The Homewrecker Chronicles

by princesscas

Summary:

Childe proposes a political alliance. Mitya assumes this means they’re getting engaged. Thus begins his and Valeriy’s latest plan: Operation Ruin Mitya’s Marriage.

Notes:

happy birthday to ME!! as my present to myself, i offer yet another stupid childe comedy

slight spoilers for act 1 of the AQ! (mostly about childe)

The note, when it arrives, looks about as expensive as a ticket to the best box in the Korolevskiy Theater, and Mitya would know. It’s a cream-colored envelope made of paper richer than silk, and it’s sealed with a deep purple stamp and a single gembloom petal pressed into the wax. Even the address—Deliver to Dr. Dmitry Snezhevich, Ph.D., Everflame Laboratory of the Armory Palace—is about twelve times fancier than it needs to be.

Mitya gets a bad feeling before he even opens it. He glances at the door. “Hey, Sarge?”

Valeriy, who has been posted outside his door like always, knocks politely before entering. “Do you require my assistance?”

“Give me your sword.”

Valeriy stares at him blankly.

“I need to open this, and my letter opener is dull as shit,” Mitya explains. “If I used it, I’d probably tear the envelope. This thing looks like it could pay six weeks of your salary.”

“My salary is paid monthly, not weekly.”

Mitya groans exaggeratedly. Sometimes he wishes Valeriy would stop being obsessed with semantics for two seconds and actually do his job. Well—do what Mitya wants him to. Which isn’t actually his job, but the point stands. “Just open it.”

Valeriy calmly picks up Mitya’s dull letter opener and slices the envelope open in one swift, precise motion. He does it perfectly. The seal doesn’t break, and even the flower petal is undisturbed.

Mitya nods appreciatively. “You must have been a pastry chef in a past life or something. That was beautiful.”

“I am a soldier in this life,” Valeriy corrects. “Of course I can use a blade.”

“There has to be a less ominous way to say that.” Valeriy is so polite and peaceful that sometimes Mitya forgets he was ever a combatant at all. But surely he was. Surely he, like all Fatui soldiers, fought on the front lines before being withdrawn back home to take the hardest job of all: making sure Mitya doesn’t get up to bullshit on the clock.

“What is this letter?” Valeriy asks, peering over his shoulder.

Spitefully, Mitya snatches the letter out of his view. “Since when are you nosy?”

“Since the letter was sent from the late First Harbinger’s estate.”

Mitya feels faint, all of a sudden. No wonder the seal contained a preserved flower petal from Natlan. A funeral flower. “The—this is from the Captain’s estate? Like, it was in his will?”

“How much trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?” Valeriy says, which is an answer in itself.

“I don’t know.” And that’s the thing—usually he knows exactly why he’s in trouble. Usually ‘trouble’ means the higher-ups squinting at his research notes, or the Northland Bank officials auditing the meals registered as business expenses on his reimbursement records, or Valeriy chasing him to the theater with his stern eyes. This is something else entirely.

“Let’s get this over with,” Valeriy says bracingly. “Would you like me to do it?”

Mitya notices, not for the first time, that he’s surprisingly kind. He could have left Mitya to deal with this on his own, but instead he’s standing here, steady as always. Valeriy isn’t one to do things halfway. No—he’s committed to his role as Mitya’s… whatever he is. He’s not just here to chase him down and drag him back to work. He’s here to be solid and consistent.

It’s… well, nice feels like an underwhelming word for all that Valeriy is to him. But—yes. It’s nice.

“Please,” Mitya says, already feeling tired. The anxiety has drained out of him, leaving nothing but exhausted relief in its place. “Just—can you read it?”

Valeriy nods. Gently, he unfolds the letter.

The letter paper is so soft that it nearly slips through Valeriy’s gloves. It must be the most expensive paper in all of Teyvat. Mitya holds his breath.

“Dear Doctor Dmitry,” Valeriy reads, in his steady voice.

Mitya laughs shakily. “Who’s that?”

Valeriy gives him a look. This is his Shut up, Mitya, or else I’m going to take that scarf off of you and choke you myself look. Which, admittedly, Mitya often finds super sexy, but he’s too stressed to appreciate its merits at the moment.

“Doctor Dmitry,” Valeriy resumes, and Mitya shuts up. “In light of the First Harbinger’s tragic passing, his responsibilities have been entrusted to the Eleventh, Lord Tartaglia, the Vanguard of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. As such, the Eleventh is to occupy a position as Councilor in the glorious homeland. Due to his—”

Valeriy cuts himself off. His mouth twists.

Mitya leans over. “What is it?”

“…Due to his extended leave on diplomatic missions,” Valeriy reads, slightly less calm than usual, “the Eleventh is looking for a… secure and longstanding alliance to strengthen his connection to the glorious homeland.” He inhales deeply and drops the letter on the table. “You can read the rest.”

Mitya snatches the letter up. He skims the remaining lines—well-established and valued member of the Snezhnayan scientific community; enrich the Eleventh’s personal image; build rapport with the people of the homeland; and then again, that phrase: secure and longstanding alliance.

Oh.

From the look on Valeriy’s face, he’s figured it out too.

Mitya sits down heavily on the edge of his desk. “A marriage alliance,” he says, because they might as well acknowledge the sumpter beast in the room.

Valeriy’s silence says more than his words ever could.

“So not only is the Eleventh fucking Harbinger proposing marriage to me,” Mitya says, just to express how ridiculous it is. “But the First Harbinger, rest his noble soul, essentially sent me the letter. In case I didn’t clock how serious the situation was.”

“It makes sense,” Valeriy says, which isn’t quite the same thing as saying he agrees with the decision. “The Vanguard has been away for a considerable time, and he’s developed a battle-hungry image. An alliance like this to reinstate his image in the homeland would do wonders for his Councilor prospects and popular standing.”

“Yeah, but why me? Couldn't he, I don’t know, seek out someone else? Someone more his speed? Odette; she likes to fight. Or the Knave’s successor, the magician! Hell, even another Harbinger!”

“Odette is in a committed relationship, as you well know,” Valeriy says flatly. “The Knave’s successor is Fontainian, not Snezhnayan, so he would not be a suitable choice. And the other Harbingers are considerably out of his age range.”

“Stop making good points,” Mitya mutters. Petulantly, he throws the letter onto the desk, away from him.

Valeriy picks it up in his gloved fingers. He skims the text, looking pale. When his eyes reach the bottom, he inhales sharply and pushes it away like it’s a blade digging into his skin.

Mitya scoffs. “What’s with that look? It’s not like you have to get married to a bloodthirsty maniac.”

Valeriy gives him a strange, pained look. “I had thought,” he says, strangled. “That you would not… That—things would not have to change.”

Mitya laughs humorlessly. “You think I can refuse?”

Looking strangely bitter, Valeriy falls silent.

Maybe he’s been too harsh on him. Mitya tries to soften his voice. “Look, it’s not that bad.” And why is he the one encouraging Valeriy? Who’s supposed to be the strong one around here? “If you want to resign as my head of security, I’ll make sure you get a better assignment next time, alright? Someone who won’t test you every goddamn day of their lives.”

“I am not leaving you,” Valeriy says, suddenly sharp. His eyes snap to Mitya’s, and he takes his wrist. “Your safety is more paramount than ever. You need me by your side.”

Mitya’s chest feels odd. Valeriy’s usually not this direct. He always leaves these things unsaid, or lets Mitya say them for him. He’s never said something so bold as You need me. “What’s gotten into you, Sarge?”

Abruptly, Valeriy releases his wrist and steps back. He inhales. “Forgive me. I overstepped.”

“I never said it was a bad thing.”

“It must be,” Valeriy says with conviction. “I cannot continue acting the way I have. It is…” He looks at the letter like it’s the cause of every problem he’s ever had and will ever have. “Inappropriate,” he finishes, sounding almost ill. “Given the circumstances.”

“Well, obviously,” Mitya says, chucking the letter at him. “You can hardly choke me out on the private insulated terrace of Podvorye Restaurant. Especially not during my preliminary courting meeting with the Eleventh Harbinger.”

Valeriy’s brow furrows in confusion. Mitya can tell the exact moment it dawns on him, because he says, “No. Mitya, don’t be a fool. I cannot—I could never—”

“I’m not a fool,” Mitya says loftily. “I’m a genius. A very fragile genius, who needs a personal bodyguard by his side at all times.” He looks pointedly at Valeriy. “So what do you say?”

“…” says Valeriy.

“Oh, come on,” Mitya says, elbowing him. “How else are we going to get him to call off the engagement?”

Looking interested, Valeriy pauses.

Mitya almost laughs at him. “Don’t tell me you thought I was going to take this lying down, Sarge! You know me better than that. I’ve never met a problem I couldn't outrun.” He gestures to the letter. “Obviously I can’t refuse, not after all that pomp and circumstance. But if he were to end the engagement…”

And suddenly Valeriy’s expression clears right up. “I will assist with this plan,” he says immediately. “When do we start?”

***

“So,” Mitya says. He flips over his blackboard and writes in chalk at the top: HOW TO RUIN MY MARRIAGE. “Thoughts?”

Valeriy looks like he’s going to be sick.

So Mitya’s going to have to do the heavy lifting. That’s fine; he’s used to formulating research strategies. “What do we know about the Eleventh? He likes fighting. So now I hate fighting. And, uh, I hate running away, obviously. And all kinds of contests. And I’m weak. Very weak.”

“You are not weak,” says Valeriy. His voice is strange, like he’s speaking underwater.

“Hmm. Good point.” Mitya makes a note. “If I’m too weak, he’ll get excited that he can protect me. So I have to be… unremarkable. Average.” He dusts off his hands. “Do you think I should also hate fishing? And fashion? Anything else?”

Valeriy finally looks like he can breathe again. “The Eleventh reportedly loves his siblings greatly, so perhaps you could impress upon him that you are not a family man. I’ve also heard that he… prefers… masculine figures.”

Mitya squints at him. “Since when do you pay attention to gossip about this kind of stuff?”

Valeriy looks profoundly uncomfortable.

“Never mind.” It’s a miracle that Valeriy has agreed to help in the first place, and any information is useful, no matter how he acquired it. No need to scare him away. Mitya scrawls everything down on the board. “So, to recap, I’m essentially a family-hating city girl with extreme dedication to her career.”

Valeriy chokes.

“What? You said he likes masculine people.”

