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Chapter Text

Should Zhongli take a stroll by the wharf at this hour, he would find it festooned and bright.

The bay would be teeming with galleys and barges drawn up with not even a handbreadth distance between them as the Captain of the Crux proclaims her feasts. It will all be to the Tianquan's chagrin and secret pleasure, of course, that the Crux has journeyed from Fontaine on it’s treacherous seas. Good for trade.

Zhongli imagines shoals of slickfish fleeing when fireworks dim the moon of the Liyue harbour.

Over at this corner of the city though, Wanmin restaurant is quiet without that child, Xiangling, and the customers she has diverged by throngs from the main restaurant to the feast by the coast. 

He braces his barley wine as his colleague works through her food without making a single inclination of conversation. It is not as if he expected the Ferrylady to make any effort to fill in the silence of the unusually empty Wanmin restaurant.

“Hm.” As if on cue, she surfaces from her bowl, making a vague assenting noise, chewing on a piece of the tea smoked duck that Zhongli had taken great pains to procure like it is horse fodder. 

“'Hm’? You wound me, Madam Undertaker. I insist you have the patience to savor it. This color, this bitterness in the meat from the fissured bark of a young camphorwood—”

She raises another bite to her mouth, levelling him a flat stare. “Eat, Consultant. Director Hu will dock our salary if we are late again.”

Director Hu is out on some self appointed duty that she did not bother informing either of them about, but the Ferrylady is a strict girl of set principles who honors her job. Zhongli respects that. She also generously pays for both of their meals. Either way, they must see to it that the funeral house closes timely.

Celebratory gongs rattle the foundations of stone and calcite, and Zhongli eats.

-

By the time they reach the alley leading to the funeral house, the building is steeped in a glove of darkness. A single oil lamp flutters in a far corner, lending to the gloom and superstition that the house already cultivates well on its own. 

It is this very reputation that has managed to scare every child in the Liyue harbor from this street despite the gaggle of stray cats that gather here everyday. Zhongli has begun to suspect that their boss’ temperament is a contributing factor to this.

“Director Hu is yet to return.” He observes.

“So it seems.” The Ferrylady sighs, separating a cluster of keys from her belt. She does not seem altogether too put off by this. “Tang Wei’s obituary and permissions have been sorted out with her guardian, yes?” 

Tang Wei - hers is the smallest casket lined in the funeral hall. Zhongli remembers the deceased child well. He had been briefed that she had fallen from a high shrine in a freak accident in broad daylight.

Earlier that day at the golden hour, Tang Wei’s mother sat in a patch of sunlight by the tea house with Zhongli, grief percolating like dust around her. The young mother was dressed in mourning whites and a cloak of courtesy that she tried very hard to keep before eventually dissolved into hiccupping sobs with Zhongli’s hand hovering over her back. 

“Permissions have been taken care of. You may proceed as scheduled.”

The Ferrylady clicks the lock open, already a foot inside. The funeral house’s insides are dark, clouded with myrrh and metal. “That is all then. You may take your rest Master Zhongli. I will leave after locking up.” 

“Very well.” Zhongli inclines his head. “Good evening, Madam Undertaker, and thank you for the meal.” 

“Mn.” Before she steps into the funeral house, she pauses briefly, and Zhongli half expects to be chastised for some careless error on his part. “My nephew will leave breakfast in the morning. Return the tins and spoons to Ming-er whenever he comes next time around.” 

“My...warmest gratitude.” 

She says nothing else, it is like she has not heard him, and disappears into the funeral house like a wraith beckoned by it's gloom.

Zhongli’s own office is a corner outside Wangsheng Funeral parlor, just over a flight of stairs organized in ruyi style leading to a sparse but compact walkway. 

His very first winter after the harbingers took his Gnosis to their queen was spent at Madam Ping’s boarding house for travelers and merchants. 

Zhongli still recalls the kang bed-stove and hot coals with fondness, all complete with a smoking pipe and tobacco. Madam Ping had gone so far as to set aside several pairs of gloves and leather boots with good solid soles for him. 

Over the duration of those few months, travelers and adventurers started taking their rice bowls to gather beside him at the boarding house’s refractory, eager for his direction. Zhongli began to accumulate trinkets as parting or thanks, falling into a predictable pattern of glutting luxury and stagnancy. He had not quite anticipated what would become of him with the absence of the duties that once honed him.

As of last week, Zhongli takes to sleeping in his office. He wakes up unruly every morning on the bamboo mat to the noise of the streets of Liyue. He can barely bring himself to complain.

“Mrew.” 

A stray cozies up his boot. With his gray matted fur and bad eye, Zhongli almost immediately recognizes him.

“Have you been good today?” 

The cat yowls, following Zhongli as he makes quick work of checking if the wicks of the lamps can weather through the night. He takes care to shed his left glove only part way, lighting the extinguished ones with a matchstick that goes out twice before he is finished. It is especially windy by the pier today. Barbados is always reckless, for he is always drunk, stirring up the seas carelessly.

“Mrrrp.” 

“Yes, yes.” 

The cat shimmies up Zhongli’s boot, trailing behind him as Zhongli begins to make his way upstairs. Cast mid momentum, he only barely catches the speck coming into his field of view down into the courtyard. 

Where have you been? Zhongli wants to call out, but something about her makes him backtrack, and reexamine. 

“Director Hu.” He says, as a way of greeting.

From this vantage point, Hu Tao’s back is facing him, and her hat is visibly lopsided. It looks as though she is looking down into her arms. More prominent still, is the stifling wall of char and wood rising from her. 

This itself is not uncommon for those who are imbued by Murata’s blessing. Even from this distance, Zhongli can see Director Hu’s Vision glisten bright red.

“Consultant,” Director Hu replies, uncharacteristically grave. “Lend me your expertise. We must proceed at once.”

Sure enough, something is amiss. “I am afraid I do not understand.” 

Director Hu jerks on her heels as if she has been struck, before whirling around to face him.

Right now, under the lamplight, she does not look like her usual jovial self. That is not what has Zhongli descending down the stairs at once, though.

Director Hu does not even blink when he demands, “What is the meaning of this?” 

There is a child in Hu Tao’s arms. 

The child is strikingly pale, with long veins of congealed purple blood running up the side of a little neck. A sealing talisman covers half of the child’s features, the characters painted on the paper are nigh illegible with how faded they are. One look and Zhongli recognizes the hand that painted it, knows that this seal is meant to last, and it will for another millennium.

Hu Tao shifts the child in her arms carefully, inexperienced with the handling of it, but not deliberately unkind.

“She...Consultant, I found her like this. I must fulfill my duty, lend her a hand, and let her pass on. You must help me.” 

Zhongli refrains his answer. 

The child does not look the part. She is cared for, dressed in a fine violet frock and shining black boots, with not a single wayward spot of dirt or blood on her. The moment he seeks out Tsarita’s Vision of frost, he thinks he must be losing his touch, with the way he did not understand earlier.

“Qiqi, the young helper at the Bubu Pharmacy.” 

Director Hu shifts. Is this news to her then? Zhongli wonders how she even came upon little Qiqi. Zhongli has himself visited the pharmacy in hopes to see how she fares multiple times to no avail.

"You cannot take her as you see fit.”

Director Hu frowns, but says nothing.

Unbidden, he thinks of Tang Wei’s mother dissolving into dust by the tea house, and Qiqi’s guardian, that assured doctor who smelled of costly essences, caving into little Qiqi’s demands so easily. Tartagalia’s threatening negotiations deterred him very little. He kept fussing over her, keeping her attached to his leg, cosseting her. 

“She has a home to go back to.” Director Hu is still only vaguely listening to him, so he takes a step closer. “Doctor Baizhu must be worried for her.”

Director Hu looks down into little Qiqi’s still face, maybe simply caught off by this information. After working for Director Hu, he knows her to the degree she allows herself to be known. She has the attention span of a moth batting open flame, wears her late grandfather’s hat with pride, and talks animatedly to what may or may not be thin air. 

