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Mondstadt was terribly, irredeemably boring this time of year.
Lohen almost wishes he was dispatched in time to catch Dvalin’s attack, even though from all objective standpoints he understands they wouldn’t be making that much use of the Fifth Company’s artillery. Or if they did, it still meant Lohen wasn’t going to be satisfied. It was both a blessing and a curse that the position of Vice-Captain supplied him with a frankly ridiculous amount of free time—Varka has always used this as an opportunity to put him to work, though Lohen is beginning to suspect this is in response to his more frequent antics. He can’t help it. He’d get that feeling like an itch he can’t scratch, like something bubbling over just underneath his skin. Bored, bored, bored. He needs to do something, needs to fight something, needs to feel tested and feel panic and feel something.
It is home though, and it’s weird to be home after all the years he’s spent in Nod Krai. Mondstadt is nothing like that, full of languid and breezy mornings and lazy, wine-filled nights. Lohen finds it easy as breathing to slip back into familiar tongue, nigh unrecognizable to anyone foreign. So far away from Mondstadt, language becomes more and more difficult to maneuver, but given how often the Fifth Company is stationed abroad accompanying others, most of them are proficient in each country’s own dialect. Standard Teyvatian can only get you so far, especially in the countryside where the accents are so thick Lohen can’t comprehend a word.
That had to have been his least favorite part of being Vice-Captain. So appalling was Lohen at just sitting down and cross-referencing linguistics of all things that he’d resist the urge to knock over the table with his knee ten minutes in. Unfortunately, that meant that the first year in Nod Krai, where it was a melting pot of both Snezhnayan and, if you go further south enough, Natlani—along with its own distinct dialect—that Lohen very much wished he had the patience for studying. It didn’t help that he was worst of all at Snezhnayan, which shared so many words and pronunciation with so many Nod Krai dialects. He was good at learning through the physical, through getting it beat into him so thoroughly he’d wipe the blood off his nose with his knuckles and brush the dirt off of his knees, and have the gall to taunt. The only pay-off Nod Krai had was the Wild Hunt and all the scars they’ve given Lohen, faded pale pinks marring his ribs and his chest, shoulders, wherever. When he would press his fingers into bandages and wince, and have a new one to show as soon as the last would heal. That was what Lohen couldn’t find anywhere else, no matter what.
it was a time of peace, all the more reason why returning to Mondstadt from Nod Krai gave him whiplash. There were less people afraid to walk outside of city borders at night, more lone settlements in the countryside, more laughter, more children. The knights here were lazy, some of them had likely not ever seen war before Dvalin, and had continued to not see any after. It was getting equally boring to whip them into shape, because they’d always clear out when Lohen walked past. Windblume was far away, Weinlesefest even farther. For the first time in a long time, Lohen had absolutely nothing to do. Disciplining his subordinates was getting old, and Varka was suddenly an expert at vanishing acts, or he had finally learned how to evade Lohen’s ambushes—which were getting more and more intricate. He thinks one more week is all he has before he starts taking up manufacturing explosives on his down time.
This more or less came to a violent pause in the Grand Master’s office a day later, which he lovingly counts as Barbatos answering prayers he hadn’t even made. Varka complains about the Fatui in Mondstadt, to which Jean tiredly implies there’s actually an entire Harbinger staying at the Goth Grand Hotel to which the open book Lohen had placed on his eyes to block out the offensive sunlight immediately slides off and falls onto his lap. Jean turns to him at the sound and immediately looks like she wants to stuff the words back into her mouth.
”No,” Varka immediately says, like he thinks Lohen is going to do something reckless.
Which is ridiculous. “I’m not that irresponsible,” Lohen calls, turning away from the window, but he suddenly can’t stop thinking about it. How would he even go about it? He’d have better luck propositioning a Harbinger than fighting one and risk dragging Mondstadt down with him. “Which one of them is it, anyway?”
For the most part, the Knights have extensive documentation on the Fatui. As far as information on the Harbingers goes, it’s fairly comprehensive, but irritatingly ambiguous on the finer details of their operations. Their Director is elusive, had previously thought to have been one of them prior to findings in recent years—though Lohen credits this development more to improved Mondstadt-Snezhnayan relations if anything.
