through the city gates. Heads turned to follow him as he stormed down the late evening street, but he paid them no heed, the events of the previous hours replaying in his head.

Mashkov.

Romanski.

Zhongli.

By all objective measures, the mission was a success, but when Childe pushed open the front door of their – no, Zhongli's – home to a solitary creak and stepped foot into that heavy, oppressive silence, it felt like an outright failure.

Regardless, the time had come to leave. He dragged his suitcase from under the bed and flung it open, marching around the room to sling in clothes, books, and the various trinkets he'd collected and sprinkled atop the furnishings, marking his integration into Zhongli's life.

But it was over. Zhongli had been using him precisely as specified in their contract; he hadn't cared enough to let Childe know about his people suffering in the Chasm. It had all been a fun game for him. What a fool Childe had been, to hope that there was anything more to their relationship than the contract, or that Zhongli might've felt anything for him.

That was the exact problem that had gotten him into this mess:

No-one would date a Harbinger willingly.

He would do well to remember that.

Piece by piece, Childe packed his life into that single case, all traces of him vanishing from the home they'd shared as though he had never been a part of it. The note he'd written previously sat abandoned in the spot he'd left it for Zhongli to find. Childe wasn't going to touch it; his stomach churned at the thought of seeing those pathetic words written by his own hand.

"Yours, Ajax," he'd wanted to sign it.

Fool.

Zhongli had played him for a fool.

He stood back, surveying the half-bare room, attempting to remember if there was anything he'd forgotten. He made one final sweep of the place, sifting through drawers, cabinets, under the bedsheets, but that was it – all of him packed into a suitcase, ready to be hauled off to wherever he was sent next. Dragging his luggage to the front door, he peered into each room, seeing the apartment off for the final time: the kitchen, where Zhongli prepared his birthday meal; the bathroom, where Zhongli washed his hair, arms wrapped around him in a protective embrace; and the lounge, where they'd signed the contract that started it all.

A final glance down the hallway.

Then he left.

The moon was high in the sky when he emerged, his footsteps echoing as he walked the deserted streets, one arm shielding his eyes against the breeze whipping up from the seafront to bite at his skin. No-one distrurbed his journey – pity on them if they had – and when he arrived at Baiju Guesthouse he pulled out his set of keys to the room the Fatui still booked out for his personal use.

The night shift receptionist nodded him through when he flashed his keys at her and he took the spiralling staircase to his suite. His feet carried him there as though he'd never left, slipping back into the routine from before the contract, before Zhongli.

With a click, the door opened and he stepped into the large, single room he was long familiar with. Everything was as he'd left it except for the bedsheets, the old cream ones now replaced with fresh, crisp white. After setting his suitcase at the foot of the bed he walked to the small kitchen area, setting a kettle of water to boil on the stove.