When Zhongli reaches for Qiqi, Director Hu does not resist. He takes the child in his arms, and tucks her against his chest. Qiqi is clammy to touch, and a curious salt-laden dampness sticks to her. It does not startle him when her chest does not rise and fall. Zhongli recognizes this gimmick being his own human disguise. They are one of the same stock, after all.

With little Qiqi drooping over his shoulder and his hand braced behind her back, soon the funeral house is yet another building in yet another alley of a long street in the harbor.

-

Bubu pharmacy usually remains well open into the evening. Zhongli knows this because the Ferrylady suffers extreme bouts of headaches and he takes her prescriptions to a young herbalist employed on the premises. Zhongli fully expects that he will encounter the same man, young Gui, as he usually does.

Celebrations rage at the harbor, just underneath him and Qiqi, cymbals and gongs rattling the back of his teeth. Mount Tianheng looms like a dark beast in the backdrop of the Yujing Terrace as he traces the pathway between the water lilies, careful not to rock Qiqi too much with his steps.

When he rounds the final corner, mist swells over the water, and thins. Zhongli pauses despite himself.

A slender man bundled in a green hanfu is sitting atop the stairway that leads to the pharmacy. A handsome cane rests at his feet, tipped with gold that winks in a well-lit area. 

“Qiqi?” The man’s face emerges as he staggers up, reaching for the cane at his feet, having already sensed movement at the foot of the stairs. 

Zhongli does not remember Doctor Baizhu looking quite like this.

“Qiqi is unconscious. I do not know why—” Zhongli stops himself, and moves just as the doctor begins to.

They meet in the middle. Doctor Baizhu is almost as tall as Zhongli himself, yet unsteady like he will tip over and fall. He does not pay attention to Zhongli immediately, instead, he reaches out, touching the frill of Qiqi’s dress with his fingertips.

"Oh my stars."

Zhongli notes that Doctor Baizhu looks different than he usually does. He is without his heavy-set glasses and the lack of the frame renders him almost delicate in the face, his eyes becoming unusually expressive as he seeks out Qiqi in the curve of Zhongli’s arm. Doctor Baizhu is also in disarray, his hanfu is open at the front over slopping clavicles, hair long and unmade, frizzy in the humid maritime breeze.

“I found her unharmed.” Zhongli assures and shifts Qiqi closer to Doctor Baizhu, who stops brushing Qiqi’s hair back at Zhongli’s comment.

The eyes that regard Zhongli are suddenly flat and without expression. 

“Apologies. It has been some time since we last met...Zhongli, of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour.” 

Doctor Baizhu’s voice emerges just as Zhongli last remembers it: tempered, contemplating. 

“I remember you well, Master Zhongli.” The hand smoothing Qiqi’s hair withdraws immediately like it wasn't even there. “Thank you for bringing Qiqi back home.” 

For a beat, Zhongli waits for the follow-up question, and yet oddly, it never comes. “I am only glad she is safe.”

They fall silent. Doctor Baizhu’s hand hovers over Qiqi, and he shifts tenderly onto his side.

It becomes clear with the passing second that Doctor Baizhu is hardly managing his own weight standing up. His stomach is a mere cun length from Zhongli’s crossed arm, leaning himself somewhat unsteadily on his birch cane, knowing he cannot carry Qiqi like this. He dawdles, and does not take Qiqi from Zhongli.

Shifting Qiqi securely up his chest, Zhongli says. “If you will allow me to accompany you.” 

“Ah.” Doctor Baizhu murmurs, deflating almost instantly. It is only then that he seems to note his state of undress, crossing the front of his hanfu close as he turns away. “Yes. That would be for the best.”

The climb is slow with his cane wobbling every time he puts weight on it. Doctor Baizhu’s support seems to offer little to no comfort to him with how little force he can spare with his arms, the golden tip clicking on the edges of the stairs rather loudly. Zhongli shifts Qiqi to the hollow of his right arm and braces his other hand behind Doctor Baizhu. 

“We must stop for some time.”

“It is fine,” Doctor Baizhu speaks with force, a long hair coming to stick to his sweaty cheek. He sounds haggard. “No, let us continue. This is nothing, Master Zhongli. I am merely just tired.” 

He stumbles only once, nearing the end. Zhongli's hand reaches out instinctively, coming to rest on the small of Baizhu’s back. The hanfu is deceptively thin, and the line of his waist is startlingly and feverishly warm.

“Thank you.” Baizhu does not turn, nothing to his tone that indicates gratitude, or anything otherwise.

Zhongli clears his throat politely, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

At the apex of the staircase, he sees that the pharmacy’s doors are thrown wide open with warm light flooding out like an open stove flame. Just a few paces from them, Herbalist Gui is rapidly pacing to and fro and he does not seem to notice as Zhongli helps Doctor Baizhu climb the last step.

“Gui.” Doctor Baizhu’s voice is quiet, yet the young herbalist turns around instantly.

“Master Baizhu.” Herbalist Gui sounds watery, running to them in long strides. The young man is well near tears as he skids to a halt near Zhongli, and jolts visibly, spotting Qiqi. “Blessed be the archons, little Miss Qiqi is safe!”

“Yes. Master Zhongli has our gratitude for bringing Qiqi back.” 

Herbalist Gui sniffs again, like a wild boar who has stuck his head in a hive of agitated wasps. His nose is red and swollen and he proceeds to bow to Zhongli several times. “Thank you! Master Zhongli!”

“Young Gui.” Zhongli greets him, cupping the back of Qiqi’s neck and supporting her weight as he passes her to him. “Please stay by her and try to keep her cool. She ought to surface soon.” 

Gui nods attentively, taking Qiqi from Zhongli. He smooths a hand down Qiqi’s small back as he does with an old, familial affection. He fusses over her sleeping features and tucks her loosened braid over her little shoulder. Zhongli allows himself to feel better by it and does not linger on what would have transpired if he had left the funeral house's courtyard before Director Hu’s arrival.

But young Gui is not done quite yet. “Master Zhongli, how did she even end up like this? Miss Qiqi gets lost often, but has never been like this before!” 

With Doctor Baizhu watching them, Zhongli thinks over his answer. He would be an imbecile to admit he himself is in the dark of how Qiqi wound up unconscious and then in a situation with Director Hu. It is not an easy answer.

Baizhu must sense his hesitance, for he tilts his head, smiling as if it is the most natural thing in the world. 

“Gui, you heard Master Zhongli. Go on, look after Qiqi well.”

Herbalist Gui’s eyes flit between Zhongli and Doctor Baizhu, taken aback. He takes the cue quickly enough though, and stammers out his parting respects to both of them. Zhongli watches him as Qiqi’s pale hair disappears into the golden insides of the pharmacy.

The doctor shifts his cane, click-clack-clack. When Zhongli looks back, he discovers that Doctor Baizhu's smile does not falter. This rather suits him, when he does not don the mask of his trade. Without his glasses, without the lab coat that he drapes on his shoulders.

“Master Zhongli must join me for dinner.” Doctor Baizhu continues cheerful, a solid presence despite the weakness that threatens to buckle his legs. “It matters not if you have already eaten. I insist that you share a pot of tea with me, at least.” 

Again, not an unreasonable request. He wishes to know what happened to Qiqi. 

“Very well. I will be honored to join you for tea, Doctor.” 

Doctor Baizhu’s eyes curve in mirth, and he leans his weight forward. Zhongli almost misses it when Baizhu extends his arm outwards, caving into himself by Zhongli's side. “I am terribly sorry to inconvenience-” 

“Not at all.” 

Doctor Baizhu's hand comes to rest in the groove of Zhongli’s arm. He is careful to follow Baizhu’s lead as he braces him, mindful of his space. Zhongli expects their conversation to be strained without Qiqi’s mindful filter, considering the nature of the only two times they have crossed each other's path, but it nearly isn’t so. 

“My condition might come as a surprise to you.” Doctor Baizhu begins, more measured than just feigning cheer, but it is not with an unwelcome change. “I have simply overestimated myself today. The day has been hard.” 