“You cannot just—” And here Valeriy looks extremely conflicted again. “Of course, if you are a woman, I will continue to offer my support in full. But I was under the impression—”

Mitya bursts out laughing. Poor guy; Mitya puts him through so much. “It’s a figure of speech, Sarge. City girl—it’s an archetype. I’m playing a character. I’m still the same Mitya you know underneath all of that.”

Valeriy’s shoulders visibly relax.

“You were really worried about that, huh?” Mitya turns to the chalkboard to hide his smile. “I’m a theater fan, Sarge. Surely I can do a bit of acting to save our asses.”

“Our?”

“Yeah. Yours and mine,” Mitya says offhandedly. He’s squinting at the board, trying to read his own handwriting. Why is he so prone to chicken scratch the minute he gets chalk in his hand? He needs his pen back. “We’re saving me from a shitty marriage, and you from unemployment.”

“I would not be unemployed. I would simply be given a new assignment.”

Mitya gives him his best wide-eyed, pleading look. “But you wouldn’t let me go that easily. I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

Valeriy looks at him and says nothing.

Shit. Mitya was joking, but maybe he went too far with that one. Does he really annoy Valeriy so much that he can’t even take a joke about maybe, just maybe, liking him enough to stick around? He thought they had gotten past that. He thought they had… an understanding, he supposes. Some sort of tacit agreement. Something a little bit special.

Mitya’s stomach sinks. Could it really be that after all these years, even with all they’ve been through together, that Valeriy still doesn’t actually like him?

Valeriy rudely interrupts his spiraling thoughts. “There is one method which would prove effective.”

Mitya turns around. “Really?”

“You could claim you are not attracted to men.”

Mitya’s excitement evaporates. “Sarge, seriously? I mean, look at me. Do I look like a heterosexual to you?”

“Sexuality isn’t necessarily defined by appearance,” says Valeriy, because he’s polite and woke and all that jazz.

“Appearance aside, I’ve been involved in at least three scandalous news articles for having sex with men in public,” Mitya points out. “For context, I’ve been in zero scandals with women.”

Valeriy makes a face like he’d rather not think about the men Mitya takes home. “There is still an alternative.”

It’s kind of funny that he’s so uncomfortable with Mitya talking about his sex life. He should do that more often. “Yeah?” he says, leaning forward. “Hit me with it. I’m all ears.”

“You could claim to be in love with someone else.”

“Oh,” Mitya says, considering. That’s actually not a half bad idea. He looks at Valeriy, then away again, and tries to make it seem like this is totally insignificant and means nothing at all. “For that to work, we’d need to have a person in mind. Someone I spend a lot of time with, you know, because it has to be believable. Someone I know a lot about, and who knows a lot about me. Probably good-looking, because I’ve got standards. And there has to be a reason we can’t engage in a public relationship. Like… maybe a power imbalance that could cause professional complications if it were to become public.” Mitya pauses. “You got anyone that fits all of those criteria?”

And then he realizes who he’s been describing.

“…” says Valeriy.

“…” says Mitya.

“…” says Valeriy.

“…” says Mitya.

“…” says Valeriy.

“Yeah, me neither,” says Mitya, too quickly. Way too quickly. He coughs. “So, uh, back to the drawing board?”

“Please,” says Valeriy. His face is ever so slightly flushed.

Mitya picks up the chalk and gets back to work.

***

The knock on his door comes precisely ten minutes before their agreed meeting time. Which means Valeriy is right on time, because Mitya gave him a later time on purpose. Valeriy’s punctuality is so dependable that Mitya’s learned to work around it to accommodate his own, considerably more lax, sense of timing.

“Let yourself in,” Mitya calls from his bedroom. “I’ve got my hands full!”

He hears Valeriy unlock the door. Mitya’s apartment is designed for two, but he lives alone, so he gave the other key to Valeriy ages ago. Valeriy had been extremely hesitant to accept, but all Mitya had to do was give him a sweet, wide-eyed look and say something about feeling safer if his guard had access to him around the clock, and Valeriy was a goner. He’s so easy sometimes that it’s almost laughable.

Mitya glances over his shoulder in the mirror. “C’mere! I need your help.”

Predictably, Valeriy appears in the doorway immediately. “What can I—Mitya.” And then he whirls around on his heel and turns around so fast that the floor squeaks beneath his feet.

Mitya abandons the mirror and turns around. “Well? Aren’t you going to help?”

Valeriy’s voice sounds strangled. “You are—underdressed.”

“I’m hardly in lingerie over here,” Mitya argues, glaring at him. “Besides, you’ve peeled my sorry drunk ass off the floor of a bar at least three times. I think you can handle seeing my shoulders.”

Valeriy inhales audibly and turns around again. He looks at the ceiling like he’s suddenly taken a great interest in Mitya’s overhead lighting. “What exactly do you want me to help with,” he says flatly.

Mitya turns around again. “Make it tighter.”

Valeriy goes dead silent.

Mitya huffs. “Do I have to do everything around here? Help me tighten the goddamn corset, okay? I can’t do it without breathing weird.”

“Why,” says Valeriy, his voice dangerously soft, “are you wearing… this… for your preliminary courting meeting? I thought you wanted him to refuse you. This—this makes you look…”

“Yeah…?” Obviously the Eleventh wouldn’t like him if he looked like this, right? “You said he likes masculine figures. So the corseted shirt is my best weapon to look less masculine.” He presses the laces into Valeriy’s hesitant hands. “Come on.”

Valeriy carefully pulls the laces enough for the fabric to meet his skin.

“Way tighter. I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a corset top before, but this thing should be making my waist look like it has a circumference of about negative eight inches.”

“I do not wish to hurt you. And you are going out to eat.”

That’s a fine point. Mitya’s never turned down a good meal, especially if he’s not the one paying for it. “Still, make it tighter. Enough that it holds itself in place, at least.”

Valeriy mutters something that sounds vaguely like a plea for help. He takes the laces tighter, and his eyes go dark in the mirror’s reflection behind him. “Breathe out.”

Mitya exhales. The laces tug tighter against his waist. When he breathes in again, he doesn’t feel restricted. Valeriy could definitely stand to make it tighter, but he thinks about the food and Valeriy’s pathetic expression and decides that this is good enough. He studies himself in the mirror: corset-waist top, big draping sleeves, cinched waistcoat, his usual slim slacks. “You think this looks good?” he asks Valeriy, mostly as a formality.

Valeriy makes a sound like he’s choking on air.

He probably doesn’t want to offend him. Mitya knows the outfit is unusual; Valeriy’s used to seeing him in his regular lab wear, not his going-out clothes. “Right,” he says, nodding. “I don’t need to look good. I need to look like the opposite of whatever he wants.”

Valeriy looks relieved, like the topic change is a great mercy. “When are you meeting him?”

Mitya checks the clock. “Uh… twenty minutes ago.”

Valeriy gives him a disappointed look.

“He probably hates lateness, right?” Mitya says, grinning sheepishly. “All part of the plan, Sarge. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I can’t take you anywhere,” Valeriy mutters. He grabs his wrist. “Let’s go.”

When he leads, Mitya follows.

***

There’s art of the Eleventh. There’s art of all the Harbingers, actually, though some are more accurate than others. Lady Sandrone, for instance, keeps picture-perfect portraits of herself in every single place she runs, down to the cogs in her irises. Lady Arlecchino’s portraits, on the other hand, range from an ethereal, graceful queen to the leather-clad leader of a lesbian biker gang. It’s such a running joke at this point that when Lady Arlecchino actually makes public appearances, almost no one recognizes her.

Tartaglia’s portraits fit in the latter category. There are two prevailing versions of him. Half his portraits feature a fierce warrior with hair red as blood and dark eyes to match, while the other half feature a soft-hearted young man standing at attention by the Tsaritsa’s side. The dichotomy is so strong that Mitya is entirely unsure what to expect. Which one is the real him, and which one is the lie?

As it turns out, the real Tartaglia is somewhere in between the two extremes. He has a soft smile, but sharp-edged shoulders. His hair is lively and his expression light, but his eyes hold a weight that speaks beyond his years.

Mitya has to admit, actually, that he’s handsome. A rakish, youthful sort of handsome, like a protagonist of a romance novel.

If they do end up going through with the marriage, Mitya will get some solid arm candy out of it, so. At least there’s that.

Tartaglia’s eyes light up when he sees him. “Oh! You must be Doctor Dmitry, right?” He stands from his seat in the private room. “Hi! It’s great to meet you. I’m Tartaglia, but you should call me Childe.”

Mitya’s a little thrown off by his friendliness, but maybe this is part of his diplomatic training. He’s hardly going to complain about a positive reception. “Good afternoon. And please, call me Mitya. Everyone does.”

Childe’s eyes widen, but he smiles. “Oh, good! I can’t lie, I was gonna feel awkward if I had to keep calling you Doctor. Come sit down! I’ve already ordered.”

“You don’t mind if my bodyguard comes in with me, right? I’m…” He puts on a purposely bashful face, trying to emphasize this point. “Well, I’m not much of a fighter,” he confesses dramatically.

Valeriy makes a small, muffled noise, like a laugh that he turned into a cough at the last minute.

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Childe says easily, waving his hand. “Want me to get another chair? I know this is a table for two, but I booked the whole room, so it’s no problem.”

Mitya blinks. Shouldn’t he be bothered that Mitya can’t fight? Not that it’s true; he can absolutely hold his own if it comes down to it. But… where’s his bloodlust?

“No, thank you,” Valeriy says, stern but not unkind. Mitya is suddenly immensely grateful for Valeriy’s extremely well-practiced poker face. “I prefer to remain vigilant in case of any threats to my charge.” He looks pointedly at Childe here, stone cold.

Damn. He’s bold. But what’s he threatening the Harbinger for? It’s not like he would want to do any harm to Mitya…?

The intimidation doesn’t work at all. Childe’s smile just widens. “Yeah, of course! Nothing wrong with some good old-fashioned vigilance! Hey—speaking of which, what’s your name? I should get to know you too, if you’re Mitya’s personal bodyguard.”

“…Valeriy.”

“Nice to meet you, Valeriy! Hey, do you wanna fight later? I’m always down for a spar!” Childe looks him up and down. “You look like you know your way around a good hand-to-hand match. So what do you say?”

Mitya blinks.

Shit. Shit. He didn’t even consider this possibility. But even if he wasn’t the Harbinger’s type, there’s someone else who very much fits the bill. Someone tall and masculine who knows how to fight. Someone classically polite and handsome. Someone who Mitya practically delivered to him on a silver fucking platter.

