This year, in Liyue, Childe receives six birthday gifts.

--

In his hands he holds a letter, crinkled from its folding, the words smudged in spots and the parchment smeared with something sticky.

Typical Tonia, he thinks. Probably wrote the damn thing while eating. Childe pokes at a tacky spot, cringing slightly. But it's from home, and that's enough to warm a small part of his heart. He misses Tonia dearly, which he says with every letter he sends back. Her loyal knight can only hide for so long, though.

It's odd, how it feels like every birthday is another notch in that belt. The time that passes isn't about him; it's Tonia that is getting older and wiser with every year, and eventually, Childe won't be a dashing prince to her anymore.

He'll be a Harbinger instead, and Tonia will know exactly what he does and is capable of.

Childe isn't stupid enough to think that he can hide this side of himself forever. Even before he left, he barely held it together, abyssal taint pulling at his edges until little else was left. It wasn't until he came here that it settled. It wasn't until he felt the warmth of the Liyue sun on his face, that the raging tide inside him stilled to a placid, summer calm.

At least, that's what he tells himself. It's easier to blame the place than any particular person.

He smooths his thumb over the letter, his glove catching on the imperfections of the parchment.

I hope that you are taking care of yourself, she writes with all the innocence of a child. I, for one, can't wait until you come home.

Childe can't even laugh, he just swallows thickly. In the beginning, it was all he thought about. Everything about Liyue was wrong: the weather, the climate, the far-too-friendly people. One distinctly deep voice that loves to drone on about history and tease him about how he's terrible with chopsticks.

Now, as Childes stares at the words his sister so lovingly sent, he wonders just how he's going to tell her that he doesn't want to come home.

Happy birthday to me, he thinks, a little bitterly.

#

In his hands, he holds a folio of paperwork, thinner than he expects, weighing little more than a softcover book.

"It turns out," says Ganyu politely, "that it doesn't take much to qualify for permanent residence, much to my annoyance."

Childe snickers, hiding a smile behind his hand. "Oh? Man, that must ruffle that perfectly tamed hair of yours. Tell me, are your horns itching?"

Ganyu purses her lips which only makes him laugh harder.

"I'm teasing," he continues. "Teasing!" Childe rubs at his nose, his laughter choking up into a cough instead. He clears his throat. "Tell me, what did Zhongli bribe you with?"

Ganyu's forehead creases in clear offense. "I do not take bribes—"

"Even from—"

"Yes, even from him."

Childe learned long ago that when Ganyu takes such a clipped tone, to not push her further. He settles slightly, grinning. "But he asked you to, didn't he?"

She sniffs, but her shoulders sag. "He did," she admits, mildly defeated.

"Ah, yeah. Figured. He's always out here, sorting out my messes." Childe rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly.

A moment passes between them, strangely long and tense. Ganyu shuffles on her feet and then says, "Even if he hadn't asked, I would have filed it."

Childe starts at that. "I—what? Surely Ningguang wouldn't like that."

"I work for Liyue, not her."

Childe raises an eyebrow. "You're her secretary."

Ganyu scoffs. "She has been my boss for a fraction of the time of others. I do things for the sake of this land, not her."

"And that includes finding residency for me?"

Ganyu's mouth snaps shut and her gaze narrows. She sighs softly. "You make him happy, you know." She doesn't need to elaborate. "I can't say that I understand but it's been a long time since I've seen this land full of such life."

"I don't think that has anything to do with me."

Childe isn't sure that he likes the coy smirk that flits across Ganyu's face, but it's gone as fast as it came, leaving her to shuffle around the rest of the paperwork she holds.

"I'll take my leave, then," she says, nodding gently. Ganyu makes it to the end of the hallway before she pauses, turning back around. "Oh, and happy birthday, Childe."

The residency papers feel like lead in his hands but Childe smiles despite that.

#

In his hands, he holds a postcard, printed on thick vellum and stamped with the Tsaritsa's curling signature.

"Happy Birthday," it says, though Childe knows the lettering isn't hers personally. His archon is far too important to be penning notes to her Vanguard, as much as she adores them. "Another year has passed, and with it, another year of loyal service. Here is to another, where the future is equally bright. My love to you, forever etched into ice."

