Beidou’s ship has a secret party cabin.
Zhongli is not surprised, but Ganyu spends way too much time walking in and out of the room, asking Beidou over and over how she managed to fit such a big room in such a narrow corridor. Beidou simply chuckles and uncorks her bottle.
‘This is strong stuff,’ she says, handing a bottle to Zhongli. ‘In moderation only. After all, what’s stir-fry without a bit of alcohol?’
‘The food isn’t even here yet,’ he points out.
‘Even better,’ says Beidou, taking a huge swig from her flask.
Inside, the room is brightly lit, with benches lining three of the four walls. In the middle is a sizable table with a vase on it, and a sweating sailor is hurriedly setting down dish after dish. Zhongli catches sight of steamed buns, Tianshu meat, and what looks like a variant of Qingce stir fry. The sailor lets out what sounds like a squeak when Beidou holds the door open to let her guests in.
‘Want to join us?’ she says to the sailor
‘N—no,’ the sailor mutters, eyes darting from side to side. ‘I’ll—I’ll be leaving now.’
He ducks under Beidou’s outstretched arm and vanishes. At her guests’ concerned looks, Beidou merely shrugs.
‘He’s new. Keeps thinking I’ll throw him overboard if he gets sloppy. Maybe giving that speech wasn’t the brightest idea…’
They take their seats and wait for the final component at every dinner party: company. Beidou checks her watch every minute or so, clicking her tongue.
‘If he’s late I can drink his wine,’ says Beidou.
‘Give him some time,’ says Zhongli. ‘He’s only five minutes late. Oh,’ he adds, remembering. ‘How did things go with Ning—‘
The door slams open, saving Beidou from having to answer that question. Childe walks in, hands in his pockets, looking sullen, though he brightens up considerably at the prospect before him.
‘Glad I could make it,’ he says, smiling and shaking Beidou’s hand. Zhongli notices his eyes are wide open, instead of the half-moons they turn into when he’s happy. Zhongli washes down the unpleasant feeling with a small sip of his beverage.
Childe is not the only person to enter. After him, sporting the exact same suit she had worn when Zhongli had first seen her, playing cards with Beidou, is the Yuheng Keqing. Her face is obscured by a bouquet of Qingxin flowers. Zhongli doesn’t miss the way Ganyu’s face lights up when Keqing hands her the bouquet, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Thank you,’ says Ganyu, leaning down to take a bite out of the bouquet. Keqing takes a seat next to her, still grinning from ear to ear. Zhongli looks to Childe, looking for a reaction, but the man is more interested in his flask of wine.
Beidou, to her credit, does not judge. She clears her throat and raises her flask in the air.
‘Friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate a great victory over the disease that plagues our beloved nation! If not for all of you…’ She pauses for a moment. ‘Hmm. If not for all of you… you know what, this is just an excuse for me to clear out all this wine someone dug out of the ship’s cupboards. And get to know you better! Liyue’s most remarkable individuals, all gathered here in one room, ripe for questioning! Well, minus Miss Yelan of course. God knows where she went.’
Ganyu sits closer to Keqing. Zhongli pauses in the act of sniffing the wine. For something dug out from the depths of a pantry, it smells remarkably good. Oak barrels, perhaps? He’s always been more fond of osmanthus, but this is also acceptable.
‘A toast, then.’ Everyone lifts up their flasks. Zhongli notices Childe is a beat slower. ‘To new friends!’
‘To new friends!’ they echo.
‘Let’s not delay dinner any longer, then. Tuck in!’
The food is good, there is no doubt about that. When the conversations start, Zhongli starts out as a listener, taking in every detail and turning it over in his head. Ganyu and Beidou get on surprisingly well, and the secretary only retreats into her bashful shell once when Beidou asks about her parentage.
‘My father was a mortal,’ says Ganyu, determinedly avoiding eye contact. ‘My mother is… we call them gods now, but in the old days she was simply a qilin. She gave me these.’ She gestures to her horns.
Keqing hands her the last of the Qingxin bouquet, and she all but swallows it.
‘Cool,’ says Beidou. ‘What about you?’
Keqing tuts. ‘You already know me.’
‘We’re doing introductions here, Yuheng. Tell the class about yourself.’