“Yes.” Zhongli admits truthfully to his initial disbelief, testing the force of his arm around the doctor’s, conveying that it is fine to take more. With Doctor Baizhu’s guidance they have taken a route from the back, the walkway pale with the blueish moonlight leading towards a set of doorways where the building of the pharmacy overlooks the sea. “But it does not matter.” 

“Mm?” Baizhu is distracted with the task of keeping himself upright. They are almost at the threshold. 

“You do not owe me any explanation.” 

Baizhu’s steps falter, but they do not stop for rest as Zhongli initially thinks. Instead, Doctor Baizhu throws his head back and begins to laugh, full-bellied from his stomach. It must only flare his discomfort, surely, but Zhongli only just watches him.

“Ah, Master Zhongli! So literal! I was only being polite.” 

Zhongli smiles, mild, fractious, irritated. “Please feel free to address me informally. A learned man such as yourself...it does not suit you.”  

“Then Zhongli,” Zhong-li, he says with a distinct glottal stop. His tone is light, cajoling, if Zhongli did not know better, he would even call it teasing. Doctor Baizhu is smiling when he continues. “I must express my grief about Director Hu! Do not get me wrong, I don’t have anything against the child, she is precocious and very vocal about her beliefs, but I can only make up so many reasons why else my Qiqi would end up with the consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral parlor."

Zhongli just barely manages to school his features, keeping his voice on an even keel. “You correctly guessed the gist of it. I admit to having some reservations on explaining why I found Qiqi with Director Hu. I do not have all the facts myself.”

“I see.”

They reach a set of twin doors, which give into a room with spacious heavily carpeted insides when Baizhu opens them, thick with the warm press of medicine. The brew is something oily, something that clings to the back of Zhongli’s throat and makes his swallows heavy.

“Ashroots. Hard to find around these marshes...”

Zhongli turns his head, tapering off mid-sentence to find Baizhu’s face tipped in his direction, regarding him.

This close, Zhongli finds that the bitter roots smoking away do not overpower Baizhu’s own heat, with sweat from a long exertion. It is strange after eons of seclusion and proximity to only adeptal energy. 

“Then you must know this too, Zhongli, in fact I want to stress that you understand this.” Baizhu speaks quietly, so close that it goes between them like air. “This is not the first time Qiqi has gotten lost, but this is the first time I was unable to go after her.” 

At this, Baizhu eases his arm out of Zhongli’s grip. The birch cane is soundless as it taps along the carpet, down further to a low divan with expensive latticework on the wood, plush with compact cushions dyed in mute colors.

He gingerly lowers himself down and answers Zhongli’s initial question like their exchange under the doorway did not transpire at all. “Yes, those are indeed ashroot stems. A dear friend had been so kind to bring them for me from Dragonspine’s cliffs up north. Master Zhongli, what a remarkably keen sense!”

The doctor gestures to his right, where there stands a jichi table with a striking white snake resting atop it, curled next to a pile of haw sugar.

“Changsheng. You have met her before. She is moody but communicates well with Gui when I am in need. She also scares curious children from medicine that is not meant for them.” Changsheng only slightly shifts at the vibration of his voice, not paying heed to her master. It seems she does not bode well to Zhongli's presence though, and slithers down the leg of the table, deep into the carpet. 

"I did not expect you to know this.” Baizhu says, after a beat.

They are not talking about Changsheng. “I am only regretful that I could not have prevented this altogether.” 

“And I, as well.” Doctor Baizhu smiles, sinking further into the divan. He sighs, cracking his neck over the side of the divan. “Please, do come in. Is pu’er to your taste?” 

It is too warm outside, enough that Zhongli begins to feel discomfort in his high collars. He also belatedly realizes he’s been standing still at an open doorway, and sees himself in properly before reaching to seal the entrance behind him. “Pu’er will do perfectly, doctor.” 

“Baizhu.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Zhongli,” Zhong-li, he says. His dialect does not seem to be local. His sleeves are long, fabric the color of malachite pools under the bones of Baizhu’s wrists. Baizhu meets Zhongli’s eyes leisurely. 

His smile thins to show a glisten of a man with a purpose. “I must insist. Call me Baizhu.”

-

Zhongli does not attempt to make small talk, only watches as a wall of steam mists over the doctor’s gold-rimmed glasses.

Baizhu folds his right sleeve back, tipping a quaint saucer over a cup fashioned of fire-baked clay. “Do not judge me too harshly, I prefer mine with milk and nabat.” If the pile of haw sugar earlier tells anything, it is that the doctor sports a rather passionate sweet tooth. Zhongli initially chalked it up as bait for children to wash down the herbal medicine this establishment was renowned for. Apparently not. “A man of a subtler palate such as yourself would disagree.”

Zhongli inclines his head in thanks as Baizhu slides the cup without the base of steaming milk in his direction. He recognizes the red sugar crystals Baizhu stirs in his milky tea to be a tea-time favorite in Sumeru. Even so, the tea cakes were fragrant, patiently fermented when they bled into the water with a heady first impression. 

Sure enough, the first sip blooms on Zhongli’s tongue like a green meadow. The doctor is not miserly when it comes to his tea.

“I believe a bowl of tea serves as a companion in solitude. Such companions should be chosen with some personal regard to taste.”

There is a deliberate pause before Baizhu's pale lips stretch around the rim of his cup. “Oh...yes, I should hope so.”

This offhand flirtation is unexpected. So unexpected, in fact, that Zhongli barks out a laugh. The sound tears out of him. 

“I apologize.”

“Not at all.” Baizhu says this with a small intake of breath, shifting his upper body, perching at the very edge of the divan with one bare foot trailing over. That laugh surprised both of them, yet Baizhu only sounds pleased. “Not at all!”

The moment of quietude that follows turns into a lull. The silence is not unpleasant, and the dense cups make little to no sound.

Still, Baizhu eventually seems to have caught onto the slow dissolution of hospitality, working through a quarter of his milky pu’er like it is swamp water. Zhongli needn't have a physician’s eye to understand that even this had started to discomfort him. The sooner they were done, the sooner Baizhu took to his convalescence.

“I had retired from my duties at the funeral house, when I found little Qiqi with Director Hu.” Zhongli took the kerchief from his pocket to blot the damp circle of his cup before he began to speak. Baizhu took a longer sip, thinning his lips at the lukewarm mouthfeel before he leaned back. “It was a little over an hour ago. She was in the same state I bought her back. My exchange with Director Hu was short but I conclude Director Hu is truthful when she says she had found little Qiqi as she was.”

The lambent golden light made it so that Baizhu’s eyelids were like the skin of eggshells. His throat moved with a sound. “I should not have let her go outside today.” 

“Yes. You should not have.” 

Baizhu does not so much as stir, not outwardly reacting to Zhongli’s reply, something any other sane man might rightfully deem admonishing or patronizing. Sharp as a tack, the doctor, he has caught on. 

“Gui tells me it is one of the hottest days that has come to pass this summer. The fanfare on the coast with the fires and feasts.” Baizhu’s head droops over his shoulder as he speaks, eyes weary and dim as old currency minted in copper as he looks over at Zhongli. “Even with her Vision, she must have struggled to keep with with the sun of Yaoguang Shoal.”

“Yes. Director Hu with her Pyro-”

“-only doubled down on Qiqi’s condition. Yes.” Baizhu smiles, very faintly, with his eyes. “I see now what you meant by ‘keeping her cool.’ How, if I may ask, did you come to this conclusion, without knowing where Qiqi had been?” 

Zhongli folds his kerchief with one hand, briefly wishing he could discard his gloves altogether. “I could tell she had visited the shores recently. As I understand it, her body does not keep the capacity to naturally acclimate to hotter temperatures, that is to say, she cannot sweat to cool down, but instead relies on her Vision.” 

It also serves to prevent her from succumbing to the fate of a decaying body without its sustaining vitals. But Zhongli need not say that. The scent of mist flowers on the doctor’s person was evident. Supposedly they kept little Qiqi’s quarters much colder, like a mist-storage at the morgue. She had simply fallen into a chain of less than ideal events that had led to her discovery by Hu Tao.

