Alright this is going to be heavy for reasons unrelated to the fic. For some reason my godforsaken government has decided to block AO3 from my country because it's considered a porn site (while leaving all those actual scam websites untouched, go figure). Currently using a free VPN but if I go silent for a while that could be the reason. Fuck the [REDACTED] government.
On a brighter note, you can find me in the Yae Publishing House Discord server (16+). I yap a lot over there and everyone is very friendly, so if you want to see me lose my mind in real time you know where to go.
There is so much red on the tiles of the bathroom floor. Not red like his scarf, or the light orange of his hair.
This dripping, viscous red tempts me to put my mouth to the lines of his reopened scars and lick, taste whatever emptiness he claims fills him. I restrain myself, winding bandages around his left forearm, split almost entirely open.
I find myself counting those cuts, starting from below his collarbone. The web-shaped one, with skin that peels off from the slightest touch, the thin fractures that line his stomach. His back looks almost like a map, and I commit every line to memory before binding the bandages right around his torso.
He doesn’t groan even once, not a single indication that he might be in pain. The most noise he makes is a hitch of his breath when I move on to his thighs. The criss-crossing scars speak of laceration, and I remember the way he fell apart on that shore in my dreams, his bones stabbing through fragile skin.
His inner thighs are one of the few unscarred parts of him, and I exercise extra caution to not touch them too much. He is almost shaking when I wind another strip around the top of his thigh, close to the groin.
‘You can touch me.’ His voice is surprisingly steady.
I shake my head. One more brush of my fingers against sensitive skin, and he will not be the only one who loses control.
His blood cools on my hands. I finish my handiwork with a knot at his ankle. As soon as I am done, he crosses his legs, determinedly not meeting my gaze.
‘What happened to you?’
‘I keep forgetting,’ he says, ‘that this body is still human enough to starve. Yet I can’t eat, not while I am shackled to it.’
I join him to perch on the edge of the bathtub. My mind is blank, though I know underneath that calm lies something I am not willing to comprehend. He leans over to me slightly, resting his head on my shoulder.
‘Take off your shirt,’ he says.
It is a command, and I obey it. I fold my jacket before leaving it in the nearby sink, joined by my tie and shirt. His hands are on me at once, fingertips brushing over the planes of my chest.
His hands are so cold. Cold like winter, cold like the corpses that I dissect and embalm back home. He rests his entire hand on my sternum, and the barrier of bandages removes the fog of static over my roiling, panicking thoughts.
He is still human. He is dying.
I must have said that out loud, because he laughs. ‘Don’t worry. You can still see me in dreams. As long as my colleagues don’t give you any trouble.’
‘It won’t be—it won’t be you.’
He makes a ‘tsk’ sound. ‘I thought you’d gotten over denial. Why does everyone only ever want the shells of my past?’
I take his hand, lace my fingers through it.
‘I haven’t shown you the Lantern Rite yet.’
What strength remains in his fingers fades away. More on instinct than ever, I lunge forward and cradle him as gently as I can, drawing him into a hug.
The smell of iron clouds my senses.
‘I wish we could have had more time.’
He gulps. When he speaks, his voice is trembling.
‘Don’t you think I’ve begged her for the same?’
~~~
What is there left to do?
He knew his ultimate fate when he invited me along. And I, wishing to quell the burning guilt in my chest, agreed.
My duty is to shepherd the dead to their next destination, but even the solidity of duty is not enough to contain the pain that pierces through me whenever I change his bandages.
He’s even paler now, the tremors in his hands becoming harder and harder to hide. He drops a bowl of filling two days after the solstice and sits on the couch, face buried in his knees as I pick up the pieces.
His siblings are spending more and more days playing in the snow outside. He watches them from a nearby perch, shivering every time the cold wind hits him. I bring him a coat, which he refuses.
His fingers under his gloves are tipped with blue.
His family knows his finality. I do not sleep often in this house, and one of my wanderings in the middle of the night takes me to a downstairs bathroom. Through the half-open door, I see his mother scooping up water into his hair, running her fingers through it to make sure it is entirely clean.
I leave, but standing in the corridor is his father, arms crossed as he looks me up and down.
‘Tonia told me you work at a funeral parlour.’
I nod.
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
He remains standing where he is even as I walk past him, heading outdoors to clear my head.
~~~
Childe teaches me chess a few days before the new year. His siblings, having located their grandfather’s antique chess set, have gained a renewed interest in the game. He lets them have the large, ornate set and pulls a battered-looking box from under the fridge, offering to teach me.
‘Don’t look at them,’ he says, watching my left eye twitch as Teucer replaces every pawn on his board with a miniature figure of a bear. ‘Tonia will sort them out. Have you ever played this before?’
I say no. The chess I am used to looks very different from this map of black and white squares.
‘Ah, it’s transferrable,’ he says when I tell him. ‘It’s all just strategy.’
We play round after round, Childe insisting that I learn through experience. I beat him on my fifth attempt, and the way he preens sends a full-body shiver through me.
‘I tell you, I’m a good teacher,’ he says. ‘Or you’re just a prodigy. Maybe you should compete in a tournament.’
