Archive of Our Own

In the aftermath of the Primordial Sea nearly drowning his entire nation, Wriothesley is physically and mentally preoccupied with getting everyone to safety. There are suddenly far too many things to do, almost as if to make up for all of that free time he once had as the Duke. He had told himself, once, that his oath to his country outweighed his oath to a boy he’d known for a month. Even now it was true. Even now, as much as his heart snagged on the thought of Childe, he simply didn’t have enough time to breathe, let alone find answers. 

Once it has been ascertained that all Fontanian citizens have been accounted for, and once the ship has been safely returned to the bowels of the Fortress, Wriothesley allows himself to sit down, alone, for the first time in what feels like months but has really only been a couple of days. And then he begins to formulate a plan. 

He cannot spare much time at the surface with things the way they are, but he might be able to extricate himself for long enough to search for Childe’s primary connection— the Traveller. The only problem is that the Traveller has long since been released from the Fortress, and is now outside of his jurisdiction. He could, somehow, attempt to gain an audience with the Knave, though he’s attempted it before and highly doubts he would succeed now. Besides, if inquired about his reasoning, there is hardly anything he could divulge. What relationship did he and Childe have to each other, after all? 

It’s then that a messenger comes knocking on his door. The last time had been bad news, and Wriothesley feels himself grow tense, remembering how he’d felt when he’d first found out Childe was gone. This time, though, the news she brings is good. 

“Head Nurse Sigewinne wanted me to inform you that the inmate—” She shakes her head. “No, the Fatui Harbinger known as Childe has been brought down to the infirmary. He’s injured, but awake, and she’s currently caring for him.” She pauses, the look on her face growing almost panicked. “I-it appears that M-Monsieur Neuvilette is currently there as well.”

Wriothesley allows the relief to flood through his body. “Thank you,” he says, bidding her goodbye. It was natural for the usual residents of the Fortress to be surprised at Neuvillette’s appearance here. It was less natural, though, for Wriothesley himself to be surprised. Then again, Neuvillette and Childe both had important roles to play in what had come to pass, so their interaction shouldn’t be unexpected. He takes a moment to pull open his desk drawer and dig out the Coupon that Childe had given him. He pockets it, and heads out the door to the infirmary.

Neuvillette is just leaving as he arrives. They exchange a nod and a quick greeting, though Neuvillette appears to be in a hurry, so Wriothesley doesn’t stop him for a chat. Right before he turns to leave, though, he fixes Wriothesley with a sort of knowing look, one that Wriothesley doesn’t have time to dissect before he’s gone.

When Wriothesley steps inside, the first thing he sees is Childe. Fluffy tufts of hair in the shade he knows as orange, poking out from underneath a ring of bandages around his head. He’s clad in loose infirmary clothes as opposed to his usual attire, his blue eyes wide and guileless as always, devoid of shine but full of life. A small smile works itself onto his face, and he lifts a bandaged hand to give Wriothesley a wave. 

“Hey, Your Grace.” 

Something indescribable happens inside of Wriothesley’s chest. As if he were a Clockwork Meka, and all of the gears inside of him had ground to a halt, causing a complete malfunction. As if he were perhaps all of Fontaine, being rapidly consumed by the rising waters, and Childe were his Wingalet. Wriothesley opens his mouth to speak, but, at a loss, nothing comes out.

The look on his face must make something apparent to Sigewinne that he himself isn’t aware of. She removes herself from Childe’s bedside and gives him a nod. “I’ll let you two have the room,” she says quickly before bowing out. 

As soon as Sigewinne is gone, Wriothesley strides across the room, his feet moving automatically. And then, before he fully understands what he is doing, he’s wrapped his arms around Childe and enveloped him in a hug. 

Childe stiffens in surprise for a moment before melting into Wriothesley’s touch. Wriothesley can feel all of the tension leave his body in a split second, can feel something almost like desperation in the way that Childe wraps his arms around him and clings tightly. It occurs to Wriothesley that he’s needed this. That perhaps both of them have needed this, far more than they could have known. 

When Wriothesley pulls away, Childe’s eyes are a little wet. He blinks quickly and ducks his head for a moment, letting out a small laugh, before looking at Wriothesley again. 

“You’re not mad?” he says. “I thought you would be. I did sneak out of here right under your nose, after all.” 

“Oh, I’m furious,” says Wriothesley. But even to his own ears, he doesn’t sound angry at all. In fact, he might even be smiling as he says it. “If I had the authority to, I’d extend your sentence myself.” Childe blushes at that, for some reason. “But unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. Though if what I’ve heard is true, you’ll be able to sign your release papers as soon as you’ve recuperated enough to walk out of here.” 

It’s strange, but for a moment it almost looks as if disappointment has flickered across Childe’s face. Must be a trick of the light. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says, returning to his usual peppiness. “I’m surprised Neuvillette brought me back here despite knowing I’m innocent. I guess Fontaine has to follow its rules of justice somehow, and they can’t let even those who were falsely imprisoned walk out of here without the proper procedures.” 

Childe pauses for a second, drawing in a breath before continuing. “He told me everything, you know. About how it was actually Focalors living inside of the Oratrice, passing out judgment on her people. How she’d been the one to sentence me— though he says he doesn’t know if it was because I awakened the whale that would fulfill the prophecy, or because she hoped I could fight it off and help her save her people.” A wan smile makes its way onto his face. “In the end, she was just another god, using me for her own ends. Nothing that hasn’t happened to me before. Besides, I did enjoy having the chance to face the All-Devouring Narwhal in a fight. Opportunities like that are hard to come by.”

The nonchalance with which Childe talks about the situation, like he’s just an observer of his own circumstances, makes Wriothesley’s chest tighten in something akin to indignance. Perhaps as far as Childe is concerned, he exists only as a weapon, a tool to help others accomplish their goals. But that’s not how anybody should exist. Not if Wriothesley has a say in it.

“Don’t say that,” says Wriothesley, sounding more stern than he intended to. “You fought that whale for weeks, holding it off on your own. A god who knowingly inflicts that kind of pain on anybody, no matter her motive… I don’t think I can be on board with that.” 

Childe laughs. “Are you really talking shit about your own God right now?” He gives Wriothesley a lighthearted punch in the arm. “Come on, Your Grace, lighten up. She saved Fontaine.” 

She’s dead now, so does it matter? Wriothesley bites his tongue, surprised at the spitefulness of the thoughts that arise within him. It seems that Childe really does bring out some part of his younger self that he had thought he’d left behind.

Instead, he takes the hand that Childe had playfully hit him with into his own, closing both of his hands around Childe’s loose fist. “You saved Fontaine,” he says. 

Childe’s cheeks flush. “I just wanted a good fight,” he says. “It was in my own interests, to be honest. And if we’re talking about who saved Fontaine, shouldn’t it be you, with your big ship?”

Wriothesley huffs out a chuckle. “I just wanted things to continue on exactly as they were. Peace in the Fortress, and peace on the surface above. I don’t feel the need to take credit for that, especially since Jurieu and Lourvine did all the work on the Wingalet.” 

Childe hums thoughtfully. “That was the ship you were hiding beneath the Fortress, right?” 

Wriothesley blinks. “You knew about it?” 

“Yeah, I saw it once. Followed a pathway from the infirmary all the way down there without getting caught. Pretty impressive, right? It had nothing to do with the whale I was looking for, though. Or so I thought. So I was like… whatever, you know? Everybody has their own secrets, I won’t pry.” 

Wriothesley laughs. And then once he starts, he can’t quite seem to stop. The absurdity of the situation is simply too much. Childe laughs, too. The sound is bright, refreshing. 

“You’re really something,” says Wriothesley to Childe. “You know that?” 

Childe’s face is flushed deeper than he’s ever seen it. It occurs to Wriothesley that he’s still technically holding Childe’s hand, so he lets it go. The atmosphere in the room has grown strange, like they’re tiptoeing around something unspoken, so Wriothesley diverts the topic. 

“Where will you be headed after this? Back home, I assume?”

Childe nods. “Yeah. It’ll take some time for me to heal up from all these wounds. Sigewinne wants me to stay here for three weeks, but I heal pretty fast, so it’ll probably be just two. I’ll have to catch a boat back to Snezhnaya after that.” 

