Loss, to Zhongli, is an old friend, curling its arms around his shoulders in an ever-present embrace. It is never oppressive, it just is. A kiss of old memories lingering on his back, soft whispers and old phrases that he only half remembers; these are the things he thinks of in his old age.
Childe, though—the loss of Childe is something else entirely.
There was no death. They did not share harsh words, though their parting was strained, riding the wave of Zhongli's carefully executed plan. Childe was angry—bitterly so—which is why it stung when he left as though there was little between them.
Childe just smiled sweetly at him with that rapscallion grin that pulls Zhongli undertow, drowning him in a thick tide of emotions he thought he'd forgotten.
"It's been great, Xiangsheng—" He never did get the hang of pronouncing it correctly, resulting in a strange accent that never failed to make Zhongli chuckle softly. "Thank you for being a good host."
Zhongli is more than a host. Childe is more than a friend, he's—
He sucks in a breath. Closes his eyes and tries to ground himself in the earth, sinking into the dirt, resonating with the stone and land. These are the things he did not allow himself to feel because it is unwise to carry feelings for a pawn in his plan.
But, Childe is gone. And Zhongli stands high in the mountains, facing away in the direction that Childe is headed. He imagines snowed peaks and bitter-cold permafrost; of ice fishing and an icy palace that'll only suck away the life from those who call it home.
"I wish I had told you," says Zhongli so softly that only the wind hears him. "Is this love, I would wonder, a foolish thing for an Archon. But now I am just an old man." He sighs, resigned, tired and exhausted. His heart feels almost as though it's slowed to a crawl in his chest.
Before things turned, before Zhongli handed over his Gnosis with Childe watching from the shadows, they would spend their nights together sharing stories and wine. Childe would drag a hand over Zhongli's arms, his fingers warm even through the fabric of his shirt.
This loneliness is different, this time clawing through his chest with an acrid vengeance. "Be well," he murmurs, kissing the breeze, "and when you drink tea, perchance, dream of me."
Zhongli will dream that he does.