Chapter Text
Monster.
Liyue's hangman.
Maybe he was the one who killed Rex Lapis.
He's sick of Liyue. Sick of its people. Sick of... everything.
The rumors trail him no matter where he goes. The vendors who won't serve him anymore, and the workers clearing away the mess and debris from the flood. The Millelith, despite all the measures he took to avoid harming civilians and managing to keep the worst-case scenario to just one Millelith and four deaths on their side, still throws him looks like they want to shoot holes through him. And the worst part? It's not just Childe facing this kind of treatment; the whole Fatui left behind are getting the same type of reactions, even a week after the flood.
The nerve of them to glare when they are the ones who suffered the most losses. People are incredible.
But he was half impressed with how true they were with the actual facts, only exaggerating here and there, but one thing they got all wrong: Rex Lapis. Archons, what he wouldn't give to be able to do just what they were gossiping about. Beat the shit out of that pretentious prick, to blow some steam off, and finally leave this godforsaken nation, which reeks of hypocrisy and incense left from the mourning rites.
As he managed to get close to Northland Bank in one piece, without anyone coming for his neck, he sighs a breath of relief, but doesn't let his guard down. He expects it sooner rather than later for someone to take matters into their own hands and finally kill the hangman of Liyue. And now he is going home with more than a couple of mora's short for a bag of usual groceries, because the people of Liyue who still serve him are petty and they charge double just for his truly. Childe is growing more irritated by the second.
His way leads along the front of the Northland Bank, where he has the unfortunate luck of meeting Javert without his disguise, likely going into the bank to deposit the money from debt collection.
Javert spots him and halts right there. Even though Childe had to make his way up the steps to get to his apartment, and Javert was aware of this since he knew the place well, he didn't just stand by waiting for Childe to get to the top; instead, he altered his path completely and headed down the stairs to meet him, effectively blocking the way up. Face to face.
The nerve of this agent.
"Master Childe... How... How have you been?" he inquires, sounding as bashful as a 3-year-old forced by his parents to chat with the neighbors. If Childe weren't so furious and annoyed with everyone at the moment, he might have teased the man for his shyness, especially when compared to how he acted just a week prior.
"Good," he replies, his tone normal yet so frigid that the unfortunate man quakes in his presence. Childe attempts to disregard him and push past.
Javert still blocks the way.
Childe's irritation grows.
"Master Childe... I... I really don't know how to express my apologies, and for you to genuinely believe me," he stammers, a pretty pathetic excuse which he didn't mind at all, but his mistake was placing his arm on Childe's shoulder when he attempted to turn around and head in a different direction towards his apartment.
Childe lost it. With one hand clutching his grocery bag and the other gripping Javert's wrist, he twisted it behind the man, forcing him to face the railing. As he stood behind him, he leaned in close and hissed, "Do. Not. Touch. Me."
Javert didn't even blink. Didn't flinch. Childe really ought to give him more credit, especially considering that he had spent a year and a half with Childe in this country, witnessing every ounce of ruthlessness and craziness he displayed; he no longer feared Childe, which made his irritation grow more.
He was tempted to toss him over the rail, just to give him a lesson, but Javert watched him over his shoulder. In Javert's gaze, he sees guilt —deep and ugly guilt— and a silent request to finish him off right there.
Do it. I deserve it. That was what Javert said some days ago. Childe found out in his gaze that he still believes just that.
And for a split second, Childe wanted to humor him.
Instead, he shoves him away from the rail where he had him pinned.
"I don't want to hear any of your crap. And the next time that hand touches me, it's going to get smashed," he threatens, to scare him, but he knows the threat falls on deaf ears because he can't harm traitors who didn't turn against him.
Scratch that, he most definitely could harm any kind of traitors, but not traitors of another harbinger who stayed by his side.
The fucker betrayed another harbinger to be by his side.
He turned against someone else — someone politically stronger, someone he should probably fear more — just to stand at his side.
Childe simply can't harm him. He would have done it by now if he really wanted to.
He can't hurt loyalty, even the late-blooming kind.
But he sure as hell can punish him, because he hates liars.