No way is this guy hitting on Valeriy right in front of him!!

“I could never refuse a Harbinger’s generous offer,” Valeriy says, his voice giving away absolutely nothing.

“Great! So, maybe next week?” Childe says eagerly.

“My bodyguard,” Mitya interrupts, “has his hands full dealing with me. I don’t think he’ll have time to accept your invitation. Sorry.”

Childe raises his eyebrows. He looks at Mitya for a long, quiet moment. Then he grins, sharp and mischievous.

Oh boy. Mitya’s really done it this time. Goodbye, cruel world. He had a good run.

“Valeriy,” says Childe sweetly. “Would you mind checking on the food? I placed the order a while ago, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”

Valeriy nods. He takes his leave with a small bow of respect, the kind of thing reserved for Harbingers and higher commanders.

And now Mitya’s all alone with him. Fuck! Why couldn't Valeriy have just a little less respect for his higher-ups in the military? He was supposed to stick around and help Mitya out! And now he’s gone, and Mitya’s got the fucking Vanguard of the Fatui grinning at him in a private room with mischief in his eyes.

Mitya might pass out. He sits up straighter, because if he’s going to die, he’s at least going to die with dignity.

Childe leans forward on his elbows. “He’s your personal bodyguard, huh?”

Yeah, that seals the deal. Bringing him along was a terrible idea. They should never let Mitya have any ideas ever again. They should put a curse on him that makes him fucking die every time he has an idea. “More or less,” Mitya says through gritted teeth. He picks up his water glass, just for something to do with his hands, and takes a sip.

“So how long have you wanted to bone him?”

Mitya spits out the water all over the goddamn table.

Childe laughs so hard he wheezes. “Oh my god! Oh, you’re so funny. I like you already. Holy shit!” He wipes tears from his eyes. “Your face!”

“It’s not—it’s not like that,” Mitya lies weakly. “I mean, we work together. It’s all very professional.”

“Uh huh,” says Childe, with his shit-eating grin. “Profesh.”

It suddenly occurs to Mitya that although he thinks it’s funny now, he’d probably get sick of it real fast if they were married and Mitya was harboring illicit feelings for his guard the whole time. “It won’t get in the way of our partnership,” he says, trying to regain control of the situation.

Childe’s expression softens into a regular, friendly smile again. “Oh, yeah! I meant to talk to you about that. The Captain’s administrative staff recommended you. They said you have a great reputation around Snezhnograd, which I could really use some of right now, haha!”

Mitya relaxes. “That’s true. Your reputation is all over the place. Did you know the portraits of you are split into two camps, and you don’t look like either of them?”

Childe’s eyes widen and he leans in closer across the table. “Really? They make portraits of me now? Last I remember they were only putting me on Fatui promo advertisements.” He wrinkles his nose. “They put me in this big fur coat and made me pose like a homesick soldier. It was kind of ridiculous. I was only eighteen.”

“How old are you now, actually? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-five,” Childe corrects, his smile slipping.

Mitya hesitates. Twenty-fifth birthdays are a big deal in Snezhnayan tradition; they’re celebrated as the coming-of-age year. Traditionally, this was the age that nobles entered the marriage market, but now it’s celebrated by people of all social classes. Surely someone as celebrated as Tartaglia would have had a grand party in his honor for this kind of occasion. “I didn’t hear about it. Was it a private ceremony?”

“Oh. Well,” Childe says, in an entirely different tone. “Um—I turned twenty-five in Fontaine. In prison.”

Mitya blinks. He knew, objectively, that Tartaglia’s expedition in Fontaine had taken him to the Fortress of Meropide, but that was all that the general public ever learned. He had forgotten, somehow, that there might be more to the story. Instead of offering an apology, he says, “Do you want to have a belated celebration? I’m sure the people would love an occasion to celebrate.”

Childe smiles again, but he looks about five years older this time. “Nah. I missed it; I’ll never get it back. That’s just how the world works.”

His viewpoint is surprisingly nihilistic. Mitya wonders, just briefly, how he came to acquire it.

“Tell me more about these portraits,” Childe says, leaning forward on his elbows. “If I’m going to build myself a new reputation, like Capitano wanted, I should start by learning about my current reputation!”

Maybe Mitya wasn’t giving him enough credit. He’s resilient, that’s for sure. “Half of them paint you as a warrior out for blood, and the other half paint you as a loyal footsoldier. Neither encompass your full status, and neither are particularly flattering to your intelligence or autonomy.”

“So I need to seem smarter and more independent,” Childe summarizes. He grins at Mitya. “I think you’d be perfect for that, actually! You’re a researcher, right? That’s the intelligence part locked down.”

Mitya swallows. He had forgotten about the marriage offer entirely. Shit—he’s been getting along with Childe too well. He can’t keep this up, or else…

A knock on the door. Two taps, then one more tap a beat later. Valeriy’s signal.

“Come in!” Childe calls brightly.

Valeriy enters. “Lord Tartaglia, I’ve checked with the staff. Your order is… quite large, for two people. They reassured me it will be ready soon.”

Mitya frowns. “A large order?”

“Practically a tasting of the whole menu.”

Childe looks down at the table and grimaces. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry.” He coughs, and puts on a weak smile. “I guess muscle memory took over, haha.”

What an odd thing to say. How could a Harbinger have formed a habit of ordering every dish on the menu? It’s not like he has to feed soldiers. His staff do that part for him, surely.

“Never mind,” Childe says firmly. He waves to Valeriy, beckoning him over. “Since I ordered too much, why don’t you join us? Mitya and I were just talking about how beneficial this partnership could be.”

Mitya, feeling sick to his stomach, nods hesitantly. “I only went over the positives so far,” he tries. “There are a few drawbacks, too, of course.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Childe says, grinning. “You’ll get something out of it, too! I never treat my associates badly.” He reaches over and pats Mitya’s shoulder.

Mitya stiffens.

Only then does Childe appear to notice his outfit. He glances down at the corset top. “Oh! Wow, this is super cool. Did you have this commissioned? The embroidery looks so detailed. Is it real silk thread? That must have cost a fortune.”

How does Childe know the price of silk embroidery thread? None of his outfits are made in this style. But this is an opportunity to emphasize their incompatibility, so Mitya steels his expression. “I’m a primadonna,” he says with a completely straight face. Behind him, he thinks he hears Valeriy stifle a laugh. “I can’t stand anything less than the best. The cost shouldn’t be a factor.”

To his surprise, this seems to only make Childe look more endeared. If he didn’t know better, Mitya would say he looks almost wistful. “Can’t say I get it, but boy, does my wallet understand.”

Mitya stares at him. He doesn’t have the first clue what that means.

But before he can ask, the door bursts open, and five waitstaff burst in carrying dishes upon dishes of food. It’s all the Podvorye Restaurant’s best, from their smoked fish to their fresh-made soup to their long-stewed beef. Valeriy wasn’t kidding—it’s probably enough food to feed a small army. The table groans under the weight of all the dishes.

Childe looks sheepishly at the overloaded table. “Old habits die hard, huh?” he says, looking almost haunted. But he pulls himself together, and sits up tall. “Well, let’s eat!”

Mitya realizes, just then, that there’s a lot more to him than meets the eye.

Hmm.

***

“What happened to the plan?” Valeriy says sharply, the minute the lab door shuts behind them.

Mitya blinks several times. “What do you mean? I think I did a fine job. He doesn’t hate me, and he didn’t murder either of us. That’s probably the best we could have asked for.”

“I thought you wanted him to call off the marriage.”

“Well, he’s not going to call it off immediately. Besides, he’s a nice guy. Is it such a bad idea to help him out? I’ll be seen with him in public a few times, get the public talking about him, give him an opportunity to get interviews. Then we can break it off peacefully. I get out of the marriage, he solidifies his reputation as a Councilor. Everyone wins.”

Valeriy gives him a downright murderous look. “Everyone wins,” he repeats, like this means anything.

He has a bad habit of not saying what he really means, but Mitya’s known him for three years now, and he’s long since learned how to read between Valeriy’s lines. Mitya sighs heavily and plunks himself down in his desk chair. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s not as bad as I expected, alright?”

“So now you want to marry the bloodthirsty maniac.”

“Wh—no!” Mitya glares at him. “Don’t give me that. You were getting along with him, too!”

Valeriy inhales and closes his eyes. “Because I have to. You don’t understand my position. The Fatui has no replacement for a genius like you. I, on the other hand…”

Mitya gapes at him. “You don’t think he’d get you fired. That’s ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as you might think.”

“But—you’re my head of security,” Mitya says weakly. “I need you.”

Valeriy looks at him for a long, weighted moment.

Mitya’s heart does something weird in his chest. It had seemed so mundane when Valeriy said it, and yet the words taste different on his lips. He clears his throat. “Uh—anyway, my appearance obviously didn’t dissuade him. Even though you didn’t like it.”

Valeriy coughs and looks away very, very quickly.

“What? You could hardly even look at me,” Mitya accuses. “You can hardly look at me even now.”

“I… did not dislike it,” Valeriy says awkwardly.

Mitya frowns. He could have sworn Valeriy hated his outfit. What about the whole fuss he made about the corset top? But Valeriy’s probably too polite to admit he hates it, so Mitya moves on. “Maybe I should go for the mad scientist look next. Frizzy hair, long coat, unbuttoned shirt, the whole shebang. I look terrible in that, right?”

Valeriy coughs again, even louder.

“Okay, great,” says Mitya, ignoring him. “So we’re in agreement about the mad scientist look. I guess I should mention the family part, too. Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Take me with you,” Valeriy says immediately.

Mitya looks at him funny. “I thought maybe you could stay behind for this one.” If Childe’s getting ideas about Valeriy, he has to do everything in his power to stop that. Perhaps it’s better to remove that variable from the equation entirely.

Valeriy gives him a look that has Mitya’s stomach doing backflips. “I am coming with you,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion. “For your safety, and my sanity."

Really, how is Mitya supposed to argue with that?

***

Their second meeting is in Glupov. Maybe this is unusual for a courtship, but Childe’s kind of an anomaly, and Mitya’s even more of one, so Glupov it is. Mitya takes the morning off of work to dress up—the mad scientist hair takes a while—and he makes sure to wear his flattest shoes, just in case Childe is into tall people.

“So?” Mitya says, when Valeriy arrives at his door. “What do you think?”

“I think you look the part,” Valeriy says, which isn’t really an answer at all.

Mitya raises an eyebrow at him. “Check the back for me. Did I miss anything?”

