There was something oddly poetic about sparring with him—like dancing on the edge of danger with someone who always knew exactly how close was too close. Childe, the Eleventh Harbinger, the infamous Fatui menace, grinned wildly every time your blade met his with a clash loud enough to scare the seabirds off the rooftops.

His stance was aggressive, unpredictable, fast—but with you, there was a softness in how he held back, just barely. His footwork slipped once—intentionally—and your blade grazed his cheek. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he laughed, brushing the cut with a gloved thumb.

“You’re getting better,” he said, breathless, eyes gleaming like the ocean before a storm. “Almost like you want to beat me.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping back into formation, pulse quick from more than just exertion.

He wasn’t subtle about it. The long glances after a duel, the way his voice lowered when he asked when the next spar would be, how he lingered a second too long when helping you up from the ground. To anyone else, he was the perfect storm—deadly, chaotic, fierce. But around you, there was a calm in the eye of it all. A vulnerability he only let peek through the cracks during the lull between fights.

Every match was the same—sweat, blades, bruised knuckles—and yet, every time, he found himself hoping maybe, just maybe, you’d land a strike straight to the heart.