‘Controversial public figure due to accusations of nepotism. Never seen without a suit. Works efficiently enough, but not good enough to dispel the nepotism thing. That’s all.’
Beidou tuts. ‘Come on. We already know that.’
‘My family is very touchy about their private details,’ says Keqing sharply. ‘And that extends to me as well.’
Beidou shrugs and turns to her next target. ‘And you?’
Zhongli sets down his bowl. ‘I am a consultant from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, run by Director Hu Tao.’ He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through the group at that name. ‘I am a hobbyist in many fields, most notably history and local legends.’
‘You have a degree in history,’ mutters Ganyu, though she shuts up quickly when Keqing hands her a piece of lotus root.
‘Are you a bachelor?’ asks Beidou.
‘A PhD, actually,’ says Zhongli.
‘No, no. I’m asking if you’re married.’
‘I was once.’ He refuses to elaborate.
Beidou opens her mouth but Ganyu shuts her up with a quick kick to the shin.
‘And for our local Fatuus.’ Beidou moves on remarkably quickly. ‘Childe, Tartaglia. Tell us about yourself.’
Zhongli had almost forgotten about Childe, and a quick glance towards his corner yields concerning results. His single eye is unfocused, and his flask makes a hollow sound when he sets it down on his table.
But the mask slips back on, the smiling young diplomat, and the others are none the wiser.
‘Pleased to meet you all. I’m Childe, and I promise I don’t have alcoholic tendencies,’ he adds, as if to reassure himself. That even forces a chuckle out of Keqing. ‘This wine is good.’
‘Damn right it is,’ says Beidou under her breath. Louder now, ‘How old are you, boy?’
‘Why?’ Childe smirks a little. ‘Want to make sure you didn’t lose a bar fight to a teenager?’ Ignoring Beidou’s cough, he continues, ‘I’m twenty-two.’
‘That’s basically a kid,’ says Keqing. ‘And they’re letting you run the bank?’
‘Minor correction: I don’t run the bank. I’m just an errand boy, you see. It’s not like I can handle the paperwork.’ He motions to his face, then for clarification, adds, ‘I’m blind.’
He leans back in his seat, smiling slightly at Ganyu’s gasp of shock. Beidou frowns.
‘Hmm. For a debt collector, you show an unusual amount of interest in our dearest funeral consultant’s job.’
‘Just a personal hobby of mine. And if you want to know more,’ says Childe, ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information.’
Beidou snorts, and Keqing claps her on the shoulder. ‘Ignorance doesn’t hurt in this case, Captain,’ says Keqing. Her face is quite red now, and Zhongli watches her take another swig from her flask.
Oh, the alcohol is taking hold.
The conversations get a lot more interesting. Zhongli mostly watches for now, occasionally helping himself to what remains of the food. It’s grown cold, but apart from the chopped pile of tentacles in the middle of the table, it is mostly acceptable.
Even Ganyu, who has basically divorced herself from alcohol, seems to be affected by the atmosphere, drinking her way through an entire bottle of wine at Keqing’s encouragement, talking more and more as the night goes on. A sense of pride grows in his chest as Ganyu starts rambling, a slight slur to her words.
‘I came here just to prove I could deal with it,’ she says, voice muffled as she rests her forehead on the table. Keqing pats her horns reassuringly. ‘Human society. Everything she said wasn’t for our kind anymore. And… she’s right. I can’t deal with it.’
‘You contribute more to society than anyone else here,’ says Keqing, shooting a glance at Childe’s corner.
Ganyu sniffs. ‘I’m so tired and I don’t want to be. Work… is just an excuse. Paperwork is easy. Everything else… I’m too much of a coward to face it.’
Keqing doesn’t say anything, continuing to stroke Ganyu’s hair. Beidou doesn’t say anything either, though that may be due to the fact that she’s passed out in her seat, snoring gently.
‘Help me,’ mouths Keqing, glancing at Zhongli. He shrugs, but at Keqing’s panicked nodding, he obliged’
‘What do you do when you’re not working?’
Keqing looks confused, but Ganyu starts talking. ‘I don’t ever stop working.’
‘I—it’s all right. This Monday, then. What did you do after you got home?’
‘I took a nap,’ says Ganyu miserably. ‘And I woke up at noon on Tuesday, and I missed half a workday!’