Instead of waiting for him, Valeriy places a hand on his shoulder and turns him around with a gentle but steady pressure. Mitya, too used to obeying his direction through touch, complies without a thought. He hears Valeriy inhale sharply when he turns around.

“Is it that bad?” Mitya says delightedly. “I want it to look like I’ve been up for forty-eight hours.”

Valeriy turns him back around. “When you’ve been up for forty-eight hours, your hair deflates. This isn’t what it looks like at all.”

“I mean stereotypically. You know, like a mad scientist in a novel.”

“You aren’t mad.”

“Close enough,” Mitya says, shrugging. “I’m not as far off as you think. Anyway, shall we?”

Instead of walking beside him like usual, Valeriy takes his hand and practically drags him out of the apartment.

Mitya yelps and trails behind him. “Hey, Sarge! Slow down! I’m not going anywhere!”

“We’ll be late,” Valeriy says, his voice extremely flat. He’s leading Mitya down an unusual route. Typically, he prefers to take lesser-known streets, often routing Mitya through back doors or service entrances. But this time he’s taking Mitya right through the center of Glupov. Like he wants everyone in the Fatui to see them.

“Come on, Sarge. I look ridiculous,” Mitya protests, even as he’s rushing to keep up. “I mean—my hair’s crazy! And I don’t even have my heels on! I look tiny next to you on a good day. At least let me save my dignity.”

“You look fine,” Valeriy says, his voice wavering slightly. Like he’s lying, or omitting something.

Mitya sighs. He’s not getting out of this one, so he just follows. At least Valeriy slows down when they reach the inner hallways of the fortress. He even lets go of Mitya’s hand. Mitya has about two seconds to think it’s over, and then—

Valeriy wraps his hand around Mitya’s waist to direct him.

Their height difference is so extreme today that his hand sits at an odd angle on Mitya’s hip. Mitya almost wants to laugh. Valeriy sometimes puts his hand on Mitya’s waist to direct him, tapping to signal that they’re turning, but they both know their way around Glupov, no problem. Why would he need to do that?

Childe has booked a private room in the upper floors of the fortress. When they arrive, Mitya knocks three times.

Before he can open the door, Childe swings it open with a big grin on his face. “Hey! Great to see you, Mitya.” He pauses. “…And Valeriy.” His voice changes slightly when he says Valeriy’s name. Mitya isn’t sure what that means, but Valeriy looks at him with pure, crystalized venom in his eyes, so. At least if Childe was flirting, Valeriy isn’t picking up what he’s putting down. Small mercies.

“Morning,” Mitya says, giving him his nicest smile. Then he remembers that he’s trying for the mad scientist vibe today. Man, he should have given a more maniacal smile. Well, he’ll get ‘em next time. “May we come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” Childe steps into the private room, which is compact but has a great view of the city. “Sorry, I ordered tea, but it’s not here yet. I expected you to be, uh, fashionably late again.”

Shit. Mitya totally forgot that they kept him waiting for almost an hour last time. “My bad. Valeriy usually keeps me on schedule, so when he’s not around…”

Only then does he realize that Valeriy hasn’t released his hold on Mitya’s hip.

Mitya blinks at him. “Sarge?”

Valeriy visibly forces himself to relax. “Right,” he says, letting go again. “Let us proceed.”

So they sit down with Childe—or rather, Mitya sits down with Childe, and Valeriy leans against the wall ominously behind him in silence—and they get to work. Childe has done his homework: he’s gathered all the articles relating to his time away, and he’s been reviewing the public’s reception of his diplomatic work with dismay.

“I mean, they don’t know anything,” he says, throwing yet another article about his expedition in Liyue onto the table. “This isn’t anywhere close to what happened.”

“You could tell them the truth,” Mitya suggests. “I know a couple of journalists. You could give an interview where you tell the story through your own eyes. Would that help?”

Childe laughs humorlessly. “Are you kidding? Of course not.” He shuffles the articles back together, looking at them forlornly. “Honestly, it’s better that people don’t know. I got my ass handed to me in Liyue, and then got thrown in prison in Fontaine. Not exactly my finest hour.”

“But it might humanize you,” Mitya says. “Heroes lose sometimes. If you win too many battles, you’re unreachable. If you lose a few, you’re human. People like that.”

Childe looks at him for a long moment. “Really? I mean, I’m the Vanguard. I’m supposed to be strong. The strongest.”

Mitya pushes the news articles aside. “You’re not just the Vanguard. You’re also the Eleventh, and Childe, and now Councilor Tartaglia. And—” He pauses. “I don’t know your…”

A brief pause. Childe exhales a long breath. “Ajax,” he says, much quieter. “I’m also Ajax.”

“That’s who you are to your family, right? I know you care for them.”

Slowly, Childe nods. “I—yeah. My family. My siblings.”

“So you’re also Ajax,” Mitya repeats, smiling a little. “All of these people are you. You can’t get fixated on just one identity. Push the unnecessary ones aside, compartmentalize, and choose which identity you need to embrace at the moment. It’s a balancing act. One of my dear friends taught me that.”

Childe stares at him like he’s never seen him before.

Mitya starts sweating. “What?”

“Nothing,” Childe says, though he’s smiling so hard it can barely be contained. Like this, he looks more like his portraits, the ones where he’s soft and loyal. “I just realized something. You said you didn’t know what to expect from me. But honestly, I think you’re a lot more mysterious than I am.”

“Am I? I think I’m an open book, actually.”

Childe’s smile widens. He leans back in his seat, and gestures vaguely at Mitya’s whole deal. “By the way, I know you don’t actually look like that. Your head of security over there keeps an extremely detailed file on you, which I read. Cover to cover.”

Against the wall, Valeriy stiffens.

Mitya turns to look at him. “You do?”

“Of course,” Valeriy says awkwardly, like the words are stuck in his throat. “You’re my charge. My assignment. It’s only natural that I’d keep an eye on you.”

“Uh huh. Totally,” says Childe, looking amused. He crosses his arms behind his head. “Anyway, you don’t have to do all…” He gestures. “This. Just be yourself, okay? It’ll be easier that way.”

Despite everything, Mitya’s heart warms. “I will. But you have to promise the same, alright? Come as yourself.”

Childe’s grin seems so much more authentic this time. “I can see why the Captain recommended you. You’re a really shit diplomat.”

“Hey,” says Mitya, crossing his arms. “Of course I’m a shit diplomat. I’m a physicist.”

“It’s a good thing!” Childe protests, eyes wide. “What I’m saying is that I’m a shit diplomat too. I think we deserve each other.”

Mitya breathes a laugh. “You have an interesting way of looking at things.”

Something shuffles behind them. Valeriy. Mitya forgot he was even here; he’s been unable to see him the whole time. “The tea has arrived,” he says, his voice downright murderous.

Mitya blinks. What could have possibly pissed him off that badly?

“Never mind that. We can eat while we work,” Childe says, gesturing to the table. “So can you tell me more about your friend’s idea? Separate identities?”

“It might be easier to show you.” Mitya glances around the room. “Any chance you have a blackboard?”

“Of course!” He flips one of the wall dividers in the room, revealing a huge floor-to-ceiling board and eight different colors of chalk, all waiting to be used.

Mitya lights up.

“Go ahead, Professor,” Childe teases, beaming at him. “Show me your ways.”

Mitya picks up the chalk and gets to work.

***

“What,” says Valeriy, “was that?”

Mitya heaves a sigh. “I know what you’re going to say. But I think we’re making great progress. He’s got well-defined identities already. All he needs to do is choose who Councilor Tartaglia is going to be.”

“So he can hire a publicist.”

“He needs to take initiative on his reputation first,” Mitya explains, though it sounds hollow. “I’m… a catalyst for that, I guess.”

Valeriy says nothing.

“Anyway, I’m thinking I can be seen with him at the theater,” Mitya says, gathering his strength. If he keeps talking, it’ll seem reasonable, and then he won’t have any issues. “I’m always there to begin with, so it won’t be a talking point for the media. Not until they look back in a few weeks and put the pieces together.”

“A few weeks,” Valeriy repeats, like it pains him greatly. He inhales carefully. “You’re really going to go through with this?”

His voice is so desperate that it makes Mitya’s chest hurt. It sounds almost like there’s a chance he—

But no. Mitya can’t let himself think like that. Valeriy’s the kind of man who chases what he wants. Surely if he wanted anything with Mitya beyond their working relationship, he would have asked by now. And even if Valeriy were interested, it’s a terrible look for him to show it while Mitya’s being… courted, oh god, he’s being courted by a Harbinger.

Well, not yet. Not really. But the notion is always lingering in the back of his mind, making him faintly uneasy: this man is trying to marry him.

Valeriy gives him a look, with his gentle eyes and his too-soft mouth, and Mitya suddenly hates him for it.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to piss him off,” Mitya snaps. “Didn’t you say you were worried about him getting you fired? Well, congratulations. I’m sure your ominous staring did wonders for your standing with him today.”

Valeriy’s eyes sharpen. “That isn’t a fair comparison, and you know it.”

The minute Mitya thinks about actually getting angry with him, all the fight abruptly bleeds out of his body. “I don’t want to fight with you, Sarge,” he says quietly. “We’re on the same side.”

Valeriy, too, seems to lose all his anger. His steps get slower, and his shoulders soften. “Of course, Mitya.”

Mitya sighs in relief. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t think the mad scientist thing worked. He doesn’t seem to care about my appearance… Hey, why did he say you kept a detailed file on me? I mean, I knew you kept a file, but why would it have photos?”

Valeriy stands up extremely straight. “All files have photos. For identification purposes.”

“Yeah, but Childe seemed like he really knew what I looked like. And he even knew my favored clothing style and my usual hairstyle.”

“I… write extensive reports. Better recordkeeping is good for everyone involved.”

“Well, it’s sure coming back to bite you in the ass,” Mitya says, elbowing him. “If you weren’t so obsessed with me, we probably could have convinced him I’m a high-maintenance diva with terrible hair. Now he knows I’m actually smoking hot.”

Valeriy’s silence speaks volumes.

Mitya bursts out laughing. “Sarge, your face! You’re so funny.”

“Tell me you haven’t read the reports in your file,” Valeriy says suddenly, his voice faint.

Mitya blinks. Where’s this coming from? “Of course I haven’t. It’s my own file. I don’t need someone to tell me what Mitya’s like, because I’m Mitya.”

Valeriy exhales heavily. “Good.”