Wriothesley’s heart has no right to sink the way it does. “Right,” he says. “Well… I’ll let you get some rest, then. I should probably fetch Sigewinne again—” 

Before he can so much as get up to leave, Childe reaches out and tugs at the sleeve of his jacket. “Wait,” says Childe. His face is still flushed, mouth opening and closing like there’s something he wants to say, but doesn’t know how. “I… I was wondering if you wanted to, um… sleep with me tonight.” 

Cute. That’s the only possible word to describe the Childe in front of him right now. Has anyone else, Wriothesley wonders, ever seen this side of their respectable, formidable Harbinger? If they have, Wriothesley doesn’t want to know. As far as he’s concerned, this version of Childe is for his eyes only. 

“Sure, I can stay the night if you want company,” says Wriothesley. He nods at the empty bed next to Childe. “I can take that bed over there, if you’re more comfortable.” 

“No,” says Childe, frustrated. “I mean, like… sleep with me. I want to have sex.” 

Okay, so not cute so much as irritatingly, frustratingly, unspeakably lacking in self-preservation. “You’re injured,” says Wriothesley incredulously. “You should be recovering. You shouldn’t even think about doing anything that’ll risk endangering your health.” 

“I’ll be fine,” says Childe, stubborn desperation written all over his face. “I just—” He deflates, shoulders sagging as he lets out a breath. “Ever since I fell into the Abyss when I was fourteen—”

“Hold on,” says Wriothesley. “You fell into the Abyss at fourteen?” 

“Yeah,” says Childe, as if this piece of information isn’t completely mind-blowing in and of itself, “but listen, alright? Ever since then, I’ve always thought that the thrill of a fight was the closest that I could ever come to feeling… satisfied.” He lets out a soft breath. “But then I met you, and every time we had sex I started feeling like that, too. It was like all the thoughts in my head were just gone, and I could actually relax. I don’t really know what it is about you, but it’s been a really long day, or week, or month, and I just—” He swallows hard, meeting Wriothesley’s gaze with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. “I just want to feel that way again. Please.” 

In the eyes of the Fortress of Meropide, Wriothesley may be the picture of pragmatism, responsibility, and reason. But in private, Wriothesley knows he is far from immune to vices. And Childe, perhaps, may be his worst vice of all. 

With a gentle hand, he cradles the side of Childe’s face, leans in, and kisses him. Immediately Childe goes pliant under his touch, all the tension dissipating from his body. It belatedly occurs to Wriothesley that they’ve never kissed before, not just for the sake of kissing without being a lead-up to sex. But it’s too late to stop now, and besides, the eagerness and fervour with which Childe kisses him back makes him feel like he couldn’t possibly break away even if he wanted to. 

He buries his hands in the hair at the nape of Childe’s neck and nips at Childe’s bottom lip, drawing out a gorgeous half-gasp, half-moan that has Wriothesley’s cock stirring in his pants. Despite this, he’s not planning on fucking him at all— not today, not when Childe is barely recovering from his own injuries and stress. He tilts Childe back so his head hits the pillow, trails slow, steady kisses down his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, and undoes the buttons on the front of Childe’s shirt, spreading the fabric aside. The lithe, pale chest he remembers is wrapped up with bandages, along with one larger bandage plastered across his left hip. Wriothesley’s chest aches at the sight. Gently, he runs a thumb across Childe’s bandaged hip, and Childe lets out an almost wounded noise that has Wriothesley panicking a little. 

“Does it hurt?” 

Childe shakes his head no, cheeks tinted with a faint blush. “It feels good— k-keep going.”

Of course Childe would be turned on by the pain. That shouldn’t be surprising. The degree to which he lacks self-preservation only means that it’s all the more up to Wriothesley to take care of him. He deliberately avoids the area, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Childe’s sternum and then tugging Childe’s pants down to reveal his already hard cock. No surprises there, either. Before either of them can really register what he’s doing, Wriothesley shifts down on the bed so that he’s at eye level with Childe’s cock and takes the head into his mouth.

“Ah—!”

Childe’s hand immediately lands in Wriothesley’s hair, his grip tight, hips jumping up involuntarily. Wriothesley holds him down by the waist, careful to avoid the injured area, and takes the rest of Childe’s cock inside his mouth, taking a moment to enjoy the taste and feel of it on his tongue. He’s only a little bigger than average, which is nice, since it’s been a long while since he’s sucked somebody off. Years, probably. He doesn’t dislike it— he’s happy to, with the right partner. It just takes a lot for him to want to get on his knees for anybody, is all. The very first time he’d done it was in a shoddy prison cell in this very Fortress, for the purpose of acquiring a few extra Coupons on the side. Things have changed a lot, since then. 

Wriothesley sets a slow and steady pace, bobbing his head up and down, resting one hand on Childe’s waist and rubbing small circles with his thumb, and cupping his balls with the other. He licks along a vein on the underside and Childe gasps, muscles tensing and legs squeezing together around Wriothesley. It’s incredibly hot, how responsive he is to every touch, every gesture. Wriothesley hums contentedly around him, taking him deeper all the way in, and Childe lets out another moan, nails scraping against Wriothesley’s scalp. 

“Mn— Wriothesley,” Childe gasps, and fuck, Wriothesley can never tire of the way his name sounds, breathy and desperate on Childe’s tongue. He picks up the pace, running his tongue over Childe’s slit where he knows he’s sensitive before deepthroating him again, feeling Childe tense up when he hits the back of his throat. “I— ah, shit, I’m close—” 

Wriothesley pulls off— maybe a little cruel, given the way Childe groans— to press soft, biting kisses along Childe’s inner thighs. He’s always liked watching Childe squirm, but he’s not trying to tease or play hard to get this time. Orgasms feel better when they’re dragged out a little, a fact he suspects Childe doesn’t have much knowledge of, with the way he’s always running headfirst chasing instant gratification. They’re in no rush, after all. Fontaine’s been saved, and along with it, Childe’s sentence overturned. Childe wants to, needs to relax, catch a moment of respite, and he’s in good hands with Wriothesley. He runs his hands along Childe’s thighs, admiring, before taking Childe’s cock back into his hand again and flicking his thumb over the slit. 

“Ngh— s-stop teasing,” Childe gasps out. 

“I’m just trying to make you feel good,” says Wriothesley. “Just taking care of you.” 

Childe doesn’t say anything to that. He wonders if Childe has ever had sex like this before. Or if it’s always been fast-paced, rough, physical. It used to be that way between the two of them, too. He wonders what it was that changed. 

Distracted by his thoughts, he’s pulled back to reality when Childe tugs hard enough on his hair for it to hurt. “Wait, wait,” Childe stammers, his other fist clenched at his side. “Wait— I don’t want to come yet. I want— want you inside me first…”

A rush of desire pulses through Wriothesley, making him dizzy. Still, he has to be the one with self-restraint here. “Childe,” he says. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

The sound that escapes Childe sounds so betrayed it’s almost comical. “What? Why not?”

“I’ve already told you, you’re hurt enough as it is. I won’t risk reopening any of your wounds.”

“But—”

“My Fortress, my rules.” It sounds a little funny, when he’s between Childe’s legs like this.

“... Okay,” says Childe, and Wriothesley can tell he’s unsatisfied, but at least he’s acquiesced, which is about as much as Wriothesley can hope for. 

He returns his attention to Childe’s cock, taking it all the way into his mouth. He doesn’t hold back this time, setting a quicker pace, groaning as Childe hits the back of his throat again. It doesn’t take long at all before Childe lets out a high-pitched whimper, legs squeezing around Wriothesley as he comes hard down Wriothesley’s throat, gripping Wriothesley’s hair and shaking through it. 

It takes longer than usual for Childe’s breathing to even out, for the aftershocks to fade. Wriothesley pushes himself back up the bed to regard Childe, who looks dazed and a little stunned. He runs his fingers fondly through Childe’s hair. 

“That good?” he jokes.

Childe lets out a quiet laugh in response. As if unthinkingly, he lets his head fall onto Wriothesley’s shoulder. Wriothesley pauses for a brief moment before wrapping his arm around Childe. 

“Thanks,” says Childe quietly. “I think I needed that.” 