Coming from a nation that never really had overtly sour diplomatic correspondence with the Fatui, Lohen hadn’t conceptualized what it was about Nod Krai that had been so unsettling to him until a few months in. It was half Fatui, half civilian; a place that was distinctly its own and distinctly othered. The officers stationed there would refer to it as if it was the backwater of Snezhnaya, a forgotten strip of land. He really couldn’t care less about foreign affairs, no matter how much it made him seem like a terrible person to admit. If it wasn’t Mondstadt, if it wasn’t his immediate home, Lohen found it difficult to empathize, but even he knew the all-consuming Abyss would come for them all if left unattended. It was always in his best interest to do what he does best, and he was damn good at his job when it came down to it. If anyone had thought otherwise, he wouldn’t always be dragged around from division to division, getting his fill and barely spending a day off before he’d pack to go off to wherever the Knights needed the armaments.
Nod Krai knew of the Fatui far more intimately than Mondstadt did, and the expedition only confirmed hazy theories the Knights only had hunches about. Lohen could recognize the internal structure of Fatui strongholds from memory now due to the instances the Knights had infiltrated in the past few years, though information that confidential has been locked behind the cage of his teeth since it entered in through his ears. He’d recognize any of them on appearance alone, or maybe by the way their division operates. They all looked distinct. Financial arm (boring), diplomatic arm (boring), glorified Snezhnayan ambassadors (boring), military combatants…
Lohen perks up. Jean’s eyes narrow. Whatever extended report she’s giving Varka has been turned into background noise for the past thirty minutes. Lohen doesn’t even know why Varka summoned him so early if he was going to keep him waiting for so long. He must’ve known at this point in time Lohen would be out somewhere getting the shit beat out of him. “You don’t really need to know that.”
He can tell when he’s being denied information because of confidentiality and when he’s being denied information because it’s convenient. This does not indicate the former, as informed by Varka humming in consideration. “Actually, I think they’d get along.” Jean looks aghast. Lohen looks between them, abruptly realizing he’s entirely lost as to what they could be talking about. It takes him exactly one second to realize who Varka is referring to, it takes him another to realize what Varka is implying. “Lohen’s looking like he’s going to join Klee on one of her outings, in any case.”
Lohen feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin. He only holds himself together long enough to ask again, heart hammering in his chest, “Which one is he?”
Varka raises a brow in amusement. “I didn’t say it was a he, but seeing as you’re already getting ahead of yourself…”
He lets his head fall back uncomfortably on the chair. Varka laughs, but Lohen’s thoughts is already going a mile a minute. There’s only one Harbinger who they could possibly be referring to, unless they know something Lohen doesn’t—which may seem likely, but there’s never been any reason for the Knights to withhold potentially important information in identifying Fatui aggressors amongst themselves. Lohen himself has half of the Fatui’s ranks and even details on individuals fully memorized. It really, really doesn’t take a genius.
Childe, Tartaglia. It’s unclear as to whether that is his true name or another codename. The Fatui are a largely discreet organization; their Harbingers even more so. While Lohen may not have trouble identifying him if he looked him in the eyes hard enough, he’s never met him before. Still, word of mouth is enough, even amongst soldiers. The Eleventh of the Fatui Harbingers is not to be underestimated in the slightest, and word is he has an even nastier power kept tightly under wraps. Taverns in Nod Krai and beyond feature drunk off-duty Fatui soldiers and mere mercenaries alike discussing all the unknown about the Eleventh. Some of them have said he’s part-alien, some of them have said he’s an unassuming young man, some of them have made him out to be some sort of juggernaut. Regardless, they’re all scared shitless of him. Whether or not it’s true that he enjoys the heat and thrill of battle to its very bones, Lohen is giddy just thinking about what it would be like to go up against a Harbinger like him.
The fantasy featuring the faceless Harbinger with Lohen’s blood on his (spear? Blade? Blades? Arrows? Firearm?) hands quickly disperses when Lohen considers it for longer than a moment. He, unfortunately, cannot realistically waltz up to the Goth Grand Hotel, demand entry on the basis of his knighthood, and then pray he can irritate the Eleventh into accepting a spar. Not to mention there’s no guarantee the Eleventh won’t be a let-down. Who’s to say those weren’t just intimidated recruits spreading around all those stories? Gods know if Lohen was half as horrifying and as grotesque as his bumbling recruits thought he was, he’d never even have the need for them.