Childe thinks of his love, etched in stone instead, and suddenly the Tsaritsa's kind words curdle like sour milk in his gut.

Prior to this, he would have treasured such a note, as insignificant as it is in actuality. But now, it feels empty, nothing but a stock card with no love to be felt.

He thinks of warm words pressed against his ear instead, and long, elegant fingers curled around a brush that trails ink. Zhongli would write pages for him if he asked, eager to waste time by Childe's side for nothing in return.

It took real love for Childe to realize that the Tsaritsa's vision is warped and twisted. There is no warmth there, no laughter, nothing that fills his chest to the brim. Her love is hatred, frozen at its core, driven by her madness under the guise of care.

He once thought he was a fool for having let his loyalty shift.

But now he feels a fool for ever having that loyalty in the first place.

"It isn't your fault," said Zhongli once. "You cannot be held accountable for the things that you were taught. You can learn beyond your narrow-minded worldview, and dare I say, that you have."

Childe sits there on his balcony as he lights a match against the sole of his boot.

He feels nothing when the flame catches the corner of the postcard, the vellum melting away into nothing but curling ashes.

#

In his hands, he holds a dumpling stuffed full of the finest steamed seafood.

Xiangling's truly outdone herself this time, thinks Childe as he lifts it to his face and breathes in the spices. She watches him back with a wide and easy grin, eyes bright as she waits for him to take a bite.

He moans when the dumpling bursts in his mouth. Xiangling doesn't even care that he's eating with his hands, she just bounces on her feet as she waits for an honest review. "Well?"

"Gods, it's—I mean, your food is always something but this is truly—" He swallows, sighing as it slides down his throat. "Shit, before you I didn't know food could be this good."

Xiangling tuts at that, wagging her finger. "Language," she chides in a soft reprimand; but then she bursts into laughter before dropping another dumpling onto the plate. And then another, and another, each one swallowed right down.

"You spoil me," says Childe once he's full, rubbing at his belly and leaning back in his chair.

"Nah," she says, dropping into the spare one across from him. "Consider this my gift."

Childe cracks open an eye. "For what?"

"Your birthday, of course. It's the least that I can do. I know you don't eat enough but you didn't hear it from me." He frowns then, his expression crinkling. "No," she says, beating him to the punch. "Don't blame him."

"He's—"

"Worried, as he should be. We all worry about you."

"You..." Childe sighs, rubbing at his brow. "There's no need for that."

"Tough," says Xiangling with a mighty sniff. He risks a glance again, only to see her staring back with a stern gaze. So much strength for such a young woman. "Just enjoy it, sheesh. We're giving it freely."

When Childe first arrived in Liyue, this isn't what he expected to get out of it; friends, family, and the desire to settle down here where the warmth seeps into his bones, and every day feels like a nice summer breeze.

Xiangling watches him quietly as he picks at the rest of his food. And then, when he's done, she nudges him with an elbow. "Don't forget that you can belong here, too. Otherwise, we wouldn't care." Then her expression changes as her mouth curls into a grin. "I have leftovers for you to take to him, by the way."

Childe stares at the bag she shoves at him, a well-portioned meal prepared by her talented hands.

It wouldn't do anyone good to let it go to waste.

#

In his hands, he holds another letter, this one crisp, neat parchment penned with his father's hand. The lettering is crooked and craggy. His father's tremors must be getting worse.

Childe sighs as he reads over it, eyes glazing over slightly because he already knows what it'll say. Harsh words, insults laced with fear. Have you curbed that hunger yet, boy? Or do you still beat others broken because you like the way that blood smooths your knuckles?

It isn't until then that Childe realizes he hasn't lusted for such a thing in a while. He still loves to fight, still lusts after battle and blood; but it's tempered because he's found joy in other things too. His abyssal taint still runs rampant, and the Foul Legacy still rages in his veins—

But Childe finds that he calls upon it less and less now, his once-a-week fight plenty to satisfy the hunger that used to rattle his bones.