They walk in silence for a moment. They’re almost back to the Armory Palace. Valeriy taps his hip to signal that they’re turning, which is stupid because Mitya’s been here eight thousand times, and he knows when to turn. But he’s hardly complaining about anything that gets Valeriy to touch him more.

Which is dangeorus, considering he’s kind-of-sort-of-maybe engaged to a fucking Harbinger.

“I don’t know how you expect me to work under these circumstances, honestly,” Mitya complains. He tugs at his hair. “I mean, the gel is so terrible when it dries. I can’t focus on anything else.”

Valeriy exhales, long-suffering. “I’ll wash it out for you,” he offers.

Mitya stares at him. “What?”

“It was my fault the appearance strategy didn’t work. I’ll help make up for my mistake.”

Mitya doesn’t see how it was his fault at all, really. Does he mean because of the files? “Are you gonna wash it in the lab sink or what?”

“No.” He taps Mitya’s hip: a new direction entirely. “We’ll go to my quarters.”

Mitya’s body automatically moves. But then he actually thinks about it—Valeriy’s quarters, washing his hair, probably in his shower where he probably gets naked and now he’s thinking about Valeriy naked, and.

“This way,” Valeriy says, guiding him again with his steady hands. “It’s the least I can do.”

Tsaritsa fucking help him.

***

Fortunately, Valeriy does not take him to the shower-where-he-gets-naked-and-now-Mitya’s-thinking-about-naked-Valeriy. What he does is take Mitya to his bathroom, plunk him down on the edge of the tub, and rinse hot water through his gelled hair until it all flows down the drain.

Mitya stays quiet while he works. He definitely could have washed his hair himself, but he likes the feeling of Valeriy’s hands in his hair, and he gets the feeling that this is helping Valeriy calm himself down; that he’s slowly backing himself down from some ledge by doing this.

“Thanks,” Mitya mumbles, low enough that Valeriy could ignore it if he wanted.

Valeriy hums in acknowledgement. “The gel dries quite stiffly. Do you usually use this?”

“No. I usually use mousse. That’s why it deflates if I’ve been working for a long time.”

Valeriy reaches for the hot water again. Mitya watches the water run through his hair, swirling down the drain in soapy spirals, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Then they’re alone, just armorless Valeriy and damp-haired Mitya looking at each other.

“If I did marry him,” Mitya says, so quiet that it’s barely audible over the water still rushing down the drain. “If I did.”

Valeriy inhales. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m sure if I asked,” Mitya says, even softer. “He’d—be lenient with me.” What he means is that he might let Mitya keep a lover on the side, but the words get stuck in his throat.

Valeriy closes his eyes. “You wouldn’t ask for that.”

Mitya supposes he’s right. No one else would dare talk about keeping a side piece when they’re going to be married to a Harbinger, let alone the Harbinger with the most bloodthirsty reputation. “Never mind. I don’t know why I said that.”

Valeriy looks at him strangely.

Mitya starts wringing the last of the water out of his hair. “I’m just thinking aloud. He obviously doesn’t care what I look like, or how I act. I don’t know how I can dissuade him.”

“Your intelligence,” Valeriy says.

“What, like, lecturing him? I think he liked the lecture, actually. In fact, he never looked happier than he did when I was talking at him nonstop for an hour.”

“Exactly,” Valeriy says slowly. “If you were to downplay your intelligence, and therefore downplay your usefulness to him…”

Mitya gapes at him. “You’re telling me to play a dumb blonde. Oh my god. You’re telling me, the most experienced physicist in Snezhnaya, to play a dumb blonde.”

“You aren’t blonde,” Valeriy points out. “Besides, that terminology is outdated and sexist.”

“But you’re telling me to play a dumb blonde.”

“…Yes.”

“I love it,” Mitya says.

Valeriy huffs a laugh through his nose. “I don’t think you’ll be very good at it, honestly. You’ve always given me the impression of having great intelligence. But perhaps you could incorporate non-academic knowledge in your conversation.”

Mitya snaps. “The theater! Oh, this is perfect. I’ll take him to the theater, yap his ear off about the show, and then he’ll realize I’m actually annoying as shit and don’t know anything.”

“This is factually untrue.”

Mitya waves his hand carelessly. “He doesn’t know that! I can totally convince him. Just put me in a room with Vodyanitsa and get us talking about shoes. We’ll be on that for hours.”

Valeriy gives him a strangely fond exasperated expression. “You make a fine point.”

He’s no doubt remembering the last time Mitya went shoe-shopping with Vodyanitsa for her performance heels; they spent a whopping eighty million mora, and the excursion lasted almost twelve full hours. Poor Valeriy had to carry all her shoe bags once he finally found them.

Strange—it almost sounds like Valeriy likes that about him. Mitya bites down a smile. “Alright. I’ll organize the theater outing, and you can stand guard in case anything goes wrong.”

“As I always do,” Valeriy says.

Mitya nods. “So we’re in agreement. Operation Showtime: Act Two is a go.”

“Yes,” Valeriy says, and the deal is set.

***

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Mitya says appreciatively as he walks into the theater box. It’s the nicest box in the house, and Childe’s prepared what looks like a full picnic’s worth of food: sandwiches, cake, wine, everything.

“Mitya!” Childe beams and turns around to greet him. Instead of going for the usual polite handshake, he slings his arm around his shoulders in a half-hug. It’s very forward, but surprisingly nice. “You look great! I would have dressed up more if I’d known you were gonna show up looking like that.”

Mitya looks down at himself. He’s wearing his embroidered jewel coat and his usual shirt, with the atom pin fastened to his tie. “This is how I usually dress to go to the theater?”

Childe stares at him. “Really? Wow. How much do they pay you for your weapons engineering?”

“I don’t build weapons. I build energy systems,” Mitya clarifies. Of course, the energy systems are then used to power a weapon, in the case of Project Mistilteinn, but he doesn’t particularly like to think about that. “Enough. They pay me enough.”

Childe makes a wistful sort of laugh. “At least you can pay for your expensive taste.”

Damn right he can pay for it. Mitya would hardly subject anyone else to the bills he racks up. “No one else in Snezhnaya can do my job. Because of that, I’m allowed certain freedoms.”

“And assigned a hot bodyguard,” Childe says sagely. “I bet you sent them all back until they gave you one that was sexy enough.”

Mitya trips over his own damn feet.

Childe—and there really is no other word for it—giggles. Like a little girl reading a romance novel. “Oh my god! You totally did. That’s hilarious. I love it.”

“I did not,” Mitya mutters, his face hot. “Valeriy’s a cut above the rest. It’s hardly my fault if my past heads of security couldn't handle me.”

Childe laughs so loud that he doubles over in pain.

“Anyway,” Mitya says, plunking himself down in the other box seat. Best to start the plan now, while Childe’s distracted. “Have you heard much about this show? We’re going to see Miss Vodyanitsa perform several of her specialities.”

Childe sobers. “Oh! No, I haven’t.”

“Perfect,” Mitya says, barely able to suppress his grin. He gets to ramble about the theater! Oh, this is going to be fun. “Miss Vodyanitsa is an excellent singer, not just because she’s a water imp, but also because she’s extremely dedicated to studying the craft of other nations. She’s the first water imp in Snezhnaya to expand her repertoire beyond their traditional songs and incorporate foreign techniques into her voice. For example, one of the songs on today’s program is a Natlanese war ballad meant to usher the souls lost at war back to their homeland. Miss Vodyanitsa’s twist on this song makes it a tale of longing and regret, turning it into a commentary on the loss of life that necessarily goes hand in hand with victory. A song of sacrifice, told through a uniquely Snezhnayan lens.”

Childe stares at him. His smile has completely slipped away.

Suddenly Mitya feels worried. Why is he so upset? Did he bore Childe that badly? And he only went over one song! There’s still nine more on the program! “Are you feeling alright?”

Childe blinks himself out of it. “Uh. Yeah.” He pauses, his eyes strange. “You just—reminded me of someone.”

“Oh, like a professor? I get that a lot.”

“Not a professor. I never went to university.” He sighs and looks at the ceiling. “Just… someone I used to know.”

Mitya gets the feeling there’s more to this story. He leans over and looks carefully at Childe’s face, at his stiff shoulders, at the sadness trapped in his eyes. “Someone you used to know?”

Childe twists the ring on his thumb. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he says.

They sit there in silence for a moment.

“You can keep telling me about the theater,” Childe says eventually, with a fragile smile. “I can tell you really like it.”

“Won’t it bore you?”

“Of course not! I like music,” Childe says, like this should be common knowledge. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yes, but singing a drinking song and attending an opera performance are two different things. The music here carries a deeper emotion. It’s not the same.”

Childe looks at him strangely. “We sing drinking songs in the Fatui to keep our spirits up amidst the dark times. It’s a way of celebrating the impermanence of life, and making the most of every moment we have. And a way of saying goodbye to the people we've lost, without letting it drag us down.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Anyway—I guess I’m saying it is the same.”

Huh. He makes a fine point. Mitya wouldn’t know, because he’s never been a combatant. “I never knew you felt that way.”

Childe exhales, almost amused. “It’s more than that for me,” he admits. “It’s… I learned that from someone important. She taught me how to play the guitar. She said music was her way to make things real.”

“Real?”

“Yeah. I met her in—well. It’s not a nice place.” He laughs humorlessly. “Anyway, living there is hard. You go crazy if you don’t have something to ground yourself. For her, that’s music. For me…”

He seems unable to continue, but Mitya doesn’t mind. “I understand. Sometimes being trapped in my lab makes me feel—I don’t know. Off. Like I’ve lived a whole lifetime in only a few minutes.”

Childe’s eyes snap up to him. “Yeah! Yeah. Like the whole world paused around you, and you were the only one who went through it.”

“Exactly,” Mitya agrees, almost relieved. “Like that. But… I guess you’re right. The music helps.”

Childe smiles, soft and fragile. “A song to guide lost souls back home,” he repeats. “You know, I think we’ll both be glad to hear that.”

For the first time in months, Mitya doesn’t take his notebook out during the performance, not even once. It can wait, he decides. All of it can wait.

So they watch Vodyanitsa sing, and they watch Odette dance, and Childe breaks out a truly impressive vintage of imported Mondstadtian wine—“This is the real good stuff; Rosalyne used to make a huge fuss about ordering it specially”—and slings his feet up on the edge of the box, and somehow despite it all Mitya actually enjoys his company. Enjoys it much more than he thought he would.