Without another glance, Childe stalks toward the stairs. Somewhere above, he half-expects to find the kid — Leo — waiting for him. If it were Leo blocking the way, he wouldn't twist his arm. Maybe ruffle his hair. But Javert? Javert gets the rail.
He leaves while Javert catches his breath, without giving him a chance to call his bluff.
The walk home is short, and with no Javert in his proximity or shadows, it's a sign that the man didn't follow him to explain himself anymore. He feels a bit of peace, and the voices in his head quiet down a pang, no longer triggered by the people around him. The hotel staff chose not to bother him, a small miracle, as by now he thinks everyone is after him, ready to annoy him until he snaps.
He needs to get his shit together before he loses control.
He took a deep breath to calm himself while climbing the last step of the stairs, only to feel like someone punched the same air out of his lungs at the sight in front of him.
The kid is slumped against his apartment door, head tilted, mouth slightly open. With his knees pulled up to his chest and his head resting on them, he was out cold. It was the kind of nap that left him vulnerable, wide open to anyone who might want to cause harm—something only kids and fools who didn't know any better would do.
Child's jaw tightens. He gently nudges the kid with his foot to wake him while rummaging for his keys in his pocket.
The kid stirs awake, gaze confused.
"Up with you, kiddo."
Leo jumps to his feet almost instantly. Childe notices the drool on his chin and the red mark on his face, clear signs that he had been sleeping for a while. If he weren't so mad, he might have found it funny.
Then he spots the bruise under the kid's right eye. It didn't look fresh, maybe a week old at most, and something inside Childe shifted. The anger he felt towards the kid for having the audacity to show up was redirected towards whoever had the nerve to hurt a child. A fifteen-year-old kid, almost two heads shorter than him, with an innocent look in his blue eyes and messy blonde hair that the kid hates for some reason. A Fatui kid, with daggers at his belt and a few tricks up his sleeves, who he was sure had done something in retaliation just as he taught him, but still just a kid.
"Master Childe!" Leo shouted, but Childe didn't know why. He had his full attention the moment he saw him sleeping in front of his door. "I wanted to talk-"
"Not interested, kid. Go home."
He pushed him aside and unlocked the door. The floor creaked under his weight, and if it were any other day, Childe could ignore it. Now it annoyed the hell out of him. Without any signs that the kid actually heard him, he trailed after him when the door opened. Childe didn't tell him to get out immediately, so he let the kid close the door behind them. He was slightly curious about what he wanted, and he couldn't help but notice that Leo wasn't scared of him at all, not even after the display of power he witnessed a week ago.
"I have an envelope for you and I want to talk-" Leo started again, just to shut his mouth the moment Childe shoved the bag of groceries into his arms.
Envelope? Could it be the reply he waited for?
"Put those on the counter."
It was simpler to keep the brat busy with chores than to listen to whatever speech Leo had rehearsed in front of the mirror at home. Easier to overlook the bruise on his face and the feeling that something hurt one of his own if he didn't see him. Easier to dismiss the irritation that came from the fact that it had been a week and Leo somehow managed to get into trouble as soon as Childe looked away.
It reminded him of Anthon, since they were both at that age where they believed the world was theirs to conquer and no one could stand in their way. Mama must be overwhelmed right now, back at home, just like he had been this year with the kid and his antics. Was this how she felt when he...
He stopped that train of thought because it felt like the analogy was going in the direction of making himself the kid's mother.
He wasn't his protector. Not anymore, he decided. It wasn't his damn business; he just needed to get him to hand over his mail and go.
Leo obeys, silent, until Childe washes his hands and begins to prepare something to eat... now for two people. With a change of mind, he decides to whip up his take on syrniki, the big and thick almost pancakes his mom used to make for Anthon, who has a serious sweet tooth, but skips the sweet cheese this time. He makes it sweet enough to compensate for that missing ingredient.
Twenty minutes later, Childe sets a plate down in front of the kid. The clock says it's nine in the morning, and he just knows that the kid didn't eat anything. Despite his ongoing irritation, he can't let a kid go hungry, especially when Leo is watching his every move and practically drooling at the sight of the food.