”Lohen,” Jean tries, sounding concerned and very, very tired.
“I’m not going to do anything.” He says after a moment, when he can visibly see the nervous energy practically rattling off of her. She relaxes at that. Varka, however, looks unconvinced. They look reversed. “He sounds boring, anyway.”
Yes, he finally convinces himself entirely. It would be a colossal waste of time. In about a week or two weeks or however short amount of time the Harbinger and his glorified entourage are to be plaguing Mondstadt for, they will be gone and Lohen can let out the breath he’d no doubt be holding until then. It’s not like he’s going to run into him out in the open.
The apparently necessary disproving comes to fruition a week later, when Lohen does, in fact, run into him out in the open.
He supposes “out in the open” is an exaggeration for the second floor of Angel’s Share, but Lohen had no reason to suspect he wouldn’t be one of two people alone leaning over the balcony with warm, bitter alcohol traveling down his throat. He glances to his side, and there they are; two high-ranking Fatui soldiers in uniform and another young man with them—not sharing their uniform—seated at the furthest table. It did not take long for Lohen, even tipsy, to put two and two together. Mismatch of copper and something paler and that distinctively emblematic maroon mask situated on the side of his head, freckled skin and the beaded earring hanging off of one ear, and the Hydro Vision strapped to his belt. The loose and relaxed form of his posture while his subordinates sat as rigid and as straight as boards. His eyes are closed, the picture of tranquility, his cheek leaned on his knuckle.
Childe is not a comically large man like some have exaggerated, neither is he, at least outwardly, alien or monstrous. He is a pretty face, to be sure, and taller than Lohen by nearly a head, but Lohen could hardly care about something as frivolous as appearance. Not when there was a Harbinger a few feet away from him.
He couldn’t make out their conversation, but he was certain they weren’t brazen enough to discuss classified affairs so openly when they had their own base in Mondstadt, so Lohen didn’t bother trying to listen in. Childe seemed to have been listening to every word his subordinate was saying, despite how bored he looked. His perfectly arched brows furrowing at one word or his expression turning considering at the other, the way he idly drummed at the table with scarred hands half-covered by gloves, the same scars that traveled and no doubt continued beyond his visibly defined covered forearms. His jacket was pinned at his top half, revealing the scarred skin below it and wisps of auburn disappearing underneath his belt…
Lohen snapped his eyes back up to his eyes, which were open and meeting his.
Embarrassment was not a common feeling for him to have. Shame evaded him equally well. It seems even in this moment he’s gone without it, even though he should be mortified at being caught. Lohen doesn’t back down or avert his gaze, and instead continues staring, almost defiantly. The woman to Childe’s side turns her head, as though she can see Lohen from where he’s standing behind her. He feels a chill down his spine, the good kind of chill, but he feels like a fight isn’t coming on soon and he doesn’t think it’s in anyone’s best interest to go and pick one. Especially not after that stellar first impression he’s made.
Lohen takes another swig, can feel a stray droplet running down the corner of his mouth. He wishes it was his own blood. Lately, Lohen’s been feeling like he has too much of it, like he’s going to burst if he goes another week without an outlet. Dull blue eyes trace the line of it, the way Lohen wipes it off his chin, or maybe it’s his own hazy imagination.
His suspicions are confirmed when the Harbinger sits up abruptly and approaches him, a word exchanged with his subordinates before he does. So, he’s the polite kind, or giving off the image of one. Lohen files that away for later, like he’s going to remember it. His gaze travels to his companions to see if he can infer anything, but no dice, they even seem comforted by whatever it is he said. Lohen sighs. Childe looks friendly enough that if he didn’t immediately know he was a Harbinger he never would’ve suspected it, and the knowledge of that only makes his manners more unsettling.
“You know, if you looked at my Vision any longer I’d think you’d want me to show you a trick or two.”
Lohen blinks, throat dry. “What?”