‘What did you do on Tuesday, then?’ says Zhongli. ‘If I recall correctly, you didn’t go to work on that day either.’
‘I stayed home. I… ah, I remember now. I made some ice sculptures.’
‘She showed me some of them,’ says Keqing. ‘They’re really pretty. Pity I can’t take any of them home, my fridge is full already.’
‘Well,’ says Zhongli, addressing Ganyu now. ‘That’s something you have the courage to do, isn’t it?’
‘Ice is easy.’ Ganyu finally props her head up on her arms, her eyes red. ‘It’s not like people. People and patterns don’t go together.’
‘You’re giving yourself too little credit.’ Zhongli swipes her flask out of range, ignoring the little whine she lets out. ‘To create anything is to open yourself up to failure. Your pieces, for instance. How many years did it take for your current perfection?’
‘A long time,’ says Ganyu. ‘But they’re still not perfect.’
‘Are you satisfied with them?’
There is a long pause. At last, Ganyu says, ‘Yes.’
‘At the risk of sounding condescending,’ says Zhongli. ‘You are not willing to fight for what you want. Let me finish,’ he adds, watching her bury her head in her arms again. ‘You want to integrate, but you see your own imperfections and back away, even when you are perfectly capable of forging ahead. You are allowed to carve your own way, imperfections—pardon—be damned, because it is something you want and enjoy. These flaws are going to exist no matter what you do, no matter how careful you are with your hammer and chisel. Are you going to let them stop you from living?’
Ganyu doesn’t move. Keqing shoots Zhongli a glance and rests a hand on Ganyu’s shoulder.
‘Think about it,’ says Keqing. ‘Think about the look on your mother’s face when she realises she’s wrong.’
Ganyu’s head snaps up, and she nods enthusiastically. ‘You’re right. I came here to live.’
‘You don’t have to face the unknown on your own,’ adds Zhongli. ‘You have someone right here.’
Keqing’s face turns a shade redder. Ganyu smiles.
‘Thank you. Both of you. And… just to prove that I’m serious, I’m taking the next week off! But only if I can finish up everything in time… the tax records are still in my office…’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Keqing. ‘You have colleagues for a reason. Let them do some work for once.’
Nevertheless, she ruffles her lover’s hair and plants a kiss on her forehead. Ganyu lets out a small noise when Keqing’s wandering hands find her horns, but melts into the touch all the same.
The night is still young, but after finishing his flask, Zhongli realises that he is tired. The perks of getting old, he supposes. He bids a quick farewell to Keqing and Ganyu, makes a mental note to thank Beidou for the meal later, and turns to Childe.
Childe is not in the room. Maybe he’s already gone home. That puts a sour taste in Zhongli’s mouth, though he’s not sure why.
He waves goodbye and leaves the mostly empty ship, encountering a singular nervous sailor on his way to the docks. It should be past midnight, judging by the faint sound of raucous singing from the out-of-sight pubs in the nearby alleys. Zhongli checks his pocket. Predictably, no wallet. Time for another long walk home.
As soon as he turns into a side street, a pair of hands grab his shoulders. Zhongli tugs himself free of the grip and turns to face his assailant.
Struggling to stand up, his inebriation showing in the redness of his face, Childe reaches up to cup Zhongli’s cheek with a gloved hand. For the first time, Zhongli notices that he’s slightly taller.
Zhongli’s back is against a wall, and he knows what is next. He doesn’t resist it, welcoming Childe with open arms as the man presses a closed-mouth kiss to his lips.
This feels like a betrayal, but Zhongli knows that this is his only chance to get closer, to know what lurks beneath the surface before the water freezes over again. He presses his hands into Childe’s back in an attempt to soothe the agitation thrumming through his veins, the despair as he dips down for another taste.
This time, the kiss trails up to his ear. ‘My place. Stay the night?’
Zhongli looks into that bottomless depth of an eye.
~~~
He says yes.
Childe is staying at Baiju Guesthouse, in one of the suites. The place befits his status, all sorts of paintings and ornaments decorating the walls and shelves. Tonight, however, Zhongli forfeits the chance to examine them closer and lets Childe press him to the wall again.
The first kiss was chaste. This is anything but. Childe devours him, dipping his tongue into Zhongli’s open mouth. He is starving, and his despair shows in the way his hands scrabble against the buttons of Zhongli’s overcoat.