Wriothesley thinks he might have needed it, himself. He doesn’t say that, though. “Get some rest, now,” he says, patting Childe’s back lightly. “You’ll need lots of it, if you want to get out of here within two weeks.”

Next to him, Childe’s shoulders seem to slump. “Two weeks,” says Childe. “...Right. Yeah.” 

“I thought you’d be a little happier at the prospect of getting out of here, given that you were wrongly convicted to begin with. Not a lot of sunshine down here, is there?” 

Childe lets out a dry chuckle. “Guess not.”

“Besides, there’s something you’ve got to do once you get to the surface,” says Wriothesley. He digs around in his chest pocket, and pulls out the slip of paper he’s kept all this time. “You haven’t forgotten about our deal, have you?” 

Childe takes the Coupon into his hand, eyes widening at the words he himself scrawled onto the back of it, what feels like ages ago. When I’m back, maybe you could come to the surface. We could watch the sunset together.  

He looks at Wriothesley, letting out a soft, sheepish laugh. “You kept it?” 

“Of course,” says Wriothesley. “I know better than anyone the value of a good Coupon.”

The smile that splits Childe’s face loosens a knot in Wriothesley’s chest. “I’ll let you hang on to it until then,” he says, handing the Coupon back to Wriothesley, who tucks it back into his pocket. “Looking forward to it, Your Grace.” 

Over the next two weeks, Wriothesley sets aside a half-hour each day to visit Childe. It helps that he has a capable team who keeps the Fortress running like a well-oiled machine even on days when they don’t have the aftermath of a nationwide flood to deal with. For the first several days, he is thankful to find Childe obediently resting in the infirmary, with Sigewinne doting on him like a pocket-sized big sister. Once, Wriothesley walked in on Childe with his face as blue as an otter, and got a tad bit worried until he realized that Sigewinne had just given him one of her ultra-nutritious shakes. Overall, Childe seems to be making steady progress in recuperating his health. And Wriothesley’s not his only visitor either. A couple of times, Wriothesley has happened upon Alexis, Leonide and Poirier chatting animatedly with Childe by his bedside, though they quickly shuffled out as soon as they spotted Wriothesley. It pleases Wriothesley to know he has friends here, that the bonds he formed as a prisoner are here to stay. 

He’s also pleased that Childe doesn’t seem to have his mind set on having sex or having a spar, having angled for neither of those things all week long. Instead, as Wriothesley pulls up a chair to sit next to him, Childe busies himself with recounting various stories of his fantastical fight with the whale, his numerous adventures across Teyvat, or— these are Wriothesley’s favourite, even if they make him feel a tad bit wistful— his family back home. 

Childe has a large family, not unlike the facsimile of a family Wriothesley used to have. Asides from his parents, he has four brothers— two older, two younger— as well as an older sister and a younger sister. It makes sense to Wriothesley. He has the dependability of an older brother, the air of a younger sibling who’s often gotten his way, and the disposition of a middle child, an incessant need to fight for recognition ingrained in him from a young age. Anyone can tell how much his family has shaped him, and how much he cares for them. Still, it makes Wriothesley feel rather protective to know that, after the incident with the Abyss, his parents had shipped him off to the Fatui, believing him to be a problem child beyond their capability to set straight.

“It wasn’t like they had a choice,” Childe justifies. “I was getting into fights all the time. I didn’t have a good handle on my aggression. I hurt a lot of people. Probably would’ve killed them if no one had stopped me.”

Wriothesley lets out a long breath, leaning back in his chair. “Every nation has their own rules for when a minor commits a crime,” he says. “But in my experience, it’s rarely because they simply wanted to. Most often, there’s an underlying reason— a root cause that many legal systems don’t address, or simply don’t have the capacity to.” 

He’s far from the type to justify his own actions, especially now that he’s lived to more than twice the age he first was when he murdered his foster parents. Even so, he can acknowledge that, whether it was right or wrong, he simply felt there was no other way at the time. At fourteen, Childe was even younger than Wriothesley had been when he committed the crime that would alter the course of his life.

“While there’s hardly a rulebook for what happens when your child returns from the Abyss, it wouldn’t be fair to you to say that your parents didn’t have a choice. There’s always a choice. Every parent, when a child comes into their care, has to make the decision to care for their child unconditionally. Whatever happened that made your parents decide to pass on that responsibility to the Fatui of all people— that’s not a failure on your part.”

Childe looks at him for a long moment, an inscrutable expression falling over his face. It’s clear that he’s never thought about it from that angle before. Eventually he looks away, smiling faintly. “My father named me Ajax, you know. Apparently, it’s the name of a folk hero from a distant land who was known to be a skilled warrior. I might be good in battle, but this whole thing with the whale might be the closest I’ve ever come to being a hero, even if I had my own selfish reasons for it.”

Ajax. Wriothesley had, of course, seen Childe’s real name on his papers as soon as he walked in, but only now does he truly understand the meaning behind the name. Wriothesley had another name in his youth, too, though it didn’t fit him nearly as well as the one he chose for himself. 

“You are one, as far as I’m concerned,” says Wriothesley. But asides from saving Fontaine, Childe might have saved a part of Wriothesley, too. Admitting that feels strangely vulnerable, like spraying antiseptic on skinned knuckles after a tough fight at the Ring. But it’s a good kind of hurt, almost. Being around Childe makes Wriothesley feel younger, more alive, reawakening something deep inside that he thought had long since scarred over. 

“It’s too bad I have to go straight home after all of this,” says Childe. “I barely get to bask in any glory. Can’t I get something of a prize from you, at least?” 

“What, is having me as your tour guide on the surface of Fontaine not good enough for you?” 

Childe grins. “I was thinking more along the lines of a spar.”

There it is. Wriothesley shouldn’t have expected Childe to be able to change his feisty nature so easily. “This may come as a surprise to you, but there is more to life than fighting and sex.”

Childe doesn’t even miss a beat. “Oh, were you going to suggest sex? I’ll take that too.” 

Wriothesley feels a muscle twitch in his jaw. He huffs out a short laugh, then gets up to leave. It’s about time anyway. “I’m going to get back to work now. Be good, and don’t cause more trouble for Sigewinne, alright?” 

It doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them that he hasn’t exactly said no. Childe beams at him and doesn’t say anything else on his way out. 

One evening towards the end of Childe’s stay, Wriothesley takes a little longer sorting through some paperwork before heading over to see Childe, only to find, on his way there, a suspicious figure working the heavy machinery at the Production Zone. Childe is wearing a borrowed cap over his bright head of hair as if that will stop Wriothesley from recognizing him on the spot anyway. 

Wriothesley leans against the wall to watch, and when Childe doesn’t react, he clears his throat to announce his appearance. He feels a sense of deja vu. This was how it had been when they first met, too. 

“Hey, Your Grace,” says Childe. 

With no one else around them, Wriothesley says, “You’re not technically a prisoner here. Just Wriothesley is fine. Care to enlighten me on what exactly you’re doing here working, of all things?” 

At least Childe has the self-awareness to look sheepish. “I got bored, cooped up in that little room,” he says. Still, he turns the machinery off and turns to face Wriothesley. “If you came to keep me company a little earlier and a little more often, Wriothesley, maybe I wouldn’t have gone running off on my own.” 

He’s flirting. He’s definitely flirting. “Unlike you,” Wriothesley replies, “I do have a job here, and I am bound by certain rules and regulations, which include getting my work done on time.”

“Rules and regulations of your own design,” Childe fires back. Wriothesley tries not to look impressed as, without breaking his focus on Wriothesley, Childe summons a bout of Hydro that swirls around the machinery, wiping it clean before dissipating it with the snap of a finger. He’s met a fair amount of Vision holders, but none who commanded their element as effortlessly as Childe, who does it with an almost inhuman sort of elegance. “You’ve bent them for me before, so why not bend them again?”

Wriothesley nods at him. “I see you got your Vision back.”

“Yeah,” says Childe cheerfully. “The Traveler dropped it off for me. It was a good choice, handing it off to them.” He summons a smaller amount of Hydro and creates a bubble between the two of them. With the flick of a wrist, he molds it into the shape of a small whale, and then a wolf, not unlike the shape of Wriothesley’s insignia. Okay, now he’s just showing off. “Still don’t want to spar with me? That’s fine, it’s your loss.” 