Childe snorts. Lohen swallows. He’s definitely a head taller than him, and up close like this Lohen can smell him, even. Fresh clothes, freshly washed hair, he can tell by looking, fresh everything. He’s so clean that Lohen wonders if he gets close enough he can smell the copper stained into his skin, maybe on his neck, maybe underneath. “I mean, you were staring at my Vision. Am I wrong to assume that’s also a euphemism for a good brawl over here?”
His Mondstadtan accent is passable, Lohen supposes. He was thinking more about the way Childe’s tongue wrapped around the word Vision and euphemism, such subtly Snezhnayan pronunciation—or maybe it was the way his jaw moved, that was what Lohen always struggled with, he thinks.
Then the content of what he actually said registers. His Vision on his belt. Childe thinks he was looking at his Vision. Lohen clears his throat and shifts his focus to the downstairs where the bartender sighs as he digs out another bottle for the bard who’s still impressively sober. “That doesn’t mean anything in Mondstadt, Harbinger.”
Childe looks elated at being recognized, like he had the audacity to believe Lohen didn’t immediately recognize him. Sitting with two Fatui soldiers, the mask, the way he talks. Does he think every Knight of Favonius is some incompetent cheat? “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sir…?”
Lohen was not going to give a Harbinger his name. That would be ridiculous. “Lohen.”
“Are you always so uptight?” No, Lohen thinks viciously. He feels worse and worse the more time he spends on standby, and worse and worse the more time he considers the effects of trying to do something about that would have. “Or are you scared of me?”
“Unfortunately, Lord Harbinger,” He struggles a bit with that word, because the word Harbinger is uniquely Snezhnayan. He tries (and fails) to keep the laugh out of his words when he says, “I’m more scared of being permanently grounded if I acquiesce to your demands. Surely you can understand.”
”Ah, but even you don’t sound like you believe that.” Childe leans over the railing and dips his head so he’s within Lohen’s line of sight again. “What could your superiors say to a bit of friendly conversation? The one language all soldiers have in common is combat.”
He really thinks about it. Mondstadt-Snezhnayan relations, Jean figuratively (and literally) about to collapse from the weight of shouldering so much work on her own for so long, and the very real concept that Lohen could be the reason she gets even more. Diplomacy. The whole nine yards.
Sorry, Jean, I’ll take full responsibility, he thinks, and then says: “Language, huh?” Childe’s smile widens, morphs more into a grin. He’s really pretty, Lohen thinks. He wants to put his hand on his throat and feel the shape of his voice through his palm. Maybe he could finally pick up Snezhnayan (and Nod Krai by association) pronunciation that way. “You think you could meet me somewhere in an hour? I know a good place.”
His definition of good place and hour are so loose that he sobers up by the time he makes it to the abandoned temple so far out from Mondstadt proper. It was imperative that he was not seen stepping out of a tavern at the same time as a Harbinger and leave the city together, so he doesn’t care how long he has to walk in the borderline-freezing Mondstadt winter night. It probably feels like another regular evening to Childe anyway.
The more time he has to think on it, the more he’s aware this has a lot of potential to go very badly. Lohen may be well-informed about the Fatui specifically, but what he’s almost certain he’s been intentionally made ignorant of was the true nature of their relationship with Mondstadt. Every time he reads back on files or documents or something as insignificant as dealings, there’s been gaps or strangely mishandled summaries. He wouldn’t hold it against his superiors if they were being more careful of information with the rest of the Knights, but he realizes the situation can be a lot more strained than he was aware of.
He’s nearly certain the moment anyone tried to investigate it would only lead to the Fatui weaponizing the death of the last Harbinger who stayed here, whose abrupt departure from Mondstadt could only spell mission success. Lohen has an even more significant disadvantage in questioning considering he was across the entire continent at the time. It’s a dead end.
Realistically, the worst thing that could happen requires two unlikely events to trigger: that the Eleventh is actually weaker than him and a remarkably sore loser. Lohen doesn’t know him well enough in any way to even begin to vouch for the latter, but if he finds that Childe is so weak as to not even pose a challenge it would certainly be more disappointing than spending the rest of the week in torturously dull mundanity. This entire encounter over the span of ten minutes—maybe longer if he counts the catalyst in Varka’s office—alone has been the most entertainment he’s had in months.