Even after the show ends, they sit around finishing the bottle of wine and trading stories. Mitya talks his ear off about the performance for a while, and then Childe gets that strange look in his eye, and his face is flushed with alcohol and he starts saying, “You know, the thing I miss most about Liyue isn’t even him. It’s the places he would take me. I felt like I had everything to learn, and all the time in the world to learn it. You know?”

Mitya opens his mouth to respond, and—

—The door to the private box clanks ominously.

Mitya blinks.

Shit. Has it been an hour already?

“Don’t worry,” Childe says, clearly misinterpreting his apprehension as fear of the situation. The door bangs again. “I got this.”

And he summons actual fucking hydro blades in his hands. From… nothing? Where do they come from? Mitya stares at them, fascinated. Logically, if the blades are physical items, they’ve got to follow the law of conservation of matter. Is he drawing hydro from the air, maybe? Is he teleporting it in from somewhere else? Or—

The door creaks ominously, the lock gives in, and Childe lunges.

“Wait—!” Mitya says, strained.

Valeriy, who just broke down the door, stumbles out of the way.

Childe blinks and drops his hydro blades. They dematerialize immediately, melting to puddles of water on the floor. “Oh! Hi, Valeriy. I was wondering where you were, actually. You could have just knocked, though.”

“It has been,” says Valeriy, low and dangerous. “Nearly three hours.”

Childe looks baffled. “Yeah? That’s usually how theater performances work. Did you want to attend with us? We’ve still got some wine left. Rosalyne—Signora, she liked this vintage, so you know it’s good. For all her flaws, she sure knew her way around a bottle of wine, haha!”

Valeriy doesn’t look amused in the slightest.

“Look, I know we were planning to be done earlier,” Mitya says hurriedly, trying to diffuse his strange mood. “But you didn’t need to break down the door, Sarge! I mean, isn’t that more than the situation demands?”

Valeriy inhales, long and measured. He places his hand on Mitya’s shoulder. “You were locked in a room. Alone. With him.”

“I wasn’t locked!” Mitya says, baffled. “I could have left any time! It’s not like he could stop me.”

“He’s powerful—”

“I can fucking fight, Valeriy, you know that—”

“You can?” says Childe, looking delighted.

“No,” Mitya says hurriedly. “But anyway—”

“This is the Eleventh Harbinger,” Valeriy interrupts, his voice so cold that Mitya immediately shuts up and listens. “He’s… even if you could put up a physical fight—”

“Which I can’t,” Mitya says quickly.

“He still has power over you. Diplomatic power. Status.”

Great. Valeriy’s giving away their whole game plan in front of the Harbinger himself. Mitya grabs Valeriy’s wrist and presses against his pulse point, enough for him to feel it. A signal. Valeriy inhales sharply, and then forces himself to relax. He lets go of Mitya’s shoulder.

“Okay… Great?” Childe looks at Valeriy hopefully. “I’m kinda lost, but anyway, do you still want to fight?”

Valeriy blinks. “What? Of course not.”

“Aw, man,” Childe says dejectedly. “Do you want to fight later?”

“…No?” says Valeriy.

Childe glances at Mitya. He makes a not-very-subtle thumbs-up behind his back, and then leans in too close and smiles too brightly. “In that case, let’s get back to it, yeah? I mean, before we were interrupted. We were having such a great time, right?” He throws his arm around Mitya’s shoulders again. He drops his voice and whispers, “You’re goddamn welcome.”

Valeriy’s silence is so loud that it’s impossible to ignore. He does nothing.

“Damn, he’s good,” Childe mutters, barely audible. “Just go with it, okay?”

Mitya glances at him. “Go with what?”

Childe slides his hand down from Mitya’s shoulder, along the curve of his ribcage, down to his waist, slowly settling right above his hip, and—

“I’ve changed my mind,” Valeriy says abruptly. “I’d be glad to accept your generous offer.”

Childe immediately lets go of Mitya and beams. He claps his hands like a gleeful kid. “Fantastic! I knew you’d come around. Okay, let’s meet in the Armory Palace courtyard at noon. We can go out to eat afterwards!”

“We?” says Valeriy, stiffly.

“Yeah. You, me, and Mitya,” says Childe. He sends a not-very-subtle wink Mitya’s way. “We can’t have a duel without inviting him to watch, right?”

Valeriy looks like he’s about two inches away from committing genuine first-degree murder.

“We’ll be there,” Mitya says quickly. He grabs Valeriy’s wrist and drags him out of the theater, so fast that Valeriy stumbles behind him, graceless.

He pulls Valeriy all the way around the outside of the theater, until they reach the west side wall. This is the most private place in the area; it’s the back wall of Odette’s greenroom, and she sneaks out on the regular, so there’s next to no surveillance. The perfect place for a discreet, quiet chat.

“What the fuck,” Mitya says, as soon as they stop walking.

Valeriy has the grace to look embarrassed, at least. “I did not mean to lose my composure. I admit that breaking down the door was not necessary in this specific instance.”

“It’s not necessary in any instance! I don’t care if you break down doors elsewhere, but the theater? They like me there! Do you know how fucking hard it is to get people to like me?”

“I do not find it hard to like you.”

Mitya glares at him. “Yeah, it’s easy for you because they pay you to do it.”

“My job does not require that.”

Mitya blinks. The embarrassment of Valeriy’s sudden bout of earnestness catches up to him, and he lets go of Valeriy’s collar. His face feels warm against the cold, whistling air.

Valeriy inhales deeply. “I thought,” he says stiffly. “That he would, perhaps, try to take advantage of you. As couples are wont to do in a dark, private theater box.”

Mitya gapes at him. “What? No—no no no. He’s totally a gentleman. He’s never done anything like that before.”

“It is my job to worry for your safety.”

Mitya scrubs a hand over his face. “I see where you’re coming from. But I can take care of myself, alright? Believe me.”

“It is not an issue of belief. I just—it is my own…” Here he exhales and closes his eyes. When he blinks them open again, there’s a strange conviction in his eyes. “I trust you.”

“Good,” Mitya says, quieter. “Don’t do that in the future, alright? Let me handle it.”

Valeriy nods.

“So that’s sorted,” Mitya says, dusting off his hair. “Do I have snow in here or something? I bet it looks terrible.”

“If he touches you again,” Valeriy says suddenly. “I will relish the opportunity to injure him back tenfold.”

Weirdly, Mitya feels a sense of fondness bloom in his chest. “You’re ridiculous.” He knocks his elbow into Valeriy’s side. “You know I’d kick his ass long before you got the chance to.”

Valeriy breathes something halfway to a laugh. “I know,” he says, and this time he sounds genuinely relieved.

Mitya’s laugh echoes in front of his face in a small white cloud. “Come on, Sarge,” he says, offering his arm. “Take me home.”

Just like always, Valeriy does.

***

High noon. The Armory Palace courtyard. Childe on one end, stretching his hands eagerly. Valeriy on the other, chalking up his palms. Mitya on the sidelines, lounging impractically in his favorite bizarre sitting position, which alleviates most of his back pain. The scene is set.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” Valeriy says, because no amount of personal grudges would prevent him from following proper etiquette in a duel with his superior. “I am honored to train against such an esteemed figure.”

“Dude,” says Childe. “I think I’m younger than you.”

“Age does not indicate anything about skill level.”

Childe sighs heavily. “I’m trying to ask how old you are! Can’t you take a hint?”

“Twenty-eight,” Valeriy says tonelessly. “Pardon, but may we get on with the duel? I’m taking Mister Mitya back to work in two hours.”

Childe looks Mitya’s way and sends him the world’s most obvious wink. “You know,” he says loudly. “It’s actually pretty hot in here, especially compared to the weather outside! I think we should take off a few layers.”

Mitya starts sweating.

“I see no issue with that,” Valeriy says, stripping off his coat. “Shall we…”

And then he goes quiet, because Childe takes off his whole jacket and undershirt, leaving him shirtless, just wearing his Fatui-issue grey pants.

Valeriy stares at him. Mitya stares at him too. Damn. No wonder they put him on all the recruitment posters. Young, strong, and sexy. He’s the complete package.

“Well?” says Childe, grinning mischievously. “It’s hardly fair if I’m the only one undressed.”

Valeriy looks at him pointedly, his eyes unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttons his uniform shirt. He’s still got his undershirt on, but his broad shoulders glimmer with a faint layer of sweat and his shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of skin at his hip, and Mitya thinks he might have swallowed his tongue.

Wow.

Childe looks giddier than a kid in a candy store.

“Shall we commence the duel, or are you going to continue looking at me like that?” Valeriy says drily.

“I mean, it warrants looking,” Childe mumbles, but he obligingly turns his attention back to the fight. “Alright! Let’s go. I’m all warmed up and ready.”

Valeriy steels himself. “I am prepared,” he says, shifting his footing. “Let us begin.”

Childe beams. He leaps into position so fast that Mitya’s eyes go blurry just watching him, and then, without warning, he lunges.

Valeriy, two-meter-brick-wall Valeriy, gets his ass beat.

It’s barely even a fight at all. Valeriy is strong, and he’s practically an immovable object, but Childe is just faster. He moves like he’s made of water, fluid and formless. His expression glints with metallic focus as he weaves around Valeriy, locking his legs together and knocking him down.

Valeriy hits the ground hard.

Childe grins down at him, sharp and vicious. “Come on! That was barely a fight at all.”

He offers a hand, and Valeriy gets up. He dusts himself off. “Forgive me, Lord Harbinger. I was unaware of your speed.”

“That’s fine,” Childe says, still smiling his ominous smile. “Now you know. Ready?”

And then he starts again.

Valeriy puts up a good effort. He begins learning how to combat Childe’s speed, overpowering him through sheer force on occasion. But every defensive move he executes is just delaying the inevitable. Childe is a Harbinger for a reason. He’s the youngest Harbinger ever, and the only current Harbinger who’s entirely human. He may be only the Eleventh, but he’s in command of the First Harbinger’s troops now, and that means something. He’s much, much more than he appears.

Mitya didn’t know what that encompassed, exactly, but he understands now. Childe’s human. But he’s the wildest, scrappiest, strongest human the Fatui could get their hands on.

No—it was never a fair fight.

Childe slams him to the ground over and over again, fast and ruthless. And he just keeps doing it. Valeriy puts up a better and better fight each time, but Childe, too, is learning. He’s going harder, because Valeriy can take it. And he can, because he’s supposed to, because Valeriy has spent his life training to take hits, to take and take and take—but Valeriy is only so strong, and he can only have the wind knocked out of him so many times.