“How are your injuries?”

Childe smirks, cocking his hip slightly to reveal that ever-tantalizing patch of skin. “Why don’t you check for yourself?” 

Wriothesley steps closer and does just that. He grabs a hold of Childe’s hips, careful when touching the injured area, and runs his thumb across the exposed skin before dipping it down to land just above the hem of his pants. When Childe doesn’t react in pain, but rather flushes a delectable shade all the way up to his ears, he steps back.

“Seems better than before,” says Wriothesley. He’d still rather not risk actually fighting him in the Ring, but he can think of at least one other way to satisfy Childe. “Your paperwork’s been done. You’re free to leave as soon as you’re fully recovered. I’ll see you on the surface after that. I don’t exactly have a place up there, but I do have a deal with the Hotel Debord that lets me stay with them for cheap whenever I want. With guests, of course. You can claim your prize then.”

Childe audibly swallows. His eyes linger on Wriothesley’s mouth before meeting his eyes again. “Okay,” he says rather hoarsely. “That sounds good to me.”

On the day of Childe’s release, Wriothesley is too preoccupied to be able to see him out. He doesn’t worry too much about it, though. They’d already made a promise the night before— Childe is going to meet up with the Traveler on the surface for an hour or two before meeting up with Wriothesley at the Cafe Lutece.

As for why Wriothesley is preoccupied, the reason is sitting in front of him at the moment: he’s received a visit in his office from Monsieur Neuvillette himself.

On business, of course. There’s a lot to sort through, given all that’s happened. Most of Fontaine’s infrastructure has remained intact through the flood, but a few less fortunate people have had their lodgings damaged beyond repair. As the displaced sought lodging in abandoned houses that did not belong to them by law, legal trouble began to brew. With Neuvillette’s own busy schedule not allowing for the trials to be held as soon as he would like, he had come to ask if it would be possible to temporarily provide lodging for the displaced citizens at the Fortress, to which Wriothesley agreed, so long as those involved were fine with it. It’s not every day that people who haven’t committed crimes are willing to come down to the Fortress, but after the creation of the Wingalet that saved their nation, the reputation of the Fortress seems to be ever so slightly on the rise. Wriothesley suppresses a smile, thinking of how Childe himself had not wanted to leave. Though that was almost definitely for a different reason altogether.

Surprisingly, after their agreement has been reached, Neuvillette remains seated, glancing gravely at the surface of his half-untouched cup of water, which Wriothesley had taken care to source from Elynas, Neuvillette’s personal favourite. 

“Is something the matter?” Wriothesley inquires.

“I… yes,” Neuvillette replies hesitantly. “As you know, I have not often been adept at dealing with human feelings.” Perhaps it’s not meant to reference their past together— Neuvillette has a purity of spirit that would prevent him from holding it against Wriothesley even if he wanted to— but Wriothesley feels a little guilty anyway. “Recently, this has become even more evident.” 

Nothing can prepare Wriothesley for his next words. 

“I’ve met someone. More accurately, I have… known someone, for a vast number of years. During this time, I always thought of this person as an employer, of sorts. A friend, or perhaps even family. However, in light of new information, I’ve begun to see them in a different light. I find myself wanting to offer companionship, to carry their burdens and ensure their happiness in a way that perhaps extends beyond the boundaries of friendship. I never thought that my feelings could change, yet I find myself at a crossroads, wondering.” 

In a way, Wriothesley has always felt a sense of responsibility for what happened between them. They had dated for a year, after all. Neuvillette had told him he loved him. Wriothesley thought the feeling would come for him too. Only, it never did. He began to wonder if he could ever really feel it at all, or if the events of his childhood had taken that from him too. After all, the ability to trust other people and the ability to love other people so often went hand in hand. Eventually, Neuvillette admitted that perhaps he too had never been in love, that it was possible he had misidentified a strong sense of platonic closeness as love. Whether it was true or whether he said it to save face, Wriothesley was unsure to this day.  

But now, asides from the unexpectedness of it all— the Hydro Dragon falling for the former Hydro Archon is as strange as it is fitting— hearing this lifts a weight off of Wriothesley’s chest. He only ever wanted the best for Neuvillette, and he’s relieved to know that what happened between them had not, in turn, affected Neuvillette’s ability to trust or to love. 

“Here’s my two cents,” says Wriothesley, as if his advice is in any way valuable. “If you’re wondering if your feelings have changed, then they probably already have.” 

It seems to hold true for Neuvillette. He appears to turn the words over in his mind for a long moment, then nods solemnly.

“I see,” he says. “...Thank you.”

“No need for that,” Wriothesley replies. “That’s what I’m here for. We’re friends after all, aren’t we?”

“Friends.” Neuvillette gives him a small smile. “Yes, we are.” After a pause, Neuvillette’s next question seems to come out of left field. “How is Childe?” 

“He left this morning,” says Wriothesley. 

“All recovered, I hope?”

“Surprisingly quickly. A testament to his youth, perhaps, or whatever power lurks inside of him— I’m sure you’re familiar.” 

Neuvillette lets out a soft chuckle. Wriothesley was highly amused to hear Childe’s recounting of flashing him a thumbs-down as he fought off the whale, and only wished he could have been there to see it. “I am.” Neuvillette holds Wriothesley’s gaze, and there’s an unreadable quality to it as he speaks his next words. “I trust that the two of you will take good care of one another.”

Before Wriothesley can ask what that means, Neuvillette gets up from his seat and takes his leave. Wriothesley is left to stare blankly at the door in contemplation. Looking down, he finds that his own cup of Earl Grey has barely been touched.

By the time he arrives at Cafe Lutece, the midday sun is high in the sky. It’s been a while since he basked in the sunshine, and the warmth on his skin feels refreshing, as does the hustle and bustle of the surface’s city life. To think that all of this could have easily been washed away only a week ago. He doesn’t take it for granted. 

He orders a cup of Marcotte tea and a Conch Madeleine, and takes a seat in the shade. After a few more minutes have passed, he spots Childe heading up the road towards him. When Childe sees him, he smiles wide and picks his pace up into a jog. 

“Hey,” says Childe, slowing down as he approaches the table, looking almost shy as he takes the seat across from Wriothesley. The wind has swept his messy hair so that it fluffs up at odd angles. Wriothesley wants to reach out and touch it, but stops himself. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Not at all,” Wriothesley replies. “I had a few things to take care of myself.” He nods at Childe. “You’re looking a lot better. How does it feel to be a free man?”

“It feels great.” Childe grins, stretching his arms as if already preparing for a fight. Wriothesley smiles, helplessly endeared. “I went fishing with the Traveller and Paimon earlier. After that, I tried to track down Clorinde for a spar, to no avail. Couldn’t find Neuvillette, either— if anyone owes me a spar, it’s that guy.” Childe’s idea of a vacation, it seems, still differs greatly from the average person’s. Not that Wriothesley expected anything else. “So now I’m not really sure what else to do. Any ideas?” 

Wriothesley isn’t an expert on the various entertainments of the Court of Fontaine by any means. Luckily, a flyer he passed by on his way here resurfaces in his mind. “I heard that a local theatre troupe is putting on a production at the Opera Epiclese. It’s not often that a smaller production gets to book that space, so I expect there’s some kind of grand surprise in store. We could check it out, if you’d like.” 

“Oh, that sounds great,” says Childe. “I’m a pretty big fan of theatre myself. I’ve been in a couple performances back home, actually…” 

As Childe’s tea arrives— Earl Grey, much to Wriothesley’s amusement— he tells Wriothesley about the time just after he became a Harbinger when he showed up as a surprise guest star at a local show. Though all of the Harbingers are named after characters from the commedia dell'arte, an originally Fontainian form of theatre, Childe is apparently the only one who actually participates in any such productions. Wriothesley doesn’t doubt that, despite the dubious reputation the Fatui have acquired overseas, Childe must be a highly popular figure back home. He wonders just how many admirers Childe had lining up to see his shows. 