“Yes.” Baizhu concedes, and Zhongli can only barely hear him. “Yes, Zhongli, that is right.”

It was the first time since that Baizhu had shuttered himself, but anything offered by Zhongli at point would only sound contrived and hollow so Zhongli keeps his silence. He is conscious that Gui has also not returned, likely going home after tucking Qiqi in, obedient to Baizhu’s unsaid instructions to not disturb them. There is little to no way to glean what Baizhu wants from him with Gui gone.

“We cannot predict when such a thing will happen again. I know now that Qiqi has piqued Director Hu’s interest for the worst.” 

All this, Baizhu says suddenly and in a sliver of breath. He looks pliant, almost half asleep in the divan, but Zhongli never misses his eyes. They are suddenly luminous with attention, taking on an almost ophidian quality. 

Baizhu simply continues,

“Let us draw a contract on mutual terms.”

“A contract.” The very notion rises up Zhongli’s ribs and expands in his chest with levity. 

“It is more of a favor that you will do to me, in truth,” Baizhu suggests. This is either an elaborate jest or he is attempting to talk business. Business is fine with Zhongli.

“I understand that adeptal demise is rare, and rarer are the funerals that follow them. Which happens to be your source of employment at the funeral house, yes?”

“That is correct, yes.” 

“Work for me at the pharmacy, Zhongli. You do not have to quit the funeral house at all. Make use of the equipment I have here, and lend a hand to the medics under my tutelage in your free time. Let us say, I arrange quarters for you too, to make it easier for you to convene. I will be paying you in full for your hours, that goes without saying.” 

“...I am afraid there is little I can offer to keep up my end of the bargain.” 

“Oh but I am barely finished with what your duties would entail.” Baizhu follows up silkily, “You hold up your end of the contract with something precious, Zhongli. Do what I cannot. Help my Qiqi, make your judgments with her. It can be only you, for Director Hu holds you in high regard. You understand this better than I do.” 

A good trade is a fair trade, and yet Zhongli does not think of that. He had known the moment he stepped through these doors that he would take responsibility for Hu Tao.

“I understand.” 

The doctor’s eyes are half open crescents, heavy-lidded and serene. He all but melts into the divan. “There is no rush. It is but a simple employment contract, assuming it does not override yours with Director Hu, of course. I am somewhat familiar with Wangsheng Funeral Parlour's ways and I am certain this would not pose a problem to you. To be sure, Miss Yanfei, I am sure you know of her, could mediate as a third party.” 

Zhongli should extend goodwill, as people do, and claim there is no need for such measures, yet he does not. It is as if he is turning to dust on this divan, next to this man who looks like a sweet note of calligraphy. It is unbecoming. He is much more present during the negotiation of terms.

He never has the chance to say anything though, because the entrance to the room begins to rattle. 

The door creaks open with very little noise, and a pale head of hair emerges from behind it. The talisman is now comically stuck to the side of her head without the hat. Her vision hangs from her neck like a pendant and she is dressed in starchy white nightclothes.

“Doctor Baizhu, bedtime.”

“Qiqi.” Baizhu beckons her over gently, “Here, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” 

“Mn. Qiqi feels less warm. Better.” She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the door handle with the hand that does not grip a leather-bound notebook. Her small feet pad along the carpet to walk to where they sit. “Before bedtime, brush my hair.”

“Yes, yes. I promise to detangle this mess before I go to bed.” Baizhu's hand shifts Qiqi’s bangs from her forehead. “My, look at those knots!”

Qiqi makes a noise of serious agreement and extends her free arm.

Even Baizhu’s delicate hand is ungainly and large in Qiqi’s small paw as she helps him sit up. With the birch cane on the other hand, they stand together. Baizhu’s long unbound hair come to fall with a heap at his hips.

“Qiqi, this gentleman here is Mister Zhongli. I hope you can try and remember him.” 

Zhongli meets the child’s large owlish eyes amiably. “Hello, Miss Qiqi.” 

“Hello.” Qiqi deadpans, and blinks twice. She looks up at Baizhu. “Why?”

Why indeed? Zhongli crouches down, eye level with Qiqi. 

“Because I will be seeing Miss Qiqi tomorrow as well. I hope that you would like to have me.” 

She is merely a little bird like this, tufts of pale hair standing over her head. Saturated with adeptal energy and lifetime spanning over a century, yet she sticks her thumb at the corner of her mouth and challenges Zhongli with the tact of a hurricane. In that moment, Zhongli finds her the spitting image of Ganyu when she was but a wee little thing, teething and gnawing at his own shoulder at the prime of his age. It warms something deep within him. The children of this land could ask Zhongli for all of him, if they wished.

“Qiqi will write about you.” She plops the thumb out from her mouth, more of an ingrained habit rather than shyness. Zhongli is already forgotten, and she turns to squeeze Baizhu’s hand with a force that is unbecoming for a small fry like her. “Doctor Baizhu bedtime.”

That is alright. His words were meant only partly for Qiqi.

Zhongli turns to Baizhu with a low bow. “My gratitude for the company and tea. I shall determine the clauses and conditions on my end tonight, and see you tomorrow.” 

“The pleasure has been entirely mine.” That smile from Baizhu is like sugar. If it were not for Qiqi’s small presence by the Baizhu’s side, he would be a picture of luscious hair and miles of glossy silk in the golden light. “And I shall look forward to you.” 

Zhongli turns, crossing an arm behind his back. He feels Baizhu’s eyes on him and lets his scrutiny chase up his spine before he takes his leave.

-

In war, when Rex Lapis' lance swept cutting arcs, he wrote the rules that governed the gods.

Such was the price he paid for it.

Zhongli’s boots make very little sound outside Baizhu’s door, from where he circles across the generous stone veranda of the Bubu Pharmacy. There, he stands at the railing and looks over at the sea. The horizon is stretched immense round its sheet of silver, the port raucous with life.

It is all well and good that Rex Lapis died twice that day.

Chapter Text

Dawn had Zhongli cooped up for nearly an hour in front of his wash bin. The reason was hardly to preen over himself yet it was a damn near thing.

With his gloves and waistcoat discarded, his forearms were dark like clods of uprooted earth, gold struck through them like remnants of Cor Lapis.

This would not do.

It had taken Zhongli long to discard the Exuvia, so he bit on it and bore it, taking his time rendering his arms to match the skin of his neck. It was not a particularly rewarding task but it was a necessary one when doing business with humans and adepti who bode to human life better than him, alike.

By the time the harried rapping on his door came, Zhongli was already tugging his gloves snug over his forearms. The Ferrylady’s nephew came bearing his tins and teas on the dot. Zhongli suspected his aunt had him deliver most days on his way to the schoolhouse. 

“Good morning Ming-er. How are you?” 

Ming-er was a scruffy bespectacled boy who feared his aunt greatly and conceded to showing courtesy to both her and her colleague who mooched off her with remarkable patience. At Zhongli’s voice, Ming-er wrinkled up his nose and squinted up at him with an impression of a stink eye, or what he could manage of it behind the barricade of thick lenses.

“Mornin' mister. ‘M fine.” The boy mumbled, and wasted no time in thrusting a stack of tins and canisters bound in a piece of linen over at Zhongli. He said it all in a rush. “Yi-ma said you gotta leave them by the door before I come back.”

“Ah yes. Thank you.” The tins were warm, and they promised him fruit and slow braised meat that fell apart at the teeth. “Wait here now, Ming-er. I have something for you.” 

The boy narrowed his eyes, surly as someone his age might be when tasked to deliver to relics living on top of funeral houses, but was momentarily piqued. “Okay.”

Zhongli made quick work of settling the tins on a chair propped up by the window and began to rifle through the stack of trinkets he spent the last of his earnings on last night. He called to Ming-er over his shoulder as he did, “Your aunt tells me you like to read.”

When Ming-er mumbled something that resembled a tentative agreement, Zhongli made his way to the entrance with the package in hand.