Not a chance.
‘Come on. I love my country but I think someone needs to knock them down a peg.’ He stacks one of my captured rooks on his own. ‘Can’t imagine the outrage at one of our champions being beaten by a guy from Liyue.’
We spend the rest of the day watching Anthon try to play against Teucer. Anthon does not seem to appreciate my unsolicited advice, giving me the evil eye when I point out a visible blunder.
Across the table, Childe grins as Teucer nods, taking an unguarded bishop.
~~~
I stop wandering the house at night these days to stand over him in his bed. He holds his head and curls up in his sleep, whimpering every now and then.
Two days from the new year, he groans in pain and cracks open an eye. The stars in them glitter as he finds my gaze.
‘Come here,’ he says.
I do, and he winds his arms around me. I face away from him, feeling the light puff of his breath on my neck.
‘When this body dies,’ he says. ‘I want you to eat me.’
I don’t hear myself reply. His arms tighten around my chest.
‘Come on. You should stop denying it. Even papa noticed.’
‘But your family…’
‘They wouldn’t want Teucer to see the corpse. Do whatever you want and get rid of it.’
‘When the Balemoon spoke to me,’ I say. ‘She said you were running from your life.’
‘Whatever that means,’ he says. ‘She can have her own philosophy. My fate wishes for me to burn—let me embrace nothingness with no regrets.’
Even then, his breath catches.
But I am not the sort of person to give advice on regret. I let him hold me as he drifts off to sleep, his breathing almost non-existent in the middle of the night.
~~~
On the night before the new year, his parents call him downstairs for a meeting. He leaves his siblings to me, trusting me to keep them distracted for long enough.
It doesn’t work this time, not even for Teucer. I can do nothing but watch as they sneak downstairs, Anthon and Teucer arguing over who gets to peek through the keyhole. Tonia reads a book, though she doesn’t turn a single page in an hour.
Anthon gives up after ten minutes, shaking his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
Teucer shrugs as well, and the three of them head back upstairs.
I stay where I am until the door opens and Childe steps out, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. He doesn’t even see me, walking past me to the front door.
I debate on whether to follow him, but decide to give him his space.
I do not miss the small red scarf clutched in his hand.
~~~
I tell him my birthday is today before he goes to bed. He nods, beckoning for me to lie down alongside him.
‘How about this?’ He sounds so weak. ‘A new trove of memories as a birthday present.’
I wait for him to drift off to sleep, but he does not. He turns his gaze to the window, watching the stars in the sky, nodding in approval when I place an arm around his shoulders.
~~~
Approaching midnight, he groans, rubbing his temples.
‘My head…’ he says. ‘It writhes.’
I take his hand and squeeze it. He whimpers, curling deeper into himself.
I lay his head upon my lap, running my hands through his hair. He turns his face away from me, as if ashamed to be in pain.
The stars tonight are unusually bright.
He grabs my hand, tracing the lines on my palm as if he is trying to read my fate. Every pinprick of contact is cold, but something far warmer ignites underneath my skin. He holds a hand to his forehead, and I can hear him grinding his teeth.
‘Remember your promise to me.’
‘I promised you nothing.’
‘... that’s true. One last favour between friends, then.’
In the starlight, his bloodstained bandages appear as dark as the shadows cloaking us.
‘I cannot promise you.’
‘Then take your memories and go,’ he says. ‘I will leave this world the same way I came into it.’
He starts with the bandages on his arms. They come off, layer by layer, his strength serving him one last time. Blood stains my clothes, seeping into the bedsheets. There is still so much of it after the past few days, and I can do nothing but stare, in horror and in awe.
The faint smell of iron fills the room. He’s shaking as he pulls on his bandages, dragging them out from underneath his clothes, crying out when they take some of his skin with them. My attempts to grab his arms fail, his surprising bouts of strength pulling himself free. Or perhaps my strength fails me.
His chest rises and falls with his breath. Gently, I lift him onto the bed, pinning his arms above his head. For what I do not know: his blood is soaking the mattress, bits of skin barely hanging off his arms. A fleshy imitation of fins.
The stars in his eyes shine bright like their uncaptured kin. He tilts his head back, exposing the pale, unscarred column of his neck.
The challenge is unmistakable.
How could I resist when he is fading away, leaving nothing behind but his flesh?
The skin of his neck is soft when I sink my teeth into it. I feel the thrum of an approving growl before I snap my jaws shut, breaking skin. His resulting moan makes me dig my nails deeper into his arms.
I feel his carotids break under my teeth, filling my mouth with a warm burst of blood. His eyes flutter shut.
One of his fingernails brushes against the side of my hand.
I sit up, teeth stinging, and look around in horror.
If I still had the capacity to scheme, I would think of this as his last revenge: nothing left for me but regret and memories. But he’s told me: this is nothing more than his final wish.
I lean down and take a second bite out of his throat. The remaining warmth of his body, the stick red staining my hands. I commit every single bite to memory, savouring the full-bodied taste of copper.
Outside, the stars flicker, then dim.