And.

And then Valeriy’s on the ground, and Childe’s eyes look crazed, dark, like he won’t stop even if he knows he should.

Mitya knows that look. Knows that it means danger.

Mitya doesn’t think. He just leaps to his feet and sweeps his pen through the air, gathering the electro energy. He acts, and—

—Childe stumbles back, powerless. He blinks, dazed, and topples over. He looks entirely lost when he hits the ground. Mitya stalks over to him, each step feeling like its own journey. When he finally reaches Childe, still lying on the ground, he looks down at him coldly and waits.

“Ghghhg,” Childe says eloquently. He looks starstruck. “Wow. I don’t think I can move my legs. Was that you?”

“Sorry,” Mitya says, not feeling sorry at all. “You’ll regain feeling in… uh.” And suddenly he feels embarrassed. Maybe he overreacted a little. “Thirty minutes, more or less.” It actually takes up to an hour, but Childe probably has a strong constitution. He’ll recover quickly, right?

Childe groans and pushes himself to sit up. “Shit,” he says, sounding delighted. “Why’d I waste my time dueling him when I could have been fighting you the whole time? You really dropped the ball there.”

“He can fight,” Mitya argues, glancing over at Valeriy. Which is a mistake, because he’s sweaty and glimmering and he looks really fucking good and Mitya needs to be able to think, so he looks away again. “He’s my bodyguard.”

“You should be his bodyguard,” Childe mutters. He pokes at his ankle, which doesn’t move. “What the fuck was that?”

Mitya tucks his pen into his pocket again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says sweetly.

Childe grins. He mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

“Mister Mitya, are you quite alright?” Valeriy asks, looking him up and down. Which is downright criminal, because he’s still vastly underdressed. (Never mind that Childe is wearing far less. Mitya doesn’t really give a rat’s ass how much clothing Childe has on.) “Did you injure yourself?”

“You’re asking him that?” Childe says incredulously.

“Fine,” Mitya says, ignoring him. “I’m a little hungry, though.”

“We’ll have to remedy that immediately,” Valeriy says seriously, because he, too, is kind of a bastard when the occasion calls for it. Mitya really likes that about him. “Would you prefer to eat at the Snowplum House or the Gulden Draak? Childe’s treat, of course.”

“Hey!”

“Which one’s more expensive?” Mitya asks, grinning.

“They’re equally expensive. However, the imported Inazuman alcohol at the Snowplum House may be more to your tastes.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

“Hey,” Childe says again, much more pathetically this time. “Guys, if you want me to be your walking credit card, I have to be able to walk.”

Mitya breathes a laugh. “We’re just messing with you,” he says. He offers his right hand to Childe. “Come on. We’ll go together.”

Valeriy extends his hand to match. Childe hoists himself to his unsteady feet between the two of them, and leans heavily on them both. He stumbles and struggles, but eventually they make their way down the street.

“You know,” Childe says conversationally, even though his feet still look completely numb from the way he’s dragging them. “This reminds me of the Fortress of Meropide. The warden, Wriothesley—he had cryo immobilizing spells, too. Kinda like yours. And I got real up close and personal with those spells, let me tell you!”

“Oh! Mine aren’t actually immobilizing spells,” Mitya explains. “Cryo can remove the feeling and movement from your limbs by making them stiff, or by freezing your blood flow. What I’ve done is remove all the electric signals from your brain to your legs. So your legs aren’t just immobilized; you basically can’t control them at all right now.”

Childe looks at him incredulously. “Holy shit. You can rewire people’s brains?”

Mitya gives him a cheerful smile. “No idea what you’re talking about! I’m a fragile little researcher. I’m harmless.”

“Sure,” says Childe, who still can’t walk. He leans more of his weight onto both of their shoulders, grimacing at the unresponsiveness of his legs. “Totally harmless.”

Together, they stumble their way forward.

***

That night Valeriy leads him to his apartment door. Mitya lingers at the door for a moment, just watching him. He fumbles with his keys on purpose to get Valeriy to look at him again. When he finally gets it open, he stands in the doorway, him on one side and Valeriy on the other, staring each other down.

Valeriy looks at him for a long, quiet moment.

“Don’t just stand there staring at me,” Mitya says. He opens the door wider. “Come in already.”

Looking a little relieved, Valeriy does.

Mitya has the odd impulse to make him a drink; but Valeriy doesn’t drink alcohol, never has, and besides, a cold beverage would hardly do them any favors after being out in the Snezhnayan weather. Instead he sets the kettle to boil, thinking vaguely about making apple tea. That’s a thing people do, right? Make apple tea?

“Stop doing that,” Valeriy says, pulling his hands away gently. “You don’t need to be nervous. It’s only me.”

Mitya forces himself to relax again. “I know.”

They sit down on the same side of Mitya’s counter, not looking at each other. For one perfect, crystalline moment, they exist in silent unison, circling each other like perfect orbital stars. For one moment, everything is alright.

And then Valeriy shatters it all, because he says, “You’re going to marry him.”

It’s not quite a question, and they both know it. “Yeah,” Mitya says softly. “I probably am.”

Valeriy breathes out. His shoulders fall in Mitya’s periphery.

“I like him alright. He’s nice, and he’s—interesting. Really interesting,” Mitya says weakly, trying to convince himself. “It would be a change, but I’m sure I could learn to live with it.”

“Is that all it takes to marry you? Being interesting?”

Mitya sighs through his nose, refusing to look at him. “I’m well aware of your thoughts on this marriage. You don’t need to give me shit for doing what I’m told. You, of all people.”

Valeriy takes that point in devastating silence.

“Why do you care?” Mitya asks. “It’s not like your life changes much either way. What, you get assigned to someone else? And that’s the worst case. I’m sure Childe would give you a job as my head of security again, even if I—changed positions.” It’s a polite way to say what he really means: if his whole life were upended at the whim of a Harbinger.

Valeriy breaks their parallel stalemate and turns to him. “Don’t ask me that.” His voice is somehow both firm and fragile, like steady windowpane glass.

“I’m asking anyway.”

Valeriy inhales. “Mitya,” he says. “You know why I care.”

“No, I don’t.”

Valeriy looks away from him again. “It haunts me, that I did not say something while I had the chance,” he says, very quietly. “It will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

Mitya whirls around. “Say something—? Say what?”

“It is too late,” Valeriy says tonelessly. “It no longer matters that I’m in love with you.”

“Yes, it fucking does!” Mitya interrupts, taking him by the shoulders. “Valeriy, of fucking course it matters!”

Valeriy turns to look at him again, and opens his mouth. “Mitya—”

Mitya grabs his stupid face and kisses him.

Valeriy makes a muffled noise of surprise, but Mitya ignores him. Their height difference isn’t so dramatic when they’re sitting. Mitya’s still at an awkward angle, but at least he can wrap his arms around Valeriy’s shoulders easily, keeping him in place.

Valeriy pulls back from him, wide-eyed and red-faced. “Mitya,” he breathes, voice rough.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mitya demands, pulling him back down.

“No—no, I’m not stopping you,” he says, which is maybe the biggest relief of Mitya’s whole lifetime. “I just…” Instead of continuing, he settles his hands at Mitya’s waist and carefully lifts him.

Mitya yelps. “Hey—! Sarge!”

But Valeriy sets him down quickly, settling on top of his thighs. In his lap. Oh, this is even better than Mitya expected. He grins mischievously and opens his mouth.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” Valeriy mutters, looking deeply embarrassed. “I only thought it would make the height difference easier to navigate.”

Mitya looks down at him—down, isn’t that a novelty? “Next time, just tell me you want me in your lap. I’m good at that.” To prove his point, he wraps his legs around Valeriy’s waist and brushes his hair back from his face. He leans in closer and breathes his next words against Valeriy’s mouth: “You’ve thought about this a lot, huh?”

He’s expecting Valeriy to get embarrassed. Expecting him to blush and stutter, and then Mitya will laugh at him and everything will be great. But instead—

“Yes,” Valeriy says. “Every day of our lives, Mitya, for the last two years,” and then he grips Mitya’s waist tighter and kisses him again, and.

And the kettle fucking whistles.

“Oh my god,” Mitya mumbles, in the space between their mouths. “Shit—sorry—I didn’t think—”

Valeriy’s hands don’t loosen on his waist. He tugs Mitya down again, and his mouth slides down to his jaw, pressing ticklish half-kisses to the skin.

Mitya laughs. “Stop, stop! I have to turn the fucking stove off—oh, mmohokay…”

And then it all stops.

“What are you waiting for?” Valeriy murmurs. “Turn it off.”

“You bastard," Mitya accuses fondly. The kettle’s still whistling, but he can’t be bothered to get up. He picks up his pen and writes something vague and illegible in midair, hoping it works. By some miracle, the stove turns off at his electric command.

Valeriy looks impressed. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

Mitya tucks the pen away, grinning. “Yeah. The nine years I spent on my Ph.D. were totally worth it,” he murmurs, and it’s terrible dirty talk but it makes Valeriy laugh, which is the greatest thing ever, he thinks. “Stop talking and kiss me again.”

Valeriy’s always been good at following orders. He does as he’s told, and Mitya laughs all night long, laughs until he feels like the boiling kettle, everything bubbling over in him all at once and simmering him down to the last dream he’s ever had, until everything that was once quiet seems to roar to life in his ears.

And suddenly everything makes sense.

***

Mitya bursts into Glupov at five in the fucking morning, when no one but the birds and the baristas are awake. Childe’s door is locked, but he doesn’t care. He draws something vaguely resembling a key with his pen, and the electro energy flares to life like ink, opening the door wide for him.

Childe blinks. He’s not asleep. He’s actually fully dressed, down to his shoes, and he’s got hydro blades in both hands. “Uh, hi?”

“I can’t do this,” Mitya confesses, all in a rush. He feels faint. “I really can’t. I’m so sorry. You have to find someone else, I—” He breathes in, dizzy. “It won’t work. Even if you let me keep him as a—you know, a lover on the side…”

Childe dematerializes his hydro blades and stares at him. “Pause. What?”

Mitya takes a deep breath, and says: “I’m in love with Valeriy.”

Childe doesn’t react at all.

“I’m saying I’m not in love with you,” Mitya clarifies. “And I don’t think I could learn to be. So.”

“No, no, I knew that,” Childe says, waving his hands. “I think anyone with eyes knew that. I mean, you made my legs stop working for an hour because I beat him up a little. That’s not really casual behavior.”