“A recent publication of Inazuma’s Yae Publishing House, all the talk among children of your age. I have managed to procure a translation and wish for you to have it.”

And here Zhongli thought he was losing his touch. Ming-er’s eyes dart with disbelief, and he gingerly plucked the book wrapped with brown sack paper from Zhongli’s hand. He tested it by weighing it like he was holding a piece of explosive gunpowder. That was one striking resemblance to his aunt if there was any. “Thank you.” 

“It is no bother, m’boy. But if I may trouble you one last time, when you stop by again, make space for a little something of sorts for your father.”

Smiling at that last note, which may as well be him baring his teeth, with the way Ming-er cowered. It occurred to him that perhaps had been too harsh on doling out opinions on Director Hu’s reputation, and perhaps it was Zhongli himself fumbling about the courtyard like an oaf with strays that scared children off the block. The thought itself was distressingly harrowing. 

“Okay.” Ming-er shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet and opened his mouth as if he had something to say. Thinking better of it, he just shrugged, noncommittal, and turned around to bound down the stairs. Zhongli watched him go.

By the time the boy would return from the schoolhouse to fetch the tins, Zhongli would be done with his affairs for the day. Gathering the packed food as it was with two bowls and cutlery, Zhongli made his way downstairs as well.

With his limited duties at the funeral house, he pitched in to handle floral arrangements and obituaries whenever a jaded mortician on the premises showed any inclination for assistance. Indeed, the last funeral Zhongli had directed had been his own. Employment had been considerably more enjoyable back then.

It was such that he was hardly if ever, needed inside the house itself until Director Hu directly summoned him. Zhongli didn't invite himself otherwise as well, unwilling to disturb the routine of his colleagues. That remained to be true until the day he was made known that Director Hu stayed up most nights and with her birdlike appetite to boot, she skipped meals altogether entirely.

Every morning since he made it a point to inquire in person if his assistance was required for the day, and every morning since, he ate with Director Hu.

The funeral house’s insides were dim, a sharp relief from the scalding beastly sun lounging outside. Zhongli walked past the courtyards and paused at a two-paneled cedar door stamped with Hu Tao’s plaque. He knocked twice and waited for an incense’s time before pushing in.

“Well are those who rise in the early morn...while those late to bed I shall forewarn...”

Director Hu issued her greeting morosely, lacking the usual peppy sing-song to it. She was face down on her desk with a patch of white sunlight beating down on her, hair strewn around her in tendrils. Zhongli could taste the peppery recesses of a good lime cleaner underneath the smell of old paper.

The lighting and ambiance could not be attributed to Director Hu. It was likely Undertaker Wen who had come at dawn’s break to dust the windows open. 

“Good morning.” Zhongli replied. “Shall I fetch some water? It is very hot outside.”

Director Hu stirred, and her cheek dragged across the clutter as a single sleep-crusted eye squinted at him. “Ugh. Undertaker Wen had me soak up my fill, thank you very much! There’s only so much I can drink, I've been up to the loo five times already!”

Satisfied, Zhongli set the tins on a sparse uncluttered edge of her desk and proceeded to pop the lids open. “Very well.” 

At the sight of food, Director Hu shot upright, petulant and blazing with it, as if the mere sight of it offended her. Some of her longer hair were crusted to her chin with drool but Zhongli thought it impolite to point out. “Aiya! Can all of you cut it out? I swear I’ll eat by myself!” 

“That is untrue.” Zhongli said simply. “Here, please wipe down your bowl, it might still be damp.”

Thankfully, and without further commentary, Hu Tao plucked the bowl from his hand but then began wiping it down with her sleeve. It took great patience on Zhongli’s end to not wrest the bowl back from her at that instant.

“All of you think so lowly of me when, when, if I may remind you—by the archons did that little pest bring kumquats?” 

Zhongli took care not to spill the sauce on the desk as he heaped wheat noodles into Director Hu’s bowl. He had pushed aside most of the stationary out of the way by now, but the initial state of Director Hu’s desk could have rivaled a papyrus production line. 

“Ming-er is not a pest. And yes, the kumquats are ripe to eat.” He frowned pointedly in disapproval and took his seat on the other side of the desk.

She stuck her nose into her bowl before Zhongli even finished his sentence, manoeuvring her chopsticks in to scarf down her noodles as she went. “Ohhh these are good.” 

“Please sit up, Director.” 

Only once she made a half-hearted effort of scooting up her office chair, did Zhongli look down at his own bowl. The beef had been slowly braised in ginger, brined plums, and dark soy sauce. It would take long to air out Director Hu’s stuffy office to get rid of the dregs of a meal this rich and splendid.

“I heard, by the way.” Director Hu seemed unperturbed, wiggling her index finger between the left column of her teeth as she worked through a shred of fat. Already finished with her portion, and it was only a small miracle that she kept her desk splatter-free.

Zhongli set his chopsticks across his bowl. He had managed a serene mouthful or two himself before Director Hu engaged him in conversation, and was well on his way to call it a morning well spent. “You will have to specify what you heard.”

When her thumb joined her first finger to pinch out the shred of fat that was stuck in her upper molars, Zhongli turned to fish for kumquats. He settled six in front of her, wrapped in his kerchief, and palmed two for himself. 

“Yanfei told me.” Director Hu puckered her mouth and inspected one kumquat like she was appraising a cut of noctilucous jade. Once deemed worthy, she opened her mouth wide around it. At that exact instance, she seemed to think back on the frankness of her own statement, and backtracked, still more distracted by the kumquat than the conversation at hand.

“She consulted me professionally and went over the terms you signed with my grandfather at your employment. She keeps her discretion with her clients. You know this.” 

“Miss Yanfei is capable.” 

To her credit, Hu Tao made a careful enough effort to spit out pale seeds into her hand, which she piled on his kerchief before she went on to eat another. “She’s good.” 

“Mn.” Zhongli had managed to catch Yanfei yesterday before she wrapped up affairs at her judiciary office. She had greeted him just the same but had been guarded around him, even though Zhongli had repeatedly assured her that Director Hu’s and Miss Yanfei’s relationship, work or otherwise, was none of his concern. 

Miss Yanfei seemed to be under the impression that he disapproved of Director Hu and Yanfei together - which he did not, in fact, he thought positively of their dalliance. It did less with his acknowledgment of how Director Hu could do with a level-headed influence in her life and more with how Zhongli kept his eyes peeled for this half-illuminated beast who had been left unscathed by Rex Lapis in her times.

Well, despite that, it was an altogether absurd notion in itself. Zhongli could not approve or disapprove.

“So!” Director Hu spat out a second round of seeds, before regarding her remaining two kumquats in front of her with distaste. With that she was done with breakfast and lunch in one fell swoop for the day. “Our contract does not limit you, if you should, hm. Take up something else to pass your time, as long as it does not hinder your duties at the house, of course.”

She blinked at him, red-rimmed at the eyes, but Zhongli only nodded. “That goes without saying.” And then, “I will take up part-time at the Bubu Pharmacy.” 

“Irrelevant!” Director Hu cut in with an air of conniving deliberation. “We maintain your right to privacy.” She said this but grinned like Zhongli was a pigeon and she, a stalking panther. The coincidence of the pharmacy and his acknowledgment of it, did not go unnoticed by either of them, but neither did the fact that they did not wish to bring it up to keep each other’s face.

This was also the first time Director Hu was beating around the bush. She was always forthcoming to a fault. The child must think of it as some elaborate game.

“I tell it to you as friends,” Zhongli replied, matter-of-fact, not feeling the need to pursue what she was so clearly avoiding. He dismissed himself by way of gathering the bowls. “I’ll leave it to you then, Director.”

“Sure thing~” Director Hu singsonged, and made a show of waving him off. At least her proclivity for mischief came back threefold after being refreshed by a meal. Zhongli could not say the same for himself.

-

Late summer seemed to have stifled Liyue’s streets, mired and humid. It was still early. Even the corner of Hanfeng's Ironmongers was vacant without the beating of iron sheets and hiss of steam. Next to the forgery stood Katherine, posing blank-faced and unblinking in the alcove of the Guild.