The kid eats. Childe, however, doesn't sit down at the table. And he doesn't eat yet. He can't stand the sound of the clutter, but he pushes it aside and concentrates on the beat of his finger on his hand.
Once the plate is clean, Leo hops up to wash it. Not finding a towel to dry his hands, he wipes them on his uniform instead. Childe almost smiles at how very much Leo is still... well, Leo.
"I want the mail," he said as soon as Leo came back to the table and smiled as if nothing had ever happened.
The kid's smile falters. Childe ignored the sting in his heart for being the one who was hurting him. He ignores the shift in the kid's steps, almost as if he could hear the disappointment from the way he was walking differently.
His impatience grows.
In the next moment, Leo reaches into his courier pouch, he bows and presents a folded envelope to Childe with open palms, as if it's the most valuable thing he's ever held.
"From Her Majesty."
Oh... that explains the reaction.
Childe stares at it without touching it.
This is most likely the answer to his request.
"Is she... going to ask you to go back?" Leo asks quietly.
Childe emits a brief, sharp laugh, devoid of humor. It was more of a snort than anything funny. Silly kid, as if Her Majesty "asks". He still doesn't realize that when she speaks, anything she says is an order, not a suggestion.
Finally.
Finally, he could leave this shitty place. Leave all of this behind. Focus on a new mission, on a new thrill, leave... leave those feelings behind and bury them so deep that they won't ever resurface again. That Childe won't ever recall that they even existed at one point.
"That is not your concern, recruit. This is a matter for the Harbingers and Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. Thank you for your service!" he said, voice sharp.
Leo hesitates, taken aback, like he still wants to explain, to apologize — but he doesn't move, doesn't let go of the letter, as if he still hopes for Childe to tell him he doesn't need it.
As if he would defile the word of his Archon.
"Go home, kid. That is an order."
And for once, Leo actually obeys. Clenching his jaw, he places the letter on the counter, gives a salute, and walks out... tears welling in his eyes as he catches Childe's gaze one last time. He doesn't bother to shut the door, a rebellious move typical of a fifteen-year-old.
His insides twist. He went to close the door, assuring himself that Leo had left as he wanted to.
He eyed the letter. A couple of days ago, when he felt like he could hold the pen without his hands shaking from the pain of his Foul Legacy Transformation, he wrote to his Tsaritsa. He requested (demanded) that his talents be utilized more effectively in another area after exchanging a few pleasantries, and that he was prepared for his new task. He suggested (demanded) that her loyal blade not be left dull for another second, and that he had faith in her judgment regarding what she chose for him.
He figured Leo must have felt a sting of betrayal when he came upon this letter, sent directly from Zapolyarny Palace as a response to a letter he had no idea existed. After all, his official role in the Fatui was a courier, Childe's courier. All his correspondence goes through Leo, as he handles every message that comes in or goes out. The kid took pride in that job, like it was the greatest honor in the world to carry Childe's words. But for the first time since arriving in Liyue, Childe didn't trust him with the job of delivering the letter.
He didn't want Leo to find out what he was planning. He took the letter himself to the place where they had them sent, lying that the kid was unwell and he wasn't such a harsh master to make a sick child work when he couldn't perform, as he made sure Leo wouldn't be there that day.
Call it a petty revenge, call it a childish thing, Childe didn't care.
He didn't want Leo to poke around and read the letter.
Childe took the letter and opened it with far less grace than he wanted to, because he was angry and couldn't control himself as well as he wanted.
To My Harbinger Tartaglia,
Your contributions are as invaluable as ever; never doubt that. However, the damage caused during your last operation in Liyue has left fractures — in both our diplomatic relations and public perception.
The region is watching. The Fatui are under scrutiny. Your departure would only confirm the rumors and further destabilize what you've already unsettled.
You will remain in Liyue. Not as punishment, but as a symbol — that the Fatui do not abandon responsibility, and that you, above all, can bear it.
Prove that the strength I entrusted to you was not misplaced.
— Tsaritsa.
Childe held the letter tightly and took a long, deep breath before sitting down at the table.
This letter from the Tsaritsa says nothing more than: "You broke it. You fix it."