Mitya’s voice goes weak. “You knew?”

“Uh, yeah? Me and the whole world.”

The whole world. Fuck. Mitya sits down heavily in the chair.

“But why would that be a problem?” Childe asks, looking genuinely confused. “I won’t lie, I’ve been kinda trying to get you guys together. Did the jealousy thing work? He was really pissed at me. I bet the sex was great that night.”

Mitya gapes at him. “That was on purpose?”

“Yeah?” says Childe. “Didn’t you see me wink at you?”

Mitya feels faint.

“Don’t tell me you just found out that he likes you back,” Childe says incredulously. “No way. I can’t lie, I thought you guys were dating when I first met you. Were you not?”

“Never mind that. I’m saying I can’t do this,” Mitya repeats, his voice stronger this time. He has to get through this, before he loses his composure. “I know the Captain recommended me specifically, but I won’t marry you.”

Childe’s jaw drops.

“I can’t,” Mitya continues. “Maybe you’re fine with marrying for political gain, but I was never meant for that. So this is the end. I’m sorry.”

“You think we’re getting married?” Childe asks, his eyes huge.

“Uh. Not anymore…?”

Childe wheezes so hard that he coughs.

Well, now Mitya has no clue what’s going on. He stares at Childe, bewildered. “Are you alright?”

“Holy shit,” Childe says gleefully.

As if the situation couldn't get any weirder, the door bangs open again.

“I am begging you,” Valeriy says, dropping to his knees—his fucking knees!—right there in the middle of Childe’s quarters in Glupov. “You cannot marry him. Please. I will be resigned to a life of misery if I must know that someone else stole the chance from me before I gathered the courage—”

Childe interrupts him with a laugh so loud it’s almost a sneeze.

Valeriy stops. He looks up at Childe, and then finally notices Mitya. “Oh. Mitya…?”

“You want to marry me?” Mitya says.

Valeriy looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Was that not obvious?”

“You guys,” Childe interrupts. “This is, like, super touching and all, but I gotta tell you, I’m already married.”

They both turn to him. Mitya stares. “What?”

“Yeah.” Childe flashes the ring on his thumb. “I thought everyone knew that? I mean, a huge part of the reason Liyue was such a disaster is because I married the geo archon. Well, I didn’t know he was the geo archon at the time. I mean, I kinda knew, but I didn’t want to think about it, because I was in love with him and also in a lot of denial. But anyway, he turned out to be the geo archon, and that sucked.”

“Wait,” Valeriy interrupts, his voice strained. “The geo archon, he—passed away.”

“Oh! Nope,” Childe says brightly. “He’s alive and well and his name is Zhongli, and we’re married.”

They both stare at him in silence.

“I guess technically we’re on a pause,” Childe says thoughtfully. “He kinda broke my heart. Arlecchino kept trying to convince me to divorce him. But I really like him, so.” He shrugs helplessly.

“Hold on…” Mitya snaps his fingers. “This is the guy you were talking about! Who took you to theater shows and rambled about them! Oh—oh, and he must be the one with expensive taste! He is the god of mora, after all. But you… had to pay for him…?”

Childe sighs wistfully. “Forgot his damn wallet every time. I probably spent the GDP of a small city on him.”

“And then you got married?” Mitya says, baffled.

“Ehh,” Childe says, shrugging. “I didn’t really know it was a marriage proposal, but it was, and I accepted. Not sure if that counts, but we’re married in my head, so. Actually, most of the reason I want to improve my diplomatic standing in Snezhnaya is so that I can convince him to take me back.” He pauses. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No!” Mitya says, desperate. “We just got the fucking—the letter with the phrase—”

“‘Secure and longstanding alliance,’” Valeriy adds helpfully, sounding as if he’s been cursing those words nonstop for the last month.

Childe stares at them both. “You didn’t think to read the rest of the letter, did you?” he says slowly. “The part where it outlined, very clearly, that I was looking to sponsor your research?? And propose an alliance, in the fucking Veche, because I’m trying to build my political standing?”

Mitya blinks. Evidently they did not read the rest of the letter. Maybe that would have been a good idea, actually.

Childe sighs deeply. “Never mind. How about this?” He extends his hand to Mitya, the one with the ring on his thumb. “Hi. I’m Childe, and I want to form a political alliance and establish a voting bloc together. And I want to potentially sponsor your research in the future, in return for requesting some commissions from you.”

“You don’t want me to marry you,” Mitya says, relieved. “Oh my god. You don’t?”

“Well, no,” Childe says awkwardly. “I’ve had a husband for, like. Two years. Although most of those years were spent in prison, or the abyss.”

“A political alliance,” Valeriy repeats. “As in, a small-scale political party?”

“Something like that. Obviously, if there are issues that my constituents have strong feelings on, I’ll have to follow their lead. But—” He flashes Valeriy a smile. “—Since I’m meant to represent the Fatui soldiers and their families, I think the energy institute will make a good partner alliance. I mean, you guys have the partnership thing on lock, I think.”

“Not until this morning,” Valeriy mutters, his face flushed.

Childe waves his hand. “Semantics! So…” And he extends his hand again. “You’ve heard my piece. Do you accept?”

Mitya breathes in. “Yes,” he says, and his chest feels light. “Of course I accept.”

They shake on it, and Childe beams.

“Okay, fantastic,” Childe says, once they’re done. “Hey, can I go back to bed now? It’s like, five in the morning.”

Valeriy coughs. “Our apologies. It was urgent.”

“Yeah, yeah, you both realized you were in love with each other, whatever,” Childe says, like this is no big deal. “Took you long enough, by the way, Mitya. You know you could have just read your own file?”

Mitya blinks. “My what?”

“Your Fatui file. Valeriy wrote it, right? It’s basically a diary of all the things he likes about you. It’s really embarrassing for him, actually. It’s all like, Mister Mitya likes his coffee exactly this way. Mister Mitya always chews on his hair when he’s thinking really hard. Mister Mitya spent twenty thousand mora at the tailor today, but boy do those pants look good on him. Mister Mitya looks like he’d enjoy a good make out session with me specifically and no one else.”

Valeriy goes tellingly silent. His whole face has gone a charming shade of red.

Mitya grins smugly. “Turns out I do enjoy that, actually. Who knew?”

“Me,” says Childe. “I knew. Now can I go to bed?”

“You weren’t in bed,” Mitya points out. “You were dressed, and had your hydro blades out.”

Childe tilts his head. “Yeah? I heard an intruder coming, and I had to be prepared. I was asleep before that, though. I just sleep fully clothed with a weapon in hand.”

Mitya abruptly decides he doesn’t want to know. “You know what,” he says. “I think we’ll be on our way now.”

So he and Valeriy leave, hand in hand, and that’s okay now; that’s alright.

***

“Is the file really that bad?”

Valeriy gives him a look. “Do not read the file.”

“But I already know you like me,” Mitya points out. “I had your tongue in my mouth. I think that’s a pretty clear indicator, actually.”

Valeriy’s face flushes even darker. “Nevertheless, do not read it. There may be—new information in that file.”

Mitya laughs. “What? It’s not like you’re writing reports about it every time you think I look hot.”

Valeriy says a very suspicious amount of nothing.

Mitya stares at him. “No way. Did you really? Have you been writing thirst posts in my fucking Fatui official file?”

“Please stop talking.”

“I’m reading this immediately,” Mitya says with relish. “I’m going to frame it and hang it up on my wall so I can look at it every morning when I wake up.”

Valeriy sighs, long-suffering. “Now that my thoughts need not be private, I will no longer have to write them down. My reports will be entirely accurate from now on.”

“Sarge, you wound me! If anything, you should be writing spicier reports than ever.”

“You misunderstand,” Valeriy says. “I am saying that I will tell you these thoughts as they occur to me. You’ll hear them as often as you wish.”

Mitya’s grin widens. “You’re gonna get unprofessional with it? Who are you?”

Valeriy breathes a laugh. “I nearly lost my chance with you out of cowardice,” he says. “I think I can make an exception to remind you, on occasion, that you’re on my mind.”

That’s surprisingly sweet. Mitya’s smile softens. “You know what? You’re not so bad, actually.”

“I sincerely hope you didn’t dislike me the whole time.”

“I liked you plenty,” Mitya says. “I just can’t believe it took me almost marrying a Harbinger for you to say anything. What the hell?”

“You did not marry him,” Valeriy says, sounding smug. “And you will not.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s already married. To the geo archon, no less.”

Valeriy pauses. He looks at Mitya thoughtfully.

Mitya watches him, and he can tell the exact moment that the same thought occurs in both of their minds.

“You know,” Mitya says slowly, grinning at him. “I think, after all that Childe’s done for me, I ought to repay the favor. Maybe drop a line to the Northland Bank in Liyue, and ask around for a Mister Zhongli.”

Valeriy nods seriously. “We ought to see if he can visit Snezhnaya sometime soon,” he says innocently. “Perhaps we can invite him for a sightseeing trip, somewhere less busy than the city… Morepesok, for example.”

Mitya beams. “You bastard,” he says, like it’s the fondest term in the world. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“You keep me around because I’m your bodyguard.”

“And because you’re a bastard.”

“And,” Valeriy says, “because you like me.”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, like it’s some secret he’s confessing to. “Anyway, come on! We’ve got an ex-archon to contact.”

So Mitya takes off running, and Valeriy chases after him, chases him all the way to the Armory Palace again, until their breath comes in white clouds. In front of them, the whole world shimmers with that early-morning perfection of the beginning of something.

Where Mitya goes, Valeriy follows; like it’s always been, and like it always will be.

***

(“Holy shit. No wonder Childe knew you liked me. I mean, you spent five paragraphs talking about me here. This was all one day. One day! I don’t even remember this much about that day, and I was there!”

“Please stop reading that.”

“Were the three sentences about my eyeshadow style really necessary? Not to mention the—mmph—hahah! Hey, you haven’t heard the last of this! Mmmph—!”

“Mm. I’m sure I haven’t.”

“Hey—Valeriy—!”)

Notes:

congratulations to mitval for being the reason i broke my record for most fics posted in a month! they have me chained to a typewriter. i am allowed one bowl of soup per day. other than that i must write constantly. them’s the breaks i fear

please drop a comment / kudos if you enjoyed! i put way too much childe introspection into this fic because unfortunately he’s one of my all time favorite characters. i’m glad childe is having his post-breakup political lock in arc, i think he’s earned it

find me on tumblr (princesscas-ao3)!