The Conch Madeleine that Wriothesley ordered arrives at the table, and Wriothesley catalogues the expression on Childe’s face as he tries it, the wide-eyed smile and the little crumb at the corner of his mouth. Under different circumstances, he really would fit right in with the people of Fontaine. The day has hardly even started. He has Childe booked until sunset, perhaps even for the night, and still, it doesn’t feel like enough. 

They take a quick stroll around the city before heading to the Opera Epiclese. Their first stop is at Bertin’s House of Curiosities, where Childe buys a few knickknacks as souvenirs for his family. At the Chioriya boutique, Childe buys some handmade accessories for his sisters, and, when Childe’s eyes linger on a deep blue necktie with a subtle ocean pattern on the fabric, Wriothesley encourages him to purchase it, only for Childe to turn around and gift it to him. At Childe’s insistence, Wriothesley swaps out his usual red tie and dons this one. “It’s not like you can see the red anyway,” says Childe, “so it probably looks the same to you, right?” Well, not exactly. He can’t see himself wearing this one to work, lest he become embarrassingly overcome with emotion in the middle of his paperwork.

As they emerge from the boutique, Wriothesley catches sight of a familiar monocled figure with a Kamera attached to her hip. Before Charlotte can see the two of them and interrupt them for an interview, Wriothesley catches Childe by the wrist and tugs him in the opposite direction, running behind a neighbouring building and ducking behind the bushes until he’s sure they’re out of sight. Breathless and confused, Childe looks up at him. “What was that?” 

“Just saw someone I know. A journalist with a penchant for interviewing those who don’t necessarily want to be interviewed. Figured I might save us the trouble.” 

“Oh.” Childe’s cheeks are high with colour, chest rising rapidly where it’s pressed right up to Wriothesley’s. “Well… thanks, I guess.” His pulse beats just beneath Wriothesley’s thumb on his wrist. Wriothesley feels suddenly more out of breath than he had been during the actual escape. It takes an incredible amount of self-restraint not to lean down and kiss Childe right then and there, but he manages it somehow.

They take the aquabus to the Opera Epiclese, and Childe glances out at the scenery with wonder, pointing up at the colourful birds and asking Wriothesley to identify them. “I travel a lot for work, but it’s not often I get to actually travel, you know? It’s different. It’s nice actually having time off to relax. And…” The flush across Childe’s face is unmistakable in the bright sunlight. “The company’s not so bad either.”

Wriothesley can’t disagree. To be frank, it’s been many years since he’s had this much fun, since he’s felt this… alive. It sounds impossibly juvenile to call it a hangout, but he’s still hesitant to call it a date. He’s not sure what this is, really. His relationship with Childe probably surpassed any sort of classification ages ago.

The theatre production of The Little Oceanid, of course, ends up being as spectacular as Wriothesley expected. He was right about the surprise. At the end of the production, the original lead actress is swapped out for none other than Lady Furina herself, singing an impassioned, heart-rending melody that has Wriothesley wondering if Neuvillette might be in the crowd to see it. Regardless, it’s good to see that she seems to have found her footing in a new era.

“Wow, who would’ve thought,” Childe remarks as they head out of the opera house. “Do you think that Vision she got at the end was real, by the way? It didn’t look like a prop to me.”

“Hard to say,” says Wriothesley. He has his own theories, given that he too once acquired a Vision at the most unexpected of times. If it is real, well, Furina has lived enough of her life on display that she deserves a little bit of privacy. 

“I hope it’s real. It’d be great if I could check a spar with the former Hydro Archon off my list.” At the look on Wriothesley’s face, Childe just laughs. “I’m kidding. Mostly.” 

It’s golden hour by this time, and Wriothesley supposes that the courtyard in front of the Opera Epiclese is as good a spot as any to watch the sun set over Fontaine. As they walk around in search of a quieter spot, Childe plucks a Rainbow Rose out from the ground beside them, and holds it out in front of him in his outstretched hand. 

“Want to see something cool?” says Childe. “I learned this from one of the kids in the Fatui who’s a magician. Keep your eyes on it and don’t look away now. Three, two, one…” 

Wriothesley pretends not to notice Childe’s attempts at misdirection as he makes the flower disappear. “Hm,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s strange. Where’d it go?” 

Childe snaps his fingers again, and Wriothesley feels the weight of something tickling his head. “Alright. Check your clothes.” 

When Wriothesley looks down, the flower falls off the top of his head and into his waiting palm. Childe looks sheepish, scratching the back of his neck. 

“I don’t think I fully got the hang of it yet,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to work a bit harder. Here—” He reaches out for the flower, probably to pin it on Wriothesley’s chest where it’s meant to be, but Wriothesley acts first, tucking the stem of the Rainbow Rose behind Childe’s ear, so it sits snug against the side of his head. 

“It looks better on you,” he says simply.

Childe smiles up at him, eyes soft, and Wriothesley can’t fight the smile that makes its way onto his face, too. 

“Oh,” says Childe suddenly, glancing over his shoulder and pointing. “There. If we head to that balcony over there behind the Opera Epiclese, we’ll get a good view of the sunset.”

The two of them walk over, and are glad to find the spot unoccupied. Childe tilts his head back to regard the arch-like structure towering above the balcony, and laughs. 

“Is something amusing?”

“Nothing. It kinda looks like we’re standing under a guillotine, is all.” 

Wriothesley lets out a low chuckle of his own. It’s fitting. Two men sentenced to a life they otherwise wouldn’t have lived, going with the flow, finding ways to survive— no, surviving and living are two different things. Wriothesley likes to think the two of them are living.

Childe leans his elbows on the railing of the balcony, looking out at the lake they call a sea. The fading sunlight illuminates the surface of the water and the curve of his cheek. Wriothesley sidles up next to him, propping his hip against the railing, so he can look out at the water and still keep Childe in his field of vision. If he’s being honest, he’s seen no small number of sunsets in Fontaine. Even if he spends the majority of his time at the bottom of the ocean, he’s no stranger to the surface. He’d grown up here, after all. So in this moment, it’s not the sunset that is transient and ephemeral, but rather, Childe himself.

“It’s beautiful,” says Childe, looking out at the sky, the sun dipping beneath the horizon. There’s a certain childlike innocence in his eyes. The reflection of light in them is almost enough to give shine to the normally dull depths of blue. The wind ruffles his hair with a gentle hand. Childe was right— from here, the sky is painted with large brushstrokes of orange, just the same shade as Childe’s hair. Orange, or green, depending how you looked at it, but one thing is for certain— in this brief pocket of time, the landscape of Fontaine seems to unfold around the boy standing in front of him. 

“Yeah,” says Wriothesley. “It really is.” 

Childe must hear a note of something in his voice, for he turns to regard Wriothesley, and flushes upon meeting his gaze. “You’re not even watching,” he says, with a little pout that Wriothesley wants to kiss off his lips. 

“I can see the sunset whenever I want. You, on the other hand…”

Childe laughs softly, leaning over to nudge him gently with an elbow. “Hey. What’s the easiest crime to commit around these parts?” 

“Excuse me?”

“If I get locked up again, I won’t have to go home, right?” 

A helpless laugh escapes Wriothesley’s chest, even as something inside it twists and aches. How is he ever going to let Childe go? “The Traveller was locked up for forty-five days for stealing a bite of the Hydro Archon’s cake. Now, with the Archon’s seat abdicated, I surmise you could get the same consequence by drinking the Chief Justice’s prized water.”

Childe chuckles. “I’ll remember that for next time. But this time, well, I already promised my siblings I’d return with souvenirs as soon as possible.” 

He pauses, regarding Wriothesley meaningfully, the look in his eyes almost… shy. “Thanks again. For everything.”

Wriothesley smiles. “I was just doing my job. And not a particularly good one, at that. Pretty sure that sleeping with your prisoner falls vastly outside of the job description.” 

Childe lets out a half-snort, half-laugh. “Seducing your prison warden isn’t exactly part of the job, either. But… I had a good time, all things considered.” He looks down at his hands, gaze turning more serious than before. “You know, there’s an old saying in Snezhnaya. ‘If you give a starving dog a bone, it’ll guard your home for the rest of its life.’” He pauses for a long moment, then looks up at Wriothesley, eyes soft at the corners. “I guess I didn’t know I was starving until you threw me a bone.”