Zhongli walked under the shade of the overarching trees lining the canals, stepping around a dog that was panting over the shallow stream. An old gentleman shuffling at an abandoned game of weiqi paid Zhongli no mind as he breezed by, and the street opened wide to Chihu Rock where people swarmed endlessly in the dense heat, awash and sweating in their clothes.

“Xiansheng! Zhongli xiansheng!” 

It was the young chef at Wanmin’s, hollering wildly as she flung herself over the countertop of her father’s restaurant. She beamed when he looked over in acknowledgment and trudged in her direction. As Zhongli drew near, Xiangling’s Vision pulsed mutely at her waist, at home with the smarmy heat. She herself looked the least perturbed, even with the perspiration beading at her hairline.

Agitated, Xiangling half-yelled into his face. “Xiansheng should have joined us at the coast yesterday!” 

The girl was of such temperament that she took to announcing everything loudly and without finesse, finding no joy in making herself smaller or quieter. Zhongli smiled.

“I regret not being able to make it.” 

But she seemed to have hardly heard him, raising her arms as if her joints were strung to threads in a shadow puppet show. “Xiansheng missed Captain Beidou’s crates of golden Fontaine wines! Fear not, I will heed your suggestion from last time and make a more favorable cold sesame soup! On the house!”  She paused to take a bracing breath and shot off once more. “We have a good breakfast deal today as well! Are you off soon?” 

Zhongli paused, testing if she had yet to add something more. Slowly, he agreed. “Yes, I am afraid you will have to excuse me for the time bei-“

“Oh no!” She wailed with force, and Zhongli blinked at the suddenness of it. “You’re headed to the Bubu pharmacy again, aren’t you? Do you feel faint? Is your stomach upset? Or is it a sore throat? I've got it, you're fatigued from the heat wave!” As if falling in tune to Zhongli’s bafflement, she shook her head, instantly negating herself. “Forgive me, Xingqui was telling me that Chongyun told him that Xinyan relayed you were at the pharmacy last evening, instead of joining the feast!” 

Feeling as if he were a fish forcefully propelled out of the water, he noiselessly opened and closed his mouth.

“I didn’t think you of all people would be a hypochondriac, xiansheng! Xinyan saw you when she went to take her cough drops y'know?” Xiangling demanded, planting her hands on either side of her hips.

He did not, in fact, know. Xinyan, the earnest youngster who had won the affections of every opera performer at the Heyu Tea House, was not the type to tattle mouth. Yet that second in line of the Guhua Clan had the makings of a shrewd man. It would be bothersome for little Qiqi if she had seen her in the state that she was in, but with Xiangling there was no dicing around anything. She’d have long aired it out to Zhongli if it were the case.

Mindlessly, he said. “Doctor Baizhu is merely a good acquaintance.” 

This, she deemed apparently enough explanation that required no further prying. The glossy braids coiled at either side of Xiangling’s head shook with the force of her nod, almost jostling one of her ribbons loose. “That makes sense! You had me there for a second! Be well, then, xiansheng!” 

“And yourself. Give my greeting to your father.” Zhongli murmured and bowed his head. 

Xiangling had only been the first. Yunjin waved at him when she saw him, still yet swishing gargling salts in her mouth as she ventured out of the tea house. The jade merchant’s apprentice had given Zhongli a long bow as he’d passed by. He ought to make himself more sparse, with people flanking him left and right as they rose to manage their business, but then has it not always been like this?

In Liyue’s tight-knit cosmosome, they could not do without the familiar stranger who crossed their path in the mornings. They could not do without that one reticent coworker who made sure an old friend did not miss his first meal of the day. The Tsaritsa had worn her disdain openly when she sent the Snezhnayan soldier-boy with the markings of the condemned arts on Zhongli’s doorsteps, and yet he could not do without her either. Tired as he was, of his tired dreams.

Daylight ripened over the Yuji terrace, and the pharmacy looked grander than Millileth’s headquarters. Outpatients were lax in the cool shade of the roof, and not one soul stopped Zhongli as he cut through the mass to see himself directly to the front desk. Herbalist Gui uncurled when he saw Zhongli, setting down the roll of parchment he’d been scratching at studiously.

“Master Zhongli. Welcome.” Gui greeted and turned to dole out brief instructions to a sour-faced assistant. He did not make the wait long and signaled Zhongli promptly. “Please, this way.” 

They went behind the counter and under a bamboo blind, coming to a long hallway that was cool but closed-walled. The temperature grew colder with the essence of mist flowers, yet it was warmer in the room they came to stand at last. Polished and clean with a set of good chairs, creepers festooned in windows with light that filtered in that was as green as if it were passing through a fishpool. There, in the midst of it, Baizhu. 

Gui offered a word of parting, but Zhongli missed it. The outgrowth of the vines was a riot. The buds restricted themselves to an unnatural single plane, these fragile things made to bloom in the muggy heat. Such was sometimes the violence of Dendro.

“We have been expecting you.” Baizhu greeted him, his long hair done in an elaborate braid over his shoulder. Both the tassel by his glasses and his peony hairpin caught clear light, and Changsheng uncurled from around his bicep, her head flickering in interest at Zhongli’s arrival. Next to Baizhu was Yanfei with her mouth pressed in a thin line, her bone-white antlers curving away from her face. 

“Master Zhongli,” Yanfei droned, deeply martyred, “Doctor Baizhu. I would appreciate it if we were to proceed at the earliest. I’ve a thankless custodial dispute over a domestic cat lined up shortly.” 

Baizhu smiled with a realignment that was almost procedural. “Such is the line of work.”

He was changed from the wisp of a person he was the night before, the sickly pallor on his skin was no more, and he was put together and as unassailable as a loach pearl. Zhongli took an almost clinical note of the shimmer of fine powder on Baizhu’s cheekbones, the red paint between the crease just under his brows that had him almost sweet-eyed.

As if conscious of Zhongli settling opposite of him, Baizhu tilted his head.

Yanfei tapped on the table impatiently with her knuckles, and Changsheng seemed to be taking keen interest in the hollow of Baizhu’s arm brace. “Well. Hm. Yes. Are we comfortable then, Master Zhongli?” 

“Quite.” 

“Good. I’d prefer we look at me and get this over with. The term that the agreement is binding - or not - comes later, a laundry list of items covered in any non-disclosure agreement that Doctor Baizhu may wish to go over with you preferably first…” She rattled off and looked over at Baizhu, who curved his eyes endearingly at her. “I am here as a formality of course. Both of you know well what this entails.”

Tutting, Baizhu disagreed, the tassel at the side of his glasses swaying with it. “Oh now, don’t cut yourself too short, Miss Yanfei.”

“For one, I trust you have gone over the clauses on my end with Doctor Baizhu before my arrival.” Zhongli followed and then addressed how she had bristled before. “Wherever else would I be looking, Miss Yanfei?”

At this, Changsheng’s mouth hinged open in a peal of laughter, working out a voice that was high and girlish, her jaw lined with pearly aglyphous fangs.

-

THIS DOCUMENT constitutes an employment agreement between two concerned parties, governed by the laws of Liyue in accordance with the sovereign Liyue Qixing. 

Whereas Doctor Baizhu of the Bubu Pharmacy desires to retain the services of Mister Zhongli and Mister Zhongli desires to render these services. 

In consideration of this mutual understanding, the following terms and conditions are set forth:

-

“You wish to keep the real intent of the contract between the two of us.” 

Miss Yanfei, by now, would be halfway across the harbor. They were alone in this drafty room.

Instead of answering, Baizhu only smiled. Closed, and thin-lipped like he wanted Zhongli to run from it, run now, while the running was still good.

“You did not object before.”

That was not an answer, which seemed to be a habit of Baizhu, this playful ribbing that turned into an interrogation. Zhongli entertained his answer with something more meaningful from his own end. “No. I think it sensible.” 