He thinks back to the very cadence of his speech, the fluidity in which he spoke Mondstadtan. If Lohen was just listening to the sound of his voice, maybe hear those words in his ear, he thinks he could grasp the fundamentals. He’d recognize the real distinction is the way Childe is so accustomed to clipped vowels and closing up the back of his throat. It’d be better if he just spoke in Snezhnayan, and Lohen could hear those words that he can infer the meaning of but largely don’t exist in Mondstadtan or even Standard Teyvat. It would finally click, he thinks, to see the way Childe forms a grin around the words, and finally get to fight him. Provocative words in the midst of battle, taunting, sly, remarks; maybe with Childe’s boot to his throat Lohen could finally get it.
His thoughts come to a grinding halt when he can feel something in the air shift at the same time he registers he’s actually made it to the temple.
Lohen flexes his fingers, feeling like he can almost sense Childe if he tried hard enough. He’s aware there are some Vision users who actually can, utilizing their abilities to form a sixth sense. Lohen isn’t like that, but even now he feels somewhere deeper. Is it fear, or whatever built-in mechanism he’s supplied with so he could run away from this exact situation? He likes that feeling a lot.
He doesn’t move a muscle in anticipation, his heart pounding. Is the Eleventh the type to start off with a sneak attack? Childe could land a disarming punch to his shoulder blade before Lohen so much as realized it. He could kick the back of his knees and leave a bruise there for days, or maybe Lohen might not even be able to walk for a while—and he’s seen those long legs of his, seemingly lean but probably visibly powerful when stripped down to his skin, like the rest of him. Lohen has no idea what Childe’s weapon of choice is, so his imagination runs even more wild.
Childe doesn’t do any of that, but Lohen is somehow no less disappointed to see him step out from behind a pillar. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to keep your word.”
”Why wouldn’t I?” Lohen surprises himself with how honest and steady his tone comes out. “I’d hardly think the chance to test my blade against a Harbinger’s is one to pass on so easily.”
“How opportunistic of you.” Childe muses. “Well, you’ve got me excited, so don’t disappoint me now.”
Lohen’s off his feet before he finishes his sentence, feeling the wind whipping against his face from how fast he launches himself at him. Childe doesn’t dodge, shifts his stance and meets him head on, Hydro imbued into the line of his arm, acting like solid vambraces and blocking the trajectory of the sharp end of Lohen’s pike.
They’re at a standstill for a moment, with Childe’s interwoven Hydro energy blocking against Lohen’s blade, interrupted by Lohen ducking in time to avoid the round kick delivered to where his neck would’ve been. Lohen can hear nothing but the blood rushing in his ears. He intends to exploit the newly-revealed weakness in Childe’s lower half, before the split-second opportunity is shut closed as Childe uses his momentum to put more distance between them. For a moment, all Lohen hears is the soft rushing of water as it extends past Childe’s hands until they become makeshift daggers, nearly glowing in the night.
He’s heard rumors of this, this entirely unique way Childe utilizes his blessing from the Gods. Seeing it is something else entirely, it requires such immense control and concentration, not to mention to do it so passively—it comes more naturally to those blessed with Geo and Cryo Visions to construct a form from mere ideal and ambition—ease of it necessitates a preexisting structural form. Anemo is the antithesis of structure, of form, and Hydro follows soon after. Lohen feels like he’s getting light-headed just looking at the ease in which he uses them, the fluidity of his body with it as if he himself is the extension of his blades.
He’s perfect, he realizes. The Eleventh Harbinger is utterly perfect, even better than he had thought, and Lohen has always appreciated the anticipation more than just the outcome, the means as much as the ends. However this night could end, he knows in this moment there’s goosebumps erupting all over his skin and a sensation so deep-set he could feel it in his bones. He feels like everything is amplified, the way Childe’s dagger swiftly brushes against his chest and Lohen feels that innate sense of danger danger danger struggle against the overwhelming intentional more more more.
If nothing else, Lohen knows how to goad him on. “This what you meant by a trick? I’ve heard about this all over Nod Krai.”
Childe reels back from the sharp tip of Lohen’s polearm nearly penetrating his ribs, pushed with a force so intent that he can hear the wind whip around it. “Am I disappointing you already?
“No, but you might soon!”