Wriothesley knows he’s talking about more than the sex. Their relationship progressed past that a long time ago, even if Wriothesley himself has refused to admit it until now. If you’re wondering if your feelings have changed, then they probably already have. He had spoken those words to Neuvillette, earlier, with a shockingly small amount of self-awareness. As he looks at Childe, he finally understands. Even as the weight of it unfolds in his chest, something sticks in his throat, and he finds it difficult to get any words out.

“So,” he says finally. “Are you saying you’ll come back to the Fortress and work as a prison guard?”

Childe laughs softly. “Hey, it’s certainly high up on the list of jobs I could take once I retire from being a Harbinger.” He frowns thoughtfully. “That is, if I live to see the day.” 

“You will,” Wriothesley blurts out, because the alternative is too much to even consider. “If an otherworldly giant whale couldn’t take you down, I doubt anything else in this world could stop you.” 

Childe grins at him. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime,” says Wriothesley. And then, after a pause, he adds, “No matter where you’re headed, I’ll always be in your corner.”

It’s as close to the truth as he can admit at this point. But it seems to be enough for Childe, who smiles softly and leans his head on Wriothesley’s shoulder as they watch the last dredges of sunlight dip below the waters of Fontaine. 

They arrive at the Hotel Debord in time for dinner. It’s been a while since Wriothesley’s dined in a place as upscale as this, but Childe saunters in like a natural— even pulling out Wriothesley’s chair for him at their table in the sort of gentlemanly display that would have a teen girl swooning giddily, though perhaps Wriothesley is no better. 

Having only seen Childe in Fontaine, Wriothesley often forgets his high status and wealth back home. But true to his occupation, Childe demonstrates excellent table manners and the knowledge of which fork to use for what type of food. Their appetizers are quick to arrive, but the main course takes longer, so Childe regales him with more tales of the highs and lows of Snezhnayan cuisine back home until the waitress brings over the steak tartare.

Well. Maybe he’d jumped to conclusions regarding Childe’s table manners. Halfway through the steak tartare, Wriothesley notices something prodding at his left ankle. It takes him a moment to realize the table leg hasn’t magically moved, and that it is in fact the toe of Childe’s boot, though neither of them can see beneath the tablecloth.

“This is really good,” says Childe, swallowing his bite of food with a sip of wine, then licking his lips deliberately, keeping his gaze on Wriothesley’s as he slides his boot up higher, higher. “Definitely worth the wait, wouldn’t you say?” 

Wriothesley lets out a huff of breath. “Yeah,” he says, his tone low and cautious as he hooks the heel of his right boot over Childe’s ankle and kicks it down with just enough force to plant it solidly on the ground. He takes a sip of his tea. “I find that things tend to taste better when you exercise a bit of patience.” 

“I’ve been plenty patient already,” says Childe, the half-pout on his mouth turning into a smirk. “I think I’m ready for dessert, if you know what I mean.” 

Wriothesley breathes out through his nose, willing away the flicker of arousal simmering low in his stomach. He never would’ve thought himself susceptible to flirting laid on this thick, but Childe’s unabashed eagerness is endearing, and, if he’s going to admit, attractive. And Childe has been patient. Both of them have been skirting around what they really, truly want— Wriothesley because he didn’t want to hurt Childe, and Childe because Wriothesley had asked him to. Childe would do just about anything Wriothesley asked him to. As if out of the blue, Wriothesley recalls what Childe had said two weeks ago. About how being with Wriothesley could make the thoughts in his head disappear, could get him to relax. It made sense that Childe needed this, perhaps beyond the physical, even if he didn’t know it himself.

“Alright,” says Wriothesley, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll flag our server down for the dessert menu.” 

Childe looks so genuinely and thoroughly offended that Wriothesley almost laughs. 

“Kidding,” says Wriothesley. Gods, he’s fun to tease. He jerks his chin towards Childe’s unfinished plate. “Finish that up, and meet me in my room in ten minutes. If we go together, we’ll draw unwanted attention. Once you’re at the door, knock five times so I know it’s you.” 

Wriothesley swears he sees a shiver run down Childe’s spine, though the tone of his voice betrays little else other than smugness. “Got it, Your Grace.”

As soon as Wriothesley hears the sound of five knocks on his door, he peers through the peephole to see a familiar head of unruly hair. Childe looks fidgety, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Wriothesley spares him the agony of waiting any longer and pulls the door open. 

He doesn’t expect Childe to be on him in a flash, pinning him back against the door as it swings shut behind them with a loud thump. Wriothesley has barely opened his mouth to speak before Childe’s lips swallow his own, hands racing everywhere, up Wriothesley’s arms, beneath the hem of his shirt and up his chest, as if he were touching Wriothesley for the first time. 

“Childe.” Wriothesley laughs breathlessly as Childe begins tugging Wriothesley’s buttons off so forcefully he thought they would come apart at the seams. “Childe— bed.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of the well-made, very empty king-sized bed waiting to be used.

“I don’t want to wait,” says Childe. “I want you to fuck me right here, up against the wall. Want—” Childe’s face flushes red, finally remembering to be embarrassed. “Want everyone to hear me scream your name.” 

Arousal pulses through Wriothesley, heady and intense. Fuck. It’s impractical. Dangerous. Wriothesley doesn’t know if the walls are soundproof— he can only assume, for their sake, that they are. The implications of the Duke sleeping with a Harbinger aren’t something he wants to deal with, if word were to get out, but—

—but Childe presses his mouth to the side of Wriothesley’s neck, right where his pulse beats, and says, “Please.” 

And that’s all it takes for Wriothesley’s composure to snap. He takes Childe by the shoulders and flips their positions, slamming him up against the wall. Despite the muscles firm beneath his touch, Childe’s slimmer frame and willing nature make him very easy to manhandle, something that gets Wriothesley hot far more than it should. He tugs Childe’s scarf off, tossing it onto the floor, and opens the buttons of Childe’s shirt, running his hands over his chest while pressing deep, biting kisses into his neck. He shouldn’t leave marks. He shouldn’t. But the collar of Childe’s shirt is high enough, and he’s got a long boat ride home before anyone important sets eyes on him, and Wriothesley wants, wants so badly to live in a universe where he can show Childe off like this, tell the world that Childe is his. Even if it may not be true.

Childe gasps and lets out a shuddering moan as Wriothesley’s thumbs brush over his nipples. It doesn’t matter, Wriothesley decides. It doesn’t matter how long he gets to have Childe for, so long as he gets to have him at all. His heart aches as he sees the light scarring across Childe’s abdomen, evidence of his struggle with the whale. He runs a gentle hand over it and Childe groans brokenly, head tipping forward onto Wriothesley’s shoulder. 

“You okay?” Wriothesley asks. “Does it hurt?”

Childe shakes his head. “No, just feels—” He swallows thickly. Wriothesley gets the feeling he’s too overcome with emotion to really answer, so he keeps going. It’s easy to guess from Childe’s body language that it feels some type of good, so he runs his hand over it again— Childe’s voice trembles on a moan— and rocks his crotch up against Childe’s. 

“Ah— fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long—” 

Wriothesley rocks his hips forward again, harder this time, more purposeful. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Me too.” 

“Want—” Childe hooks his legs around Wriothesley’s waist and locks them, and another hot wave of arousal courses through Wriothesley. “Want you.”

And gods, does Wriothesley want him too. A few more thrusts, rubbing their erections together, and Childe is gone— spilling with a cry, a wet spot growing against his pants that they hadn’t even had time to take off. Wriothesley’s heart beats fast in his throat. 

“Shit,” he breathes out, watching in helpless fascination as Childe lowers his shaky legs to stand on his feet again, chest heaving and face flushed. 

“Sorry,” says Childe, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to— not so soon. I just…” 

“Hey. It’s alright.” Wriothesley tilts his chin up with a finger. “We’re not done yet. Not until you want to be. You have me all night.” 

Childe shudders under his touch, already pliant. Then he squares his shoulders and tugs at Wriothesley’s wrist, leading him towards the bed.

“Oh, now you want the bed?”

“You were the one who said it,” Childe shoots back, grinning as he hops onto the bed and kicks off his boots, then gets to work removing his own pants. “Things taste better when you exercise a bit of patience.” He hums. “I definitely want to come on your cock this next time, and, well, I figured your old knees would get creaky fucking me against the wall.” 