‘On the bed?’ Childe offers when Zhongli slips off his coat and hangs it on the back of a nearby chair.
He says yes again.
The bedroom is at the very end of a hallway, a large bed taking up an entire quarter of the room. As soon as Zhongli is on the bed, Childe is scrambling to get on top of him, straddling his hips with long, clumsy legs. For a moment, Childe stops, the sound of his quickened breathing filling the space between them.
Zhongli reaches up and squeezes his hand, and Childe’s hesitation melts away. He leans down for another kiss, his hands tangling themselves in Zhongli’s hair.
Childe moves quickly, his teeth grazing against Zhongli’s neck, trying to loosen Zhongli’s tie with clumsy hands. Zhongli reaches up again, attempting to steady his shaking arms. Startled, Childe keels over, landing on Zhongli’s chest with a soft ‘oof’.
He breathes heavily for a while, as if trying to recover from the fall, his arms still trembling. Zhongli waits for him to get back up.
What meets his ears instead is the sound of slow, deep breathing. Zhongli gently eases him onto the bed, making sure he’s in a comfortable position. Childe doesn’t respond, his lanky frame spread out on the bed, his eye firmly shut.
Well. Zhongli sits up.
Childe turns in his sleep, his stomach rumbling as he does so. Zhongli remembers dinner, and how Childe had neglected most of the food in favour of alcohol. He’s bound to wake up soon with an empty stomach. That won’t do, Zhongli thinks to himself as he surveys the suite, opening empty cupboards and the unused fridge.
This is a gamble, and a risky one at that. Zhongli makes a note to repay Childe as he fishes the sleeping man’s wallet out of his pocket and heads downstairs, hoping to every god in existence that the convenience store nearby is open at this unholy hour.
~~~
Childe never remembers his dreams, and this one is no different. All he knows is that it is the source of the tightness in his chest, and the prickling at the corner of his eyes.
He’s lying on something soft. The sharp smell of floral detergent is familiar… ah. He’s back in his hotel room. Childe sits up and groans, resting his throbbing head in his hands. He was on Beidou’s ship, unable to stop reaching for the oblivion that alcohol promised. He introduced himself, and found out way too much about Ganyu. And then there was Zhongli, sitting too far away from him, the faint smell of silk flower essence, the warmth of his gloved hands in the small of Childe’s back…
Childe presses his face into his pillow and screams.
Just as he’s run out of ways to ruin his reputation. He swore he wouldn’t let it follow him here, not when a bad reputation could jeopardise his entire task, but apparently he couldn’t even do that.
His head is still spinning. Not bothering to take off his shoes, he slumps back onto his bed and tries to go back to sleep. He’ll try to explain to Zhongli, but knowing what the man’s like…
A clinking from the kitchen.
Someone else is in his room. Fighting his discomfort, Childe stands up, making sure to walk on his toes when he makes his way to the kitchen, hands itching to wrap themselves around the handle of a blade. How far did Liyue’s laws on self-defence extend?
‘You’re awake,’ says a familiar voice.
Childe sighs, equal parts relief and disappointment. ‘What are you still doing here?’
‘If you do not desire my presence,’ says Zhongli, the beeping sounds indicating his adjustment of the electric stove, ‘I can leave as soon as possible. Let me finish cooking these noodles for you first.’
‘You don’t have to,’ says Childe on instinct. He shouldn’t take this olive branch, not when he had done so much damage. Zhongli switches off the stove and opens a cabinet, looking for a bowl. Childe stays where he is, not sure why he isn’t offering any help.
Zhongli finds the bowl and empties the noodles into it, sliding it over the kitchen countertop to Childe. Childe hears him sit down opposite him.
‘Take this.’ He presses a fork into Childe’s hands. ‘Be careful, it’s still hot.’
Suddenly, Childe is awfully ravenous. He must look terribly inelegant, not pausing in between bites as he shovels mouthfuls of the noodles into his mouth, not even when he burns his tongue. Zhongli watches the entire time, unmoving.
He doesn’t like instant noodles, preferring foods with at least some effort put in, but this bowl tastes particularly good. He sets down his fork at last, taking a breath.
Zhongli still watches.
‘Hey.’
He’s still unsteady, his tongue clumsy in his mouth, but he needs to talk now, when Zhongli can still stand to be around him.
