The florist’s in Yujing Terrace is open on weekends, a fact Zhongli is grateful for. He picks up some Qingxin seeds and a flowerpot, fully intent on teaching Ganyu how to plant her own snacks.
The security guard in the lobby of her apartment building is asleep, which saves him the trouble of explaining himself. He takes the stairs, intending to get some much-needed exercise, and uses the extra time to organise his thoughts.
Ganyu’s come across something of a large enough scale that she feels the need to ask for outside help. Pride swells in his chest at that little bit of progress, but it does not drown out the growing worry. What exactly is the severity of a situation that would make the infamous workaholic of the Qixing offices drop all her current projects?
Whatever it is, she certainly doesn’t want to risk talking about it on the phone. Zhongli finds her unit, a singular pair of polished shoes at the entrance.
He raises a hand to knock, then pauses.
The door is open.
Maybe she’s forgotten to lock it? It’s a mistake he’s made in the past before. But Ganyu doesn’t rely on the generosity of a foreigner to pay for her meals.
Leaving his shoes and gifts at the door, Zhongli pushes the door open and steps in.
Ganyu’s apartment is neat, the cushions arranged in a neat pile on her couch, the glasses at the bar in orderly stacks. As soon as he steps into her house proper, he frowns. Even through his stockinged feet, he can feel the layer of dust settled over the floor.
Even if she took his advice to heart, Ganyu would never neglect such an important aspect of her home.
He opens his mouth, ready to call for her, but stops. There is an old saying about never calling out the name of the person you’re looking for, unless you want malicious spirits to know their name. Zhongli is not a superstitious person, but he knows that silence has its merits in a situation like this.
The kitchen is empty, with a singular saucepan left on the stove. Lifting it up, he sees that the saucepan’s bottom is burned, as if someone had left the stove on for a long period of time.
Ganyu’s apartment has two bedrooms, one for guests and one for herself. Both are just as neat as each other, looking more like display rooms than a place someone has lived in. Zhongli sniffs the air. It smells stagnant, and a quick look around confirms that the windows are closed. Cold creeps up his spine. Ganyu never closes her windows, preferring the fresh air brought in by autumn winds.
He makes his way to her bedroom. He hopes he’s overthinking it. She’s just curled under a pile of blankets, passed out from last night’s work. This is a time of peace, he reminds himself. His primal fears have no place in this era—
Or so he thought.
There is a second, more pungent smell now that he’s standing inside her room. Sulphur. Something small and desperate flutters against his chest. No, he should not, cannot go there. She’s made it so far, so close to a normal, happy life, free from their shared pasts—
But like clockwork, his legs take him to the wardrobe, where the smell is strong enough to make his eyes water. Strength that doesn’t feel like his lifts his arms up to pull at the wardrobe door.
Something tumbles out, rolling to a rest at his feet. He doesn’t look down. He doesn’t need to. He knows. Knew, from the moment those graceful, curved horns hit the floorboards with a resounding thunk.
Zhongli looks straight ahead, at what rests inside the wardrobe, and pulls out his phone.
~~~
The funeral parlour is empty on weekends.
Zhongli sits at the receptionist’s desk, head in his hands, a relentless pounding against the inside of his skull.
It doesn’t allow him to think, which is for the best. He doesn’t look up when someone enters, heels heavy against the floor.
‘Ganyu—‘ Keqing stops, choking back tears. ‘Please tell me this is all a bad joke.’
Zhongli looks up, at her shaking shoulders, her clenched fists. He doesn’t meet her eyes when he shakes his head.
Keqing’s lip trembles, and she begins to sob.
Over the sound of her sobbing, Zhongli’s phone rings, vibrating precariously on the very edge of the receptionist’s table. He doesn’t pick it up, his hands too heavy for him to remove them from his face.
He had not bothered to turn on the lights, and the remaining sunlight filtering in through the windows is not enough to illuminate the room. He doesn’t move, not even when his phone rings the second time, then the third. Keqing pauses at that, and through her sniffles, says, ‘Could you at least go pick that up?’
Zhongli tries, but as soon as his fingers are around the phone, all his strength fades away once more, and he falls back into place like a marionette with cut strings.
He will need to bury Ganyu later.
The front door creaks, and Keqing’s sniffling fades away into a low growl. Before he can look up, she’s launched herself across the room, hand curled into a claw as she clamps it around the throat of their visitor.
The sound of their struggling is as effective as a kick to his psyche; Zhongli stands up and vaults over the desk, tugging on Keqing’s shoulders to pull her off a gasping Childe. She throws his hands off, screaming, clawing at Childe’s face and neck. Zhongli hisses when one of her flailing limbs hits him and clamps down harder on her arms, digging his heels into the floor.