“Little shit,” says Wriothesley, entirely affectionate. He removes his own shoes and gets on the bed on top of Childe, who’s laying on his back, and kisses him hard and deep. He runs his palm over the front of Childe’s boxers— Childe keens and his hips twitch up like he’s been shocked. “Still sensitive, are we? Maybe we should exercise some patience and wait it out. I could go brew us a pot of tea…” 

“I hate you so much,” Childe whines, and then locks his legs around Wriothesley’s waist before he can escape. Wriothesley gives in. Teasing Childe, as fun as it is, only works against him right now, when he himself wants nothing more than to strip Childe naked and fuck him until he’s drooling into the pillow and moaning Wriothesley’s name.

Wriothesley tugs Childe’s boxers off, and then helps Childe shrug out of his shirt and jacket, too. Fully naked beneath him, Childe cuts a pretty picture, pale, scarred skin against the bedsheets white as snow. Wriothesley watches his own hands, bearing more scars and callouses than Childe’s own, wrap around his waist, and the thought that he’s ruining Childe sprouts unbidden in the back of his mind. It’s wholly illogical. Childe has seen his share of things despite his age, has seen how ugly the world can get. It’d do him a disservice to say that anybody could ruin him. The kid is scrappy and smart, and has bravery and conviction in spades. Wriothesley knows this. But he’s so young, and perhaps he wouldn’t have even fought the whale if he hadn’t come to the Fortress, wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and there are so many things in the world that are too good for Wriothesley, who is jaded and worn down at the core. He just never thought that Childe would be one of them.

“…Wriothesley?” 

Wriothesley blinks. One of Childe’s hands has come to rest against his cheek, his thumb brushing against the scar below his eye.

“Stop that.” Childe’s tone is both petulant and affectionate. Wriothesley’s heart twists in his chest. “I want this. I want you. I can’t think of anything I want more. Just—” He nudges at Wriothesley’s leg with his toe again, without the boot on this time. “Stop thinking so hard and fuck me already, yeah?” 

And, yeah, Wriothesley is hopeless for him. He really is. It’s all he can do not to say it aloud. He rummages around in the bedside drawer until he finds the lube— he’d booked a room with specific amenities, just for the night. He coats his fingers with it, and very slowly pushes his middle finger inside of Childe’s hole, watching intently as he clenches around it. 

“Fuuuck,” says Childe, low and drawn-out, his fingers tightening in the sheets. Wriothesley thrusts it in and out, in and out until he’s gasping and squirming, pleading for more. Wriothesley gives him more— Wriothesley would give him anything he asked— two fingers, three, until Childe is shaking and his nails are digging painfully into Wriothesley’s back. 

“Fuck me,” he gasps. “Wriothesley, fuck, I need you inside me—”

And Wriothesley can’t wait any longer, either. He tugs his shirt off over his shoulders— watches with absentminded amusement as Childe’s eyes rake lustfully over his body— undoes his pants, and lines himself up against Childe. He pushes inside, as slowly and carefully as he can with Childe moaning and whimpering and squeezing around him, and holds himself still once he’s buried to the hilt, focusing on the feeling, rubbing a soothing circle into Childe’s hips which does absolutely nothing to stop him from arching and rutting back against Wriothesley. 

“Shit, fuck, that’s— so good, ngh— hurry up and move—”

“You never do stop talking, do you?” It comes out more fond than he’d intended. He presses two fingers to Childe’s lips, coaxing his mouth open, and Childe moans and eagerly sucks his digits inside, sending a hot jolt of arousal up Wriothesley’s spine. “Yeah. Yeah, like that. You’re so good for me. You’re perfect.”

He moves, then, starts to fuck Childe in earnest because it’s impossible not to, with Childe so perfect and tight around him, swirling his tongue around the tips of Wriothesley’s fingers like he was made just for this. Like they can forget everything else and just be this, the two of them, for tonight, and have it be enough. Wriothesley hooks Childe’s legs over his shoulders, finding a deeper angle, and drives his hips into Childe again and again until he’s all but sobbing, clinging to Wriothesley like a lifeline. And then he pulls his fingers out of Childe’s mouth and kisses him, really kisses him, as if he could perhaps trace out the words I want to keep you by slotting his tongue against Childe’s alone.

“Ah— ah—” Childe’s moans grow desperate and breathless against his lips, and something immovable and powerful compels Wriothesley to take Childe’s hand in his own and squeeze it, intertwining their fingers. And ultimately, it’s that gesture that makes Childe come a second time, shaking as he falls apart willingly in Wriothesley’s hold, the look on his face one that Wriothesley won’t forget. 

He comes too, biting down on Childe’s shoulder to muffle the cry he lets out, spilling inside of Childe and riding out his orgasm with harsh, hurried breaths. After a while, he comes to again and pulls out slowly, turning onto his back and falling against the bed next to Childe. Their hands are still interlocked. Something painful pushes against Wriothesley’s chest as he extricates his hand from Childe’s hold. He brushes Childe’s hair out of his eyes, and smiles. 

“So? Did you get everything you wanted out of that Coupon of yours?”

Childe looks at him, dazed, like he’s barely capable of collecting his thoughts. “What?” 

“We finally got to see that sunset, yeah?” says Wriothesley. “And, hey, we even did some other things, along the way.”

“Oh. Right.” Childe flushes, a small smile playing at his lips. “I— I did. I had a great time.” 

Wriothesley fights the urge to press a kiss to Childe’s forehead. He’s indulged enough already. Any more and he really won’t be able to let Childe out of bed, come morning. He settles for keeping his arm loosely wrapped around Childe, revelling in the warmth of his skin.

After a long moment, Childe speaks up again. “Hey. This might be kind of a stupid question, but does anybody approve your vacation requests or is it just you?” 

“Just me,” says Wriothesley. It is kind of a rigged system, and he certainly needs to put more safeguards in place to prevent whoever runs the Fortress next from abusing their power. But for now, he doesn’t mind breaking the rules a little bit to enjoy his freedom, so long as it doesn’t throw the Fortress off balance. 

“Then,” says Childe slowly, “do you think you could come to Snezhnaya? Not right now. Just… maybe sometime in the future. I could show you around, just like you showed me around Fontaine today. And I’d really like for you to meet my parents, and my siblings too. I think they’d really like you.” 

Wriothesley had thought himself well-adjusted. Had thought himself as normal as somebody could possibly be, given the circumstances. But even so, despite everything, Childe’s words hit Wriothesley like a left hook right in the jaw. All the warmth from earlier fades out as his heart seizes in his chest, stomach lurching towards the ground. He feels himself acting on autopilot, mouth opening on its own. 

“I’m sorry, Childe. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

In the moments after, everything happens as if in slow motion. He watches Childe’s face fall. He watches the stricken look on his face turn into a poor mask of nonchalance, his youth betraying his heart on his sleeve. He watches Childe turn away, shoulders held taut, bangs covering his eyes as he lets out a small laugh that’s more self-deprecating than anything. 

“Right,” he says. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.” 

Childe gets up. He fetches his clothes off the floor, still avoiding Wriothesley’s gaze, and shrugs on his shirt. “I guess I should go. It’s getting late.”

Wriothesley sits himself up, too. He feels sick, the room spinning around him, threatening to tug him under. The last time he felt this way, he was sixteen years old, hands bloody with the inevitability of violence. He’d always known that the lives he took would haunt him forever. He’d resigned himself to bearing that cross, to living the rest of his life with half a heart hardened by years of anger and betrayal. But it was Childe who made him feel whole again. And after everything that has happened, his chest aches with the thought of letting Childe believe that he doesn’t care about him, even for a second. 

“Childe, wait.” 

Before he can second-guess himself, he reaches out and catches Childe’s wrist in his hand. Childe turns to stare at him, stunned. Wriothesley pats the spot next to him, and Childe sits, playing with his thumbs, his posture apprehensive. 

“You were right,” says Wriothesley. 

Childe furrows his brow. “About what?” 

“That day, back in the Fortress, when you asked me what my crime was. You guessed that I’d killed someone.” Wriothesley swallows hard. “You were right. I murdered my parents.”