As if in response to his taunts, Childe finally makes his mark, piercing through the layers of leather at his waist. Lohen hisses, scrambling back, feeling the pain and the warm dampness that immediately follows. It was deep enough to immediately draw blood, and Lohen can see the way his blood is stuck on Childe’s blade, not entirely liquid, not entirely solid, simply refusing to mix with the Hydro; like oil to water. It’s a dizzying sight. Childe looks on, seemingly unaffected until Lohen sees the way he’s panting, the pin on his jacket undone revealing the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. There’s a belt around his chest that Lohen couldn’t see with his jacket pinned up like that, and now he wants to pull on it until it bruises the other sides of Childe’s torso.
Childe isn’t merciful, and Lohen is all the more grateful for it when he tries to land another hit immediately and only succeeds in splashing his blood back into his skin. It’s such an odd feeling that Lohen almost revels in it for a moment, before knocking his pike onto Childe’s arm to prevent him from slicing into his eye.
Lohen materializes Cryo energy in his palm, sees the way Childe watches with interest. If he really wanted, he could interrupt him—and Lohen is preparing for that, in any case—but he can see the exact moment curiosity overrules the desire to continue. The skeleton of the long barrel of a firearm constructs itself in Lohen’s hand, filling up from the inside and radiating a seemingly freezing mist. He’s grateful elemental energy is innate to oneself as long as a Vision is used as a catalyst, otherwise Lohen would be freezing his ass off every time he tried to let off some steam.
He sheathes his pike on his back, and slips his fingers into place. At such close range, he was more than certain he was putting himself at more of a disadvantage with a ranged weapon, but that was what made it fun. He didn’t even want to wait to wear himself out until he was defenseless anymore, he wanted to see where openly disrespecting the Eleventh would get him. In response to the aforementioned open disrespect, Childe only laughs.
“Come on, come on, come on—“ Lohen heard himself saying, gesturing to himself, licking his lips like he could taste anything there other than salt and copper. It was difficult enough to pretend like he didn’t want this when it wasn’t even in his hands, but if he even got teased by battle Lohen found it even more difficult to maintain his composure. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding from his nose, but it tended to happen when he got too excited during a fight; it was either that or his blood would flow somewhere else, and he had a feeling that it wouldn’t take long if it hadn’t happened already. Gods, this was the most fun he’s had in ages, with nothing but old machinery and wilderness and the dead of night surrounding them.
“What’s the hurry? We’ve only just started.” Childe finds another weak point in his ribs, and for a moment Lohen thinks he feels his fingers dig into the wound he just made on his waist. He clenches his jaw until he’s sure it’s going to lock, retaliating by bludgeoning Childe’s shoulder with the butt of his firearm.
The sting is so bad it’s good, and Lohen can feel tears welling in his eyes just from the magnitude of it all. He can hear himself start to forgo their common dialect altogether, can feel his words slurring together a bit and wonders if Childe can even understand him anymore. This is what he wants. That feeling of too much blood finally coming to a head as he can feel it bead down a small cut on his shoulder, running down the gaping one on his waist, dripping down the shallow one at his ribs, and the feeling of these open wounds chafing against the fabrics and leather and rubbing against his armor—a pain usually distinctly uncomfortable but in the moment Lohen would think anything feels good enough.
The sharpest pain of all is when Childe’s knuckles brush against the same wounds as he carves out another one, and Lohen never lets him get away with one for free. It’s almost electric, the way Childe touches him, so obviously not sexual yet feeling equivalent to it, distinct from it yet better than it.
“Talk to me,” Lohen huffs, his teeth likely stained red, or else the way Childe keeps looking at his mouth demands another explanation. “In Snezhnayan.”
It seems whatever Childe was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that. It was all Lohen could think about, the way he almost speaks like a native, and then comes the complicated words like euphemism or Vision to go and give him away. Or maybe it was the way even words commonplace to both of their dialects were pronounced differently, like soldier.