Getting reassigned now would mean the Fatui is admitting to failure. The Fatui does not fail.
So he needs to stay in Liyue, repair their image, and show his Tsaritsa that he cleans up after himself. Easier said than done. For that, he needs someone good at working under pressure and who knows politics like the back of his hand.
"Fuck," mumbles Childe, punching the table. "Fuck."
He needs that other bastard who messed with his trust.
As the last strand of calmness that Childe had stretched and stretched over the course of a week, it finally snapped. Childe screamed, a raw and horrifying sound that reverberated in the room, and in a fit of rage, he flipped everything off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. Nothing was safe from his wrath: the fragile decorations, the plate of freshly made syrniki, and the kitchen appliances were all swept up in his storm of anger. He smashed or carelessly tossed aside everything he could reach, from the furniture to the walls, driven by an uncontrollable urge to wreak havoc.
And then an idea formed in his head, sharp and insistent, though he couldn't remember if it was his.
Maybe he read the letter wrong. Maybe he should have read between the lines.
The thought dug its claws in, and before he knew it, he was already moving.
He navigated between broken furniture, bottles, and ceramic plates, hunting for the letter as if it could fix something—though he couldn't say what- but his rage only grew when he couldn't find that damned piece of paper in all that mess. The more he couldn't find it, the more the pressure built in his chest, that same nameless itch urging him on. It felt less like searching and more like obeying.
His chest felt like it was ablaze with rage, a raging fire that devoured him from within. It crept up to his throat, making it feel raw, or maybe that was just from the scream. His head throbbed so intensely that he would trade anything for the strongest painkiller, even his sight faded to black for a few seconds. His muscles craved a good fight, but he suppressed that urge, telling himself: not now. He was half aware of what was happening; in his subconscious, he recognized the signs of losing control, so even in his hazy state, he tried to somehow keep it together.
The state of his apartment was left in pure chaos when Childe stopped searching like a madman. He was in a daze, in the middle of the chaos, fists and arms bleeding, thinking about everything and nothing at all.
What was he even looking for?
The thought slipped away from him, like water through his fingers, leaving only the hollow ache behind. It was almost funny, how quickly the urgency vanished—like it had never been his in the first place.
He slowly started processing the stings in his fists. The scent of alcohol hit him from the shattered bottle on the floor, along with the aroma of freshly made syrniki. And then there was the smell of blood.
His breath was uneven, and he heard it from everywhere.
Childe focused on the pain outside of his body rather than the pain within, attempting to get his senses back now that he had a moment of clarity. He closed his eyes, trying to find something that would help him stay sane.
While he could ignore the mess around him, the inner chaos was a different matter; it was a storm he couldn't escape, no matter how hard he tried to push it aside. He could only subdue it for now and hope to go away on its own.
Childe opened his eyes, finally calm enough to see what he did.
At least the mess from his apartment was the same as the mess in his head. Oddly enough, it brought him some comfort. It helped to quiet his urge to create havoc, allowing him to calm down and attempt to manage the effects of his Abyssal Taint. It took him a while to silence the voices in his head, the ones urging him to give in to his cravings and just obliterate everything in his path, not just his apartment. Wipe out everyone who caused him this pain.
Funny enough, that was the thought that truly jolted Childe awake.
Hurt the people who made him feel this frustrated and hurt?
Even his Tsaritsa? He doesn't have a death wish, for fucks sake.
That's stupid even for the voices that existed just for the reason of degrading his head. It had exactly the opposite effect, as they made him feel more awake than when he woke up this morning.
Childe couldn't help but laugh at that idea and managed to silence the voices. He doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down his face from how funny he found it.
And now, he pulled himself together into some resemblance of a man and put one foot in front of the other to start cleaning the mess he had made.
His Tsaritsa's words were final. Even if it meant swallowing his pride, he was going to get it done. Even if he had to battle with himself and his annoying feelings, he would still see it through. He needed to get to work as quickly as possible so he could leave this damn nation sooner, because that feeling was the only one he couldn't shake off.
He wants to leave.
He wants to go home and lick his wounds in peace.