Childe’s eyes go wide, but he says nothing. 

“I was taken in as an orphan and raised in a foster home. We had a large family, not unlike yours. A temporary one, since the goal was for all the kids to eventually get adopted. Still, our parents treated us well. We were happy.” Wriothesley looks down at his hands. “They wanted us happy, so that we wouldn’t suspect what was going on behind the scenes.” 

Childe shifts slightly on the bed. The look on his face tells Wriothesley he doesn’t like where this is going. Neither does Wriothesley, which is why he seldom tells the story. It’s one thing to tell it to the Traveller, someone he holds in high regard but isn’t close with. It’s another thing entirely to tell it to Childe. From the moment they met, Wriothesley has always had the upper hand. He’s never allowed himself to be as vulnerable as he is now. But out of everyone, Childe deserves it the most. 

“I had a hard time getting adopted, what with the scar under my eye, the whole colourblind thing. At sixteen, I’d been there longer than most of the others. I got on well with most of my siblings, but I was closest to one of the other boys, a year younger than me. He’d been there most of his life, and we figured we’d always have each other. At least, until he was adopted.” 

Wriothesley sucks in a breath, and continues on. “The rule was that once a kid left our family, we had to cut off contact. If they were to miss their old life, it would cause their new parents grief. So if we wanted to meet up, we had to do it behind everyone’s backs. We agreed on a secret spot, and I waited there, every day, for weeks. He never showed up. I knew he wasn’t the type to break promises, so I did some digging on my own. It turned out he was never adopted. He was sold. I don’t know if he tried to escape, or if the new owners simply tossed him out, but by the time I found him, he was dead. When I looked into all the records of all the others who had ever been adopted, all trails led to the same conclusion. All of them trafficked, most of them dead or missing.” 

“Fuck,” says Childe under his breath. His hands are clenched together, his knuckles white. He looks nauseated. 

“After that, I did the only thing I could think to do. I ran away. I trained. What I lacked in physical strength, I made up for with technology. The gauntlets you’ve seen in my office— I made the earliest prototypes for those when I was living on the streets, figuring out the best and most efficient way to kill somebody twice my size.” Wriothesley lets out a darkly amused laugh. “It paid off. Six months later, I went back, and I killed both my parents.” 

Childe looks at him, and in his eyes is something Wriothesley probably should have expected to see, given everything he knows about Childe. Something that Wriothesley never quite got at his trial, or the duration of his sentence. Empathy. Understanding. Compassion.

“Why’d I do it?” Wriothesley shrugs. “A hotly contested question, in court. Some argued I did it for vengeance. Others say it was out of a sense of justice, carried out in order to free the rest of my siblings. And still others say I simply had the cold instinct of a killer inside me— and a kid like that couldn’t be allowed to live on the surface again, could he? If you ask me, I don’t really know, either. But they were right about one thing. I did something I shouldn’t have. So I bore the consequences, and did the time. Ten years in prison. And look at me now— Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. Who would’ve thought?” 

Childe regards him wordlessly for a long moment. “You said you did something you shouldn’t have,” says Childe, “but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. They deserved to die.” 

Wriothesley lets out a breath. “That’s not the point.” 

“Sorry,” says Childe, fidgeting with his hands. “I shouldn’t have led with that. I know you worked hard to turn your life around, and I’m not trying to make light of that.” 

“It’s alright,” says Wriothesley, a little bemused. “I figured you might say something like that, anyway.” If there’s anything he knows about Childe, it’s his sense of conviction. Of responsibility. How stubborn he is, when it comes to the idea of protecting childhood innocence. It’s why the two of them ended up being more alike than Wriothesley ever expected.

He places a hand over Childe’s. “What I’m trying to say is this. I won’t ask you if you’ve ever killed anyone—”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” says Childe. “I definitely have.” 

Wriothesley fights back a chuckle. “But I’d hazard a guess that it was part of the job. A direct order, or a casualty from a fight. It’s quite different from a six-month plot to carry out a double homicide.”

Childe shakes his head. “You were a kid.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I did what I did, Childe. And it doesn’t change the fact that, no matter how I feel about you, I’m not the type of person you want to bring home and introduce to your parents. A former murderer turned prison warden, who’s twice your age, and has no idea what a real family’s like? Even on paper, anyone would balk at the thought of it.”

Wriothesley doesn’t know what he expects from Childe. Perhaps the same understanding he’d extended earlier. A tacit understanding of the real reason why Wriothesley had to shoot down what seemed a harmless fantasy. But it’s certainly not this. 

“That’s bullshit.” 

Childe looks— not entirely angry, but disgruntled, in a manner born of indignant affection. “You do know what a real family’s like. Your brother— he was your family. And all your other siblings, they were your family, too. And whether you meant to or not, what you did saved their lives. I didn’t know you back then, but I know you now, Wriothesley, and I know the lengths you’d go to to help the people you care about. You helped me when we barely knew each other. You built an entire ship to save Fontaine, for Archons’ sake.” Childe locks eyes with Wriothesley, his gaze set with fiery determination. “So don’t you dare tell me I shouldn’t bring home someone like you when I know exactly the kind of person you are.” 

It’s not quite relief that washes over Wriothesley. It’s something stronger, much like the feeling he encountered when he first walked into the infirmary and saw Childe, safe and sound and there. He’s only now beginning to understand that, perhaps, Childe is not something that can be washed away with the floods of time and distance, but something that will rise above it, fight through it with sheer force of will. That Childe just might be his Wingalet after all. 

“You sound quite sure of yourself.” Wriothesley gives Childe a wry smile, a poor attempt at hiding the way his heart trembles in his ribcage like a newborn animal. “There are still a lot of things you don’t know about me. We’ve only just scratched the surface.” 

Childe nudges him in the arm with his shoulder. “The surface is overrated.” And then he winks, actually winks, and Wriothesley feels as though he’s been knocked prone.

“Oh?” Wriothesley quirks an eyebrow. “Try telling your parents you’d rather be trapped thousands of feet underwater than go home to Snezhnaya.” 

Childe laughs. “If they saw you, they just might understand.” He exhales, leaning his head on Wriothesley’s shoulder, hair tickling the exposed skin there. “I really do think they’d love you. They love me, after all. And besides…” A light tinge of pink blooms across the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to know everything about someone to love them, right?” 

It’s almost innocuous enough to miss. It takes Wriothesley several seconds to realize that he’s being confessed to, and several more for Childe to pull away, looking bashfully up at him from beneath long lashes. Wriothesley doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know that there’s anything he can say. He never had the faintest idea what it was like to be in love—has only barely begun to register the possibility of it—but if he’s going to take the plunge, then he can’t think of anybody else that he’d rather do it with. 

He places a hand at the nape of Childe’s neck and pulls him forward, pressing their mouths together in a kiss. Childe lets out a soft, contented little noise, and Wriothesley realizes then that Childe won’t ask for more, that he expresses his feelings because he wants to, because he can’t hold himself back from doing so, not because he expects anything in return. The thought makes Wriothesley close his eyes and kiss him harder, as if the shape of Childe’s mouth might lend him the words he wants so badly to return.

When they finally pull apart, Childe’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Wriothesley wants to kiss him stupid all over again. Instead, he says, “You got a pen and paper?”

Brow furrowed in mild confusion, Childe shakes his head no. 

“Fair enough.” Wriothesley lets out a small laugh. “I was going to write you a Coupon. For Snezhnaya. But this’ll have to do. Hold out your hand.”

Childe does as told, palm up, and Wriothesley traces the faint scars on them with his eyes. He looks Childe over, memorizing every perceptible detail until they next meet. Maybe he doesn’t know the colour of Childe’s hair the way others do. But he knows Childe, knows the sunset they shared and the feeling of his skin pressed beneath his own, knows that this is the only boy he would traverse a foreign snowstorm for, in this life and the next. 

He takes Childe’s palm in his hand, and, with the pad of his forefinger, traces the shape of a heart. He folds Childe’s fingers around it and squeezes his hand tight. 

“Hold on to it for me, yeah? Until next time.” 

Childe beams at him, the light of a hundred setting suns behind wide blue eyes, and says, “I’ll guard it with my life.”