“You’re not going to understand a word,” Childe says, and he looks actually amused this time as he lands the next kick to Lohen’s calf, making his knees buckle before he counters with a Cryo shot to his forearm. At this range, the recoil is nearly enough to bring Lohen to his knees. The bullet pierces clean through, and Childe curses in Snezhnayan, stuttering out an exhale. Lohen tries for a follow-up, to which Childe catches the bullet inside his Hydro blade, knocking the flat end of it onto Lohen’s mouth. The bullet quickly falls, not meant to stay suspended in something so loose, and Lohen catches it in his teeth before spitting it onto the floor. Childe licks his lips. He speaks, and Lohen really doesn’t understand much of what he’s saying, only catching words with explicit Teyvatian roots like again and good.
He’s now acutely aware of their position, the way Childe hovers above him and his knee knocks into the throbbing wound at his waist, and Gods, Lohen can even feel all the spots his blood is leaving him, even the points where it begins to coagulate. He can feel everything; their proximity, Childe’s breath on his face, the weight of him on top of him, words pronounced so deeply and foreign to him entirely. Lohen watches his lips. It’s always alien to see the disconnect between someone else’s lips forming words and sounds Lohen has no idea how to imitate, he hears him say Harbinger and tries to repeat it. Even Liyuen was more familiar to him than Snezhnayan, if nothing else solely because of their geographical adjacency, and the fact that Liyuen loan words make up nearly half of the vocabulary in the southern regions.
Childe laughs. “No. Harbinger. You need to strengthen that last sound. It’s too weak.”
Now, Lohen thinks he feels shame. Is a Harbinger really how he’s finally able to grasp Snezhnayan phonetics? “Are you gonna punish me if I get it wrong again?” He taunts, before quickly realizing he wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.
“Can you even get up?”
Lohen furrows his brows, and makes to flip them over before Childe presses firmly on his chest with his forearm. With how injured Lohen is, and with the force of gravity on his side, it’s nigh impossible to force himself out of this position, and any struggle is met in equal pushback. Childe raises a brow, as if to say now what and Lohen sighs. “Fine. Harbinger, you’re such a killjoy.”
It was far from the truth, if the unsettling look in his eyes the entire time served any indication, and the excitement radiating off of him whenever Lohen narrowly misses a killing strike—which he only attempted because he was confident if the Eleventh Harbinger couldn’t dodge it he’d deserve to die—it was like looking into a mirror. Sparring was no fun for Lohen, because the stakes were so low. At the same time, he would never wish for calamity to befall the one place he cares about just so he could feel good for a few hours. He’s at a strange moral standpoint; caught between caring too much and caring too little. This was good, fun, having someone to fight who likes the stakes just as much, likes the feeling of his life on the line and the searing pain of blows traded and the enthusiasm on his opponents face. Lohen would hate to be called boring, so he reasonably assumes that Childe, like him, would also dislike it.
Instead, Childe just smiles, shifting his knee to poke into his side again. Lohen’s head rolls back, eyes squeezed shut at the irritation of the abrasive fabric of Childe’s pants rubbing into his jagged wound, and bites his lip around a far more offensive sound. It’s less of a sting, which Lohen likes, and more of just discomfort, which Lohen typically doesn’t like. “See? You’re no fun for me to fight like this. Why wouldn’t I move on to better things? If you’re that bored, I could just knock you out and leave you on the headquarters’ doorstep. I wonder how well the Knights would take that.”
Lohen’s livid, because he’s right, any more and he will pass out, and Childe is smart enough to realize that wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone—as opposed to Lohen being thoroughly injured but still conscious enough to vouch I really did want that Harbinger to beat the shit out of me. He’s still certain after what Varka said to him last week he shouldn’t expect anything less and should not even voice half of a complaint that Lohen went and got along with the Eleventh like he said.
“Fine, fine.” And then, “How long are you staying?”
“In Mondstadt?” Lohen nods, taking a small pride in the way Childe stumbles on the pronunciation a bit. “Maybe another month. Why do you ask?”
Lohen nods again, even though that’s not really a good response, feeling the edges of his vision blur a bit. He’s feeling numb in some places and intensely in others, and Childe must understand because he loosens the pressure on him and shifts to roll onto his back beside him, chest rising and falling erratically as he does. Lohen doesn’t understand how he’s able to press his forearm to another surface so firmly when there’s a bullet hole in it, or maybe it didn’t even exit like he thought it did. “Same time next week? Maybe you could teach me how to say comrade and I could teach you how to say Mondstadt.”
Childe looks to him and laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”