‘Let—me—go!’ Words begin to form in the midst of her shrieks, and she tries to hit behind her, to no avail. ‘Answer me!’ She lifts her head to meet Childe’s eye. ‘Why did she have to die? Answer me!’
Childe holds up his hands, a trickle of blood running down his jaw from a cut below his eye. Zhongli grunts with the effort of forcing Keqing onto a chair, wincing as her nails dig into his arm. ‘I know how you feel,’ says Zhongli, biting back the pain in his arms. ‘But Childe has nothing to do with this.’
The certainty in his voice shocks even him, but Childe nods slowly, standing up straight with his hands still held up. ‘I have no reason to kill her.’
‘Then who?’ Keqing fires back, futilely struggling against Zhongli’s grip. She is strong, but her previous burst of adrenaline has fully spent her stamina, leaving her to flail in her seat. ‘Who else would want the Qixing’s secretary out of the way?’
‘Believe me,’ says Childe, words steely, ‘I am not one for subterfuge. She is more valuable to me alive.’
Keqing sinks down into her chair limply, staring down at her shoes. Zhongli slowly releases his grip on her shoulders and backs away, putting himself in between her and Childe.
‘Are you alright?’ Zhongli asks him in a murmur, still keeping a cautious eye on Keqing.
‘Just some scratches,’ says Childe, grimacing when he wipes blood off his lip. ‘Is she going to be… y’know.’
He gestures vaguely. Zhongli lets his silence speak for itself.
Childe lets his arms fall to his side, a sigh of relief escaping him. ‘Hu Tao told me,’ he says. ‘You weren’t answering her calls, and she figured you might be here. Are you…’ He gives himself a quick shake of the head. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Zhongli doesn’t respond, the terrible weight in his chest growing stronger with every passing second. He leans against the wall, as close to Childe as possible, hoping the buzzing in his head will continue to silence his thoughts. It holds up for now, even with the pressure building in his skull.
He stands there for what feels like ages, so close to drifting into unconsciousness if not for the hooks digging into his mind. He comes to when the front door creaks again. His shoulder brushes against Childe’s when he moves—somehow, he’s moved closer to the man in his reverie.
Hu Tao steps in, hands folded in front of her, every inch the funeral director most of the city has given their respect to. She lifts her head and meets Zhongli’s eyes, and he does not miss the concern written there.
‘I can handle this,’ he says before she can react. ‘I am more well-versed in the burials of the divine.’
Hu Tao shakes her head. Her suit is rumpled, like she has thrown it on in a hurry, but her hexagram hat sits as steady as ever atop her head. ‘No. This is the line where your duty ends.’
‘Let me see her one last time. Please.’
She shakes her head, sighing. ‘Since you asked to do it… But I will handle the procedures. Your hands are shaking.’
She makes her way to the corridor that runs the entire length of the funeral parlour, and enters through the first door. Zhongli steps around Keqing’s prone form on the chair and follows.
His hand stiffens when it touches the doorknob.
He’s seen her before; why is he hesitating now?
It’s not as if this is the first time he’s had to bury a friend. It was easy for him back in those abandoned mines. The most he had to stomach was the sight that met his eyes the moment he lit Childe’s lighter.
Azhdaha’s eyes had been hard to pick out from the sea of blood and scales and veins, still pulsating and trembling as they tried to carve out a spot for them out of the advancing wall of flesh. The horns that extended out from that mass of still-growing flesh curved backwards, their points mere moments away from sinking themselves deep into those two glittering eyeballs.
He remembered those eyes.
The same eyes that had refused to close, a scream of rage and betrayal frozen in the air when a spear was thrust between his stone scales. Those same eyes would stare at him, the last facsimile of kindness vanishing from view when a piece of stone skin slid over them and sealed itself shut.
Zhongli let the lighter fall.
Another pair of eyes stares back from the flames, tumbling to a rest at his feet, her horns clattering against the floorboards. In his mind, Zhongli meets those eyes.
And now, gripping the doorknob, that weight in his chest comes to life, clawing at his ribcage in a silent scream. Zhongli staggers back into a chair, the same chair his clients had sat in as they buried their faces in their hands and cried for their loved ones.
Footsteps, and someone is cupping his cheek, breath warm against Zhongli’s face when he speaks. ‘Hey. You’re…’ Childe sits down next to him, wrapping an arm around Zhongli’s shoulders. ‘Who am I kidding. Do you need to… y’know.’