And it was. If Baizhu wanted to shroud the true intentions of their contract, if it were to protect Director Hu’s integrity for Zhongli’s sake. Or something else entirely.

A brown thumb pressed lightly into the wooden table between the two of them, as if in afterthought. The ornate brooches in the shape of flowers weighing on either side of Baizhu’s coat flashed as Changsheng settled around his shoulder. “It remains that you will accompany Qiqi and see to it that she remains unharmed.”

“You have my word.” And yet if Zhongli’s word were enough, they would not have gone through such lengths. But even if he discredits Baizhu altogether, there is no harm in it for him.

The document itself was innocuous. Gui and that sour-faced attendant might have signed the very same in this room. A stipend for an apprenticeship, outlines of a single room within the labyrinth halls of the pharmacy. The works. Yanfei did not seem to bat an eye at the contents, and the old rapport she had established with Baizhu did not keep her from remarking that Zhongli must be very bored indeed. Through it all, Baizhu had remained in high spirits. The man smiled like he had something to make up for. 

“Please feel free to settle in at your leisure, Gui will help you.” Baizhu stood slowly, but with brisk and cheerful readiness, crossing his gloved hand in front of him. The birch cane was conspicuously absent, but so was the bout of weakness that had taken the doctor last evening. “If you will excuse me then, Zhongli. I have my patients to attend to.”  

“Certainly.” Struck with a moment’s inspiration, Zhongli ploughed on. “If I am not imposing...” 

Baizhu turned to him with his full attention, his plait hanging loose and wispy over his back. Yes?” 

“Should you be free, later this evening, would you like to accompany me to the Heyu Tea House for a meal? Only if you are free, of course.” 

The smile flickered, like a dip in a pool of water as if Zhongli had genuinely caught Baizhu off guard, yet there was no hesitation. “That's perfect. I’ll wait for you. Find me when you have settled in.” 

Baizhu left with him the scent of a winterbred garden, and Zhongli looked up at the creepers once more. Waxy, bell shaped flowers the size of peapods hung between the greens. They would be dead within a day's time. 

-

Although Zhongli could grip things just fine with his gloves aided with the archer rings that he kept on his thumbs, he decided to take his coat and gloves off entirely to shift his belongings to the pharmacy. He’d taken all this trouble earlier this morning to render his arms to skin after all, and Yanfei had not even bothered introducing the new system of stamping ink, thereby preventing the hassle of brushes and ink.

One simply had to carry one of those stamps. The dye smelled metallic and stained like a crush of violets, absorbed in a spongy substance and encased in thin silver cases. A pity that was. Zhongli had been vying to see it in person. The suggestion was put onto paper and implemented by the Yuheng’s authority. Zhongli always knew young Keqing had an eye for such practical things.

Director Hu and the Ferrylady were occupied with the procession of Tang Wei’s cremation when he arrived. Zhongli would simply have to come by later for the Ferrylady. He took to going to his office directly, just in time to see Ming-er waiting with his tail between his legs.

There, Zhongli handed the boy the linen-wrapped tins and a gift. A ceramic cup holder with a duck-egg blue glaze for Ming-er's father who managed the kitchens at the Liuli Pavilion.

“For your father. Thank you m’boy. Tell him he’s unparalleled at what he does.” Ming-er nodded vigorously, a little burdened with this duty, but knowing that the man who’d mooched off his aunt and father for the better part of a year had somewhat right intentions this one time.

Gui had also insisted on accompanying Zhongli to the funeral parlor and had been disbelieving at how Zhongli’s things seemed to fit in all but two boxes, insisting that lugging Zhongli’s other belongings would be no problem at all. Zhongli assured that this was all of what he owned - for now.

A variety of mismatched things in one box, gifts given to him, and then some: brown matryoshka dolls, an old silken pashmina shawl, an uncut prithiva topaz pendant, a simple wire contraption powered with alkaloid batteries that picked stray signals, pages of vellum and half full lacquered bottles of Fate's Yearning. What Zhongli used day to day was simpler. His toiletries, hair clips, sets of good suits with gloves, and underclothes. 

Zhongli only removed his inkstones, leaving his plaque on the desk. The office still remained his.

It was well into evening when they reached Yujing Terrace. Gui shifted nervously as he led Zhongli through the pathway.

“Master Baizhu and Qiqi remain here, that is, their respective rooms are here. Miss Qiqi comes and goes as she pleases, but Master Baizhu avoids rigorous exertion.” Gui’s tone was apologetic as they entered the pharmacy, sounding as if he was wounded himself. Zhongli did not comment, thinking back to the plush carpeted rooms at the back of the pharmacy.

“Pre-antenatal examination and childbirth are restricted to the right wing for ease of expectant patients. Master Baizhu sees outpatients in his office, right there. The dispensary is just a little further which is accessible to myself, Master Baizhu, and the senior medics. Master Baizhu has his personal lab where he prefers not to be disturbed by anyone—” 

Gui was interrupted by a volley of pale hair that streaked past them, only to stray and collide head-first with Gui's leg, effectively knocking him a step back. Zhongli had barely heard her approaching.

“Forgot to pick violetgrass today.” Qiqi lamented quietly from between the folds of Gui’s hanfu, reaching up to find purchase at the tassel by Gui’s belt. “I forgot…I saw fresh ones yesterday, on a cliff. I wrote about them. They will wilt.”

Gentle as gentle, Gui crouched down to become eye-level with her, setting one of Zhongli’s boxes aside. “Don’t worry, Qiqi. You were supposed to stay inside today.” 

The child’s eyes were clouded, as if milky with cataracts. “I forgot?” 

“Yes, you must've. But that’s fine. We could play the picture game shortly, if you’d like? I just need to help Master Zhongli here take his things upstairs.” 

At the mention of his name, Qiqi sidestepped from the sanctuary of Gui’s knee to regard Zhongli. Her face was blank, yet she was trying to make sense of this man towering inside her home as if the vestiges of his presence from last evening lingered somewhere in her mind. The child’s volatile memory was a concern. It hindered her, suspended in a haze of repetitions. Zhongli had known, but not to this degree.

“No matter.” Zhongli replied. He had taken note of the tone Gui took with her, suggesting but never assertive. “Would Miss Qiqi like to accompany us? Miss Qiqi is a diligent helper, I have heard.” 

Curious as any child, goaded by simple praise, she blinked slowly. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Gui echoed, a little lost at this turn of events.

“Mn.” She circled around him, light as feathers on the tip of her toes, to look up at Zhongli. She promptly stuck both her arms out. “Up, up.” 

Gui, alarmed, laughed politely in an attempt to dispel tension and stepped in to save Zhongli from the predicament he’d found himself in. “Miss Qiqi, surely Master Zhongli did not mean...” 

Zhongli caught Gui’s eye and shook his head. He left his belongings on the floor, and crouched, opening his arms so that Qiqi could decide whether she did indeed want to be held. Qiqi dawdled at this display like a duckling dipping past the surface of a pond, before coming to stand against him. The child’s bony forearms settled over his shoulder blades decisively. “Up.” 

And up she went. She settled her head over Zhongli’s collarbone, cold as a pebble under a slurry of snow, her small hands gripping the front of his shirt like a vice, with no warmth of blood in them. It was only when he gently helped steer her wrist to settle securely around his neck that he sensed it. The Adeptal vitality that had concentrated in her core was not natural for her, for her meridians were vacant and inert. She was not like Yanfei, or Ganyu - or him - for that matter.

“Very well.” Zhongli agreed, mostly for Gui’s benefit. Extending his free hand he willed Geo to gather, the Jade Shield materializing and folding into a narrow horizontal slice.

“If it would not be too much trouble, you could balance both boxes there. You lead, we follow.” 

Taken aback by the display of Zhongli ‘Vision’ Gui simply looked at him, but the young herbalist had come to terms that there was no talking Qiqi or Zhongli out of it. After a moment of floundering, he began setting Zhongli’s boxes on the Jade Shield and stood. “Right. This way.”