He never used to reply to his father. There wasn't a point or need because nothing ever changed. This time, though, Childe sits at his desk with a fresh sheet of parchment laid flat before him.

"For once, I write back with good news," he says aloud as his pen scratches out a messy scrawl. Zhongli would frown, appalled, citing it as a waste of ink, and that Childe should take care when crafting his letters.

"You'll be glad to know that I've changed, which luckily for you, means you'll never have to see me again."

Perhaps harsh words from Childe, who is this man's son—but no one knows his father better. Childe will never forget the way that he was handed off to the Fatui as a teenager, fear painted across his father's face.

Childe feels smug, not because he finally says these things to his father, pouring out his heart in ink as black as his soul, but rather, because he's beaten those odds, all the ones that those around him said that he never would.

He's a man who lives for himself, now, Harbinger duties aside.

Childe wonders if his father will be angry or relieved.

#

In his hands, he holds an ancient teapot, cracked in some spots, the paint worn away in others. It is priceless. Doesn't take a fool to see such a thing. Childe smooths a calloused finger across the surface, wondering if it's rough enough to smudge away more of the coloring.

"I made this a long time ago," says Zhongli quietly. "I was dabbling in ceramics at the time."

"Bored of war and contracts?"

Zhongli cracks a subtle smile. "Something like that," he says. Then he pauses, hesitating. Odd, because Zhongli so rarely does, seemingly effortless in the way that he holds himself. "It is... a home away from home."

Oh, thinks Childe, turning the pot over in his hands. "A Serenitea Pot, then," he surmises, thinking of the Traveler's. "Why am I not surprised? Do you often retreat into here?"

"Not lately," says Zhongli, surprising him. "Several years ago, perhaps. A dragon needs his peace, particularly ones who hear the prayers of thousands. The pot dampens them to a mere whisper, providing peace of mind."

"And then?"

Zhongli blinks, tilting his head to the side. "And then what?"

Childe reaches out and flicks his forehead gently, resulting in Zhongli offering him a frown. "Why'd you stop using it?"

"Ah. I—well, there wasn't a need for it. I started my job at the funeral parlor where I am compensated with an apartment, as you know."

Yes, yes, Childe is intimately aware of his lodgings, preferring to wake up there instead of his own sterile, military room. Zhongli's home is lived in and warm, which Childe flocks to like a moth to a flame.

"And so...?" he starts, lifting the teapot slowly and looking back to Zhongli. "I mean, it's pretty and all, but are you showing off on my birthday?" He means it as a tease, lighthearted in his jest.

Zhongli clears his throat and pulls at his collar primly. "No," he says, voice momentarily clipped. "It is your present. I know that we share my bed at the apartment—"

"Hey, not so loud," cuts in Childe, his cheeks tinting pink.

"—but I thought perhaps this could be a home for you as well." A pause as Zhongli awkwardly fiddles. "If that is something that you want. Somewhere quiet where you can think. Somewhere—"

Childe leans forward and kisses him sweetly, curling his hand around Zhongli's jaw. When he pulls back, his heart is pounding. Zhongli's breath is hitched as he sits there, still. "It'd be ours, right?" asks Childe, smiling. "Just a place for you and I?"

Zhongli's throat bobs as he swallows. "Yes," he says simply.

It is no small thing. Zhongli is giving Childe a piece of himself, somewhere that no one else would dare tread. "I wrote to my father," says Childe, then, dropping his hand to straighten out Zhongli's collar which has gone askew. "Dropped the letter into the post today."

They've talked about this and Zhongli is aware of just what that means. "And what did you tell him?"

I've found a home here, wrote Childe. Not in the land or the burnished sunset, but rather in the warm hands of a man that mother would love.

He doesn't say those words. Not yet. He just reaches out and takes Zhongli's hand into his. Pulls him close, despite awkwardly holding the teapot in the crook of his elbow. The smile that Zhongli gifts him in return, likely the best present he's received the entire day.

When Zhongli takes his hands and squeezes them, when he kisses his bruised knuckles and nuzzles his calloused fingertips, it's easy for Childe to think that he belongs.