‘Hm?’
‘Earlier tonight… what exactly happened? You don’t have to hold back, haha,’ he says, cringing at his attempt at a laugh. ‘I know I was probably extremely inappropriate.’
‘Hm,’ says Zhongli again. He pauses. Childe stops himself from picking up his fork and chewing on it; he’s behaved strangely enough already.
‘If I must be completely honest,’ says Zhongli. ‘You did kiss me.’
‘On the lips?’
‘Multiple times.’
Childe lets his head drop to the table.
‘God. If you… ugh. I don’t blame you, you know, if you want to stop associating with me.’ This will be a huge hit to both his connections and his mission, but he can take it. Especially when this is entirely his fault.
‘And why would you assume that I want this?’ There’s a hint of shock in Zhongli’s typically steady voice. ‘I am not so petty as to end a friendship over a misunderstanding.’
‘I…’ Childe falls silent. Friends. He’s so, so stupid. He had something good in his life for once and he had to go and do… that.
‘Is anything the matter?’
Childe shakes his head. ‘Just processing.’
‘You can take your time.’
Childe rubs his eye. He knows himself well enough, or at least he thinks he did. He had thought that hunting down the bank’s feistier clients would be enough to suppress his old habits. Seeing as he’s here now, apparently not.
‘Zhongli,’ he says, before he can stop himself. He knows the man’s heard him, his quiet voice carrying in the stillness of the kitchen. ‘Before anything else, I’m sorry for putting you through this.’
‘Don’t.’ Zhongli reaches across the table, hesitating for a moment before resting his hand atop Childe’s. Childe flinches but doesn’t pull away. ‘I do not mind repaying a favour.’
‘I—you don’t—oh.’
This man is batshit insane.
He wants to lean in closer, leeching off Zhongli’s warmth, but he’s overstepped enough boundaries tonight. He expects Zhongli to ask, to make him talk about the thoughts gnawing at his mind, but he is silent.
He breaks when Zhongli squeezes his hand reassuringly.
‘I...’ He takes a deep breath, and the words feel less heavy with each passing second. ‘I got a call from my family earlier today. My brother’s in the hospital.’
Zhongli doesn’t speak. Childe is grateful for that.
‘He asked for my advice a week ago. Kids at school were being dicks. Stole his glasses at some point. I told him he had to stand up for himself, and I… may have gotten carried away with ideas for solving his problem. And in the morning, as soon as he saw them, he…’
‘Do you want some water?’ asks Zhongli.
Childe nods. Zhongli removes his hand from Childe’s, and he mourns the loss of the warmth. He wishes he’s taken his gloves off when Zhongli fills up a glass of water for him.
‘He threw the first punch. There were four of them. And I…’
Zhongli sits down next to him this time. Childe takes the glass and drinks, the cool liquid more liquid courage than the alcohol from earlier.
‘I can’t even go home.’
Zhongli doesn’t say anything, placing his hand on Childe’s once more. And then it all comes flooding in: he hates this repetitive, boring work, he hates this too-warm weather, he hates having to eat with unwieldy tools.
He misses home.
Zhongli squeezes his hand once more. ‘Is this the same brother that you bought the ballista model for?’
‘Yeah. Anthon. He really likes military history. I think that’s why those kids have a problem with him.’ Childe wants to rest his head on Zhongli’s shoulder, but he stops himself. ‘Fuck. I don’t understand. What’s so wrong with liking something?’
Zhongli leans closer, and Childe gives in, burying his face in his shoulder.
‘I know they’re kids.’ His hands are shaking. ‘But I want to… I can’t say that. I… goddammit. I can’t do anything about it. He’s hurting and I can’t…’
He doesn’t trust himself to continue. Zhongli reaches out, hesitant, then rests his hand in Childe’s hair, running his fingers through it. Childe freezes up, not daring to get closer. In the silence of the room, he can hear Zhongli’s steady heartbeat. He breathes in the proximity, the promise of something forbidden making the scent all that more exciting.
Now that the man’s cologne has mostly faded, the faint smell of sulphur that he carries with him is more evident. It grounds him, somehow.
‘Come here.’ Zhongli withdraws suddenly, and Childe clings on to his arm like a lifeline. ‘Your room has a very particular set of paintings.’