Zhongli leans into his offered shoulder and buries his face there. And when Childe rubs circles into his back, humming gently, he gives in and sobs into his friend’s shoulder.
~~~
Lumine empties the rest of her drawstring pouch into the space under her couch. The space underneath snorts at such a meagre offering, but the ashes get vacuumed up into the darkness all the same. Lumine clicks her tongue.
‘That’s right. Can’t afford to be picky.’
Paimon is passed out on the coffee table, snores shaking her tiny body. Lumine kicks back her feet and leans on the couch, ready for a long night of doing absolutely nothing. She should spend the entirety of next week here too, commissions from the locals be damned. They can hang on their own laundry in exchange for net zero information.
Her plans get interrupted by a sharp knock at her window. She leaps to her feet immediately, picking up the sword at her feet and slapping a hand over Paimon’s mouth. The little fairy snoozes on, too tired to care about the very real threat that is knocking on their window.
The sharp knock rings out again, and this time, visible against the city lights, poking over her windowsill, is a shock of ginger hair. Lumine sighs but doesn’t put down her sword.
‘Thanks,’ Childe says when she opens the window and hauls him inside. He rubs his hands like a fly, still buzzing with energy.
‘I’m not going to spar with you, Childe.’
‘Really? Is that how you see me? Some battle-hungry bastard with nothing else on his mind?’ Childe pauses. ‘On second thoughts, that’s not far off.’
‘What are you here for then?’ Lumine moves Paimon aside so she can sit on the coffee table. Paimon giggles in her sleep and turns over, a line of drool trailing down her cheek.
‘Well, remember that favour I did you? Setting up a meeting with Zhongli? I’ve come to collect my due.’
‘I’m not one of your bank’s customers.’
‘Yeah, I know. But here’s the thing. I need help.’ He pulls something out of his shirt pocket. ‘Do you recognise this?’
In the dim light of the apartment, she can barely make out the fancy script, written in tiny font on a palm-sized piece of paper. If not for its borders lined in gold leaf, it would be otherwise unremarkable.
She doesn’t answer, but Childe infers as much from her silence. ‘So… what is this?’
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Ah. That will become clear once you hear about… never mind. Let’s just say that I could smell it from a mile off. This ink… it resonates with my body.’
‘Your…’ Lumine finally sets down her sword. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been doing these days, but it had better not be something to do with your skin—‘
‘Relax, I’m not using it that often. I’m not a fan of being strapped to surgical tables while your colleague pokes around your intestines. Just… help a guy out?’
‘Promise me,’ she says, not bothering to disguise the growl in her voice, ‘whatever you choose to do with what I’m about to tell you, will not involve your skin. Kill whoever you want, just keep this form.’
He sighs, nods his head. ‘I promise.’
She extends her pinkie. He loops his own pinkie around it after a few moments of struggling to find hers.
‘How does it go again…’ He tilts his head to one side. ‘Oh, yes. You make a pinkie promise, you keep it all your life. You break a pinkie promise, I throw you on the ice. The cold will kill the pinkie that once betrayed your friend, the frost will freeze your tongue off so you never lie again. Happy now?’
Lumine squeezes his pinkie before letting go. Childe slips his hands into his pockets. ‘So…’
‘I know a guy who deals with cases like yours,’ says Lumine, lowering her voice. ‘I wouldn’t call him an expert, but he should have some knowledge of where that ink comes from. He goes by…hmm. Anyway, you’ll know him when you see him. A hint: he can always be found in Dihua Marsh at night. Ask locals for the green shadow that travels on the wind.’
‘Right, thanks.’
‘Though…’ Lumine says, catching a stray thought in her head, ‘You have a friend who knows enough about divine remains to tell you all you need to know. Why would you ask me?’
‘Oh. Let’s just say…’ He turns away from her. ‘I’m repaying a debt. And I wanted to invite you to fight me.’
‘If you’re that eager to get your ass kicked…’ Lumine picks up her sword and gives it an experimental swing. ‘As soon as you’re done with your Fatui business, you can come find me. Provided I’m still here after a month.’
‘Thanks, Lumine. You’re the best.’
She has to hide her smile when she looks back at him, only to find an open window and the cool night air of the city.
Behind her, Paimon stirs in her sleep, finally waking up with a groggy ‘wha?’. Lumine ignores her in favour of closing the window.
‘If anyone is listening,’ she mutters, sliding the latch shut, ‘keep him safe. He’s not very good at it himself.’
alright i know i said i'd slow down after chapter 8 but it turns out i can't count and the first arc is only 7 chapters long. anyway i can't wait to put them through more bull shit