In the battle that created Bishui river, sweating Adeptal blood into the harrowed soil of this homeland, he had willed the Jade Shield to stand for seven days and nights. Now Zhongli’s power rose from the earth’s ley lines, as did any other Vision wielder’s and he had to reinforce the Jade Shield from time to time should he desire a longer use.

It was like a weight at the back of his mind, this phantom pressure left by the Gnosis.

Their climb up the flight of stairs was quiet, interrupted by only the clicking of Zhongli’s heeled boots. Qiqi was not a fussy child, and Gui was somewhat of a recluse, slowly but surely inching back into his shell. Gui seemed to prefer solitude with his mortar and study notes. It was also becoming obvious to Zhongli that Gui looked up to Baizhu with a sort of divine reverence, who was the only exception to this rule.

“Here, Master Zhongli.” Gui unlocked a door that gave into a room that was stately and clean, yet it had no look of previous habitation. Spacious, with a pair of finely carved chairs and the frame of a rosewood luohan bed. There was only a film of dust on the small compound closet, untouched, undisturbed. The room was really quite grand. Zhongli said so.

“This used to be Master Baizhu’s old bedroom.” Gui replied clearly, the color on his cheeks deepening at this admission, as if embarassed. He did not question Baizhu's choice, only relayed as he was told. “Master Baizhu asked that you could stay here if it pleases you.” 

“I see.” 

Zhongli dwelled on this until Qiqi meekly tapped the side of his jaw with a frigid finger, before pointing to the wall opposite them. “I drew that.” She said in small wonder, as if the memory had only surfaced then. It likely had. 

Gui, who had apparently not forgotten, sighed. “Yes, Miss Qiqi. You did.” 

The child had inked her rendition of a stag on the corner of the wall, five legs, and button round eyes with an exaggerated sweep of lashes. She showed a promising eye for creativity in this little project of hers but old Moon Carver would rather turn to dust than see his noble vessel portrayed like this. Zhongli couldn't help but smile.

“It’s very good.” He assured Qiqi, who quieted promptly, tucking herself back against his chest.

Gui swept a hand over his forehead, making his spiky hair stick up with sweat. He did so twice now and seemed to be waiting for Zhongli to dismiss him. Going to and fro from the funeral house had taken the wind out of the herbalist, soft-bellied and used to working at his desk.  

“Thank you, Gui. Your help has been precious.” 

Polite as ever, Gui bowed, relief coming off of him in waves. “Always, Master Zhongli. Now if Miss Qiqi…”

But Qiqi, adamant, only clutched Zhongli tighter and turned her face into his neck, making her stance on that clear enough. Gui, miserable and downtrodden at this rejection, looked at Zhongli with weary lines etched around his eyes.

“I’ll leave her downstairs myself,” Zhongli assured and gave Gui another gentle push for good measure. “Do not fret, she is not a bother at all. We have taken enough of your time as it is.”

Gui deflated, and spared Qiqi an apologetic look. She however was wholly uninterested.

The moment Gui disappeared from the corner, Qiqi pulled at Zhongli’s lapels, disentangling herself from him like a prickly kitten before hopping down. She traced a wide circle around the room with a bounce in her step until she came to sit very still and unspeaking in front of her drawing at the far end of the wall. 

Unpacking was simple while Zhongli kept an eye on Qiqi. He spared an old undershirt to dust at the compound closet, setting his clothes in one of the cabinets and his toiletries on the table with the rickety drawer that matched the chairs. He saw that there was a window, with pale curtains pulled tight over the glass pane, the screws holding the hinge together rife with rust. Still, this would have to do for now. He had a prior reservation for the evening after all.

The private lavatory attached to the room gave Zhongli enough to comb out his hair with his fingers, clipping them back in an approximation. He rolled up his shirt cuffs and refastened his sleeve garter. At last, he washed his face, deciding not to redo his eye paint. When he resurfaced, Qiqi was still sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, staring unblinkingly at the stag with five limbs.

Unwilling to jar her by speaking, Zhongli squatted next to her and took a better look at the drawing himself. It was drawn with silky black ink, enabled with a stiff bristled calligraphy brush by the feel of the stroke. The ink was aged and could have been scrubbed off from the wooden paneling long before if Baizhu had wished it. 

“Hello.” The child piped quietly, still not moving. 

“Hello.” Zhongli echoed, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She showed no discomfort at him settling beside her, but it was all the better to look out for it anyway. “Does Miss Qiqi like drawing?” 

Qiqi’s head drooped to her right, as if appraising the extra leg that protruded from the stag’s flank from a fresh perspective. “I...I don’t know. I like finches. Nice, and little. Pretty.” 

“I like finches too. Their plumes are colorful like butterflies, but they’re less crafty. When you hold them they chirp out a song for you.” 

Her eyes rounded, voice high with astonishment. “Can I hold them too?”

“Yes, but I will have to teach you so you don’t hurt them. We will rise early and try and catch some tomorrow morning if you like.”

She faced the wall again, and pulled at the hair splaying out from under the hairband gathering her braid. “Thank you, Mister…”

“Zhongli is fine, child.” 

“Thank you Mister Zhongli.” 

He did not correct her. They sat like that, in undetermined silence until she stood and offered her hand to him without so much as a word or a nod. Zhongli took it, and steered her outside before she took to the stairs herself. Had she been alive, she’d have been a filial, serious daughter to her parents. Or parent, thereof, which seemed to be Baizhu. Dead, she was disquieting. Always stuck in a recount of a childhood soaked in blood, if the nature of those talismans said anything.

No, Qiqi would not be hard to take care of. 

-

Shepherding Qiqi downstairs also involved giving a heads-up to Gui at the front desk. She glanced at Zhongli with disdain, as if it were his fault that she was being subject to Gui’s fretting once more. Qiqi tolerated a total of two more questions until she turned into the dark corridor, her paleness trailing like a hanged ghost, saying that it was time for her daily calisthenics and they mustn't hold up for her. 

Gui sighed heavily at this display. The young man had all the weariness of a mother frogmarching her toddlers to bed.

“Calisthenics?” Zhongli asked, just to be sure. 

“Yes...she requires it, so her joints do not stiffen.” Gui said this absentmindedly, and then looked at Zhongli, the meek lamb who would not before meet his eyes, “Master Zhongli you are the only person I’ve met who has not been rattled by Miss Qiqi’s condition.”

That was not true, but Gui’s confrontation was fueled by tiredness. Zhongli chose to nudge the conversation to a close. “She is a good kid.”

“Ah, yes. That she is.” Overly conscious, Gui cracked his head over to the side, rubbing at the nape of his neck when the embarrassment caught up. There was no need to linger and bother the young man any longer.

Zhongli clasped his hands at his back, and bowed, “You rest up, Gui.”

“I will. Thank you, Master Zhongli.”

While the building’s plan suggested there was indeed a door that led to Baizhu’s chambers from inside, Zhongli took the path from the main exit. That was the one he’d been shown.

With a moon this luminous, it was a pity how brackish the air was, this despondent and still. Zhongli took a brief detour, stopped by the rail again and looked over.

Yonder, by the oil lamps on the boardwalk, there would surely be flowers set for sale in the Wanyou Boutique. He found himself briefly entertaining walking to the boutique for old blush roses. Perhaps peonies. Would a gesture like that be too over the top? Was that even appropriate? Zhongli had never given thought to such things before.

Instead, Zhongli looped behind the pharmacy, where the twin doors were tucked into the furthermost left wing. He knocked twice and before he knew it, the doors rattled inwards, jostled by the opening of a sliding lock. 

“Good evening.” Amused, almost sardonic, before Baizhu made way for him and moved away from the doors. “Do come in.” 

Zhongli had caught a glimpse before he’d darted away. Baizhu’s braid had been loosened, and wore his hair open, in rumpled waves. The pale green coat he had draped over his shoulders earlier, he now wore fully, with the exception of one sleeve folded over that peculiar arm brace. Baizhu had left with him a cloud of perfume, cool sandalwood with an astonishing bitterness that Zhongli felt on the roof of his mouth.

“Good evening.” Zhongli said as a way of