He’s more taken aback than offended. ‘I can’t tell.’
Truth be told, he’s run his hands over those paintings over and over again when he first arrived, trying to find the paths left by a brush, like he used to do back home. But these paintings are ink, not the oil he’s accustomed to, sinking into the paper and leaving him in the dark.
‘This one depicts the plum blossom. Due to its ability to bloom in the harsh cold of winter, it is representative of an unyielding spirit in the face of adversity.’ Zhongli holds Childe’s hand up to the paper, tracing a path he can’t see. ‘Here is the stem, and that’s a flower. There’s four more here, all clustered near the bottom.
‘You will find that this flower is a very common subject in most paintings here. More commonly, you’ll see it as a part of a collection called “the Four Gentlemen”. The other three are the orchid, bamboo and chrysanthemum. And—oh. It appears that you are fortunate to have the full collection here.’
He lets Zhongli lead him around the room, tracing his hand along the lines of the paintings, talking in his low, calming voice. Childe learns, as always: the humility as represented by the orchid, steadfastness by the bamboo. He stops before the chrysanthemum for a particularly long time, and there is a hint of fondness in the way he moves Childe’s hand.
The vase between them and the painting makes it difficult, but on his tiptoes, it becomes more manageable. ‘The chrysanthemum is the flower of autumn, representing the value of purity. The ones depicted here… it is difficult to tell, but the white petals seem to indicate that it is of the hangju variety. When brewed in tea, it is considered to have a cooling effect on the body.’
‘It’s your favourite flower.’
He feels Zhongli smile. ‘It is.’
Zhongli is still holding his hand, and he doesn’t want to let go.
‘I am not particularly well-versed in the workings of the human psyche,’ says Zhongli. ‘But I was hoping that I could at least make you feel more at home here. If this helped, even a little bit…’
It wasn’t what he was looking for. Hell, it’s got no relation whatsoever with what Childe has just told him. But his breath is no longer stuck in his chest, and his head feels clearer.
‘It helped. Thank you.’
‘About your brother…’ Zhongli continues. ‘I cannot do much about it except tell you to talk to your parents. They are the only people who can do anything to change the situation.’ Childe tries his best to not shiver at that, but he thinks Zhongli notices anyway. ‘Meanwhile, take care of yourself. Your troubles are always better remedied with a clear mind.’
‘I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘You have to face it regardless.’ And that was true. ‘I must apologise for not being able to do more.’
‘No, you did plenty.’ He wriggles free of Zhongli’s grip. ‘Thank you for sticking around, even after…’
He yawns, the motion clicking his jaw.
‘What time is it?’
Zhongli answers. ‘It is four in the morning.’
Childe curses under his breath. ‘You have work tomorrow.’
‘I do,’ says Zhongli. ‘But no matter. I will explain to the best of my ability.’
‘Leave out the details if possible,’ Childe mutters, feeling his face redden.
‘I have every intention of doing that. However.’ Childe hears him sit down on the couch. ‘You must make a call back home as soon as you wake up later this morning.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘Good.’ His voice drops an octave. Childe hears him take a step towards him, and from the sound of his footstep, he is standing on the balls of his feet. ‘Let this be our contract.’
A shiver runs through Childe at the sound of that. A promise of something hidden, something more steel than the flesh and blood of the consultant he thought he knew.
Zhongli drops his weight back onto his feet. That small gesture seems to ground him somewhat, and when he speaks, his voice is tired and collected once more. ‘You should get some sleep.’
‘You too.’
‘I find that I do not need much sleep at my age,’ says Zhongli. ‘If you do not mind, I will stay here.’
‘How old are you, actually?’
‘At least thirty.’
‘That’s real helpful. Goodnight, Zhongli.’
He hears the man chuckle when he makes his way back to his bedroom, using the wall as a guide. Like always, his thoughts keep him up for a while as he listens to Zhongli walk around his accommodations, muttering to himself about one thing or another.
There’s definitely something wrong with him, Childe thinks to himself. Something lying dormant under that gentlemanly facade. Something that can look at the deranged impulses of a Harbinger and brush it off like it is less of an annoyance than a gnat. Well, at least now he has someone to pretend to be human with.
That realisation makes him bury his face into a pillow, all too aware of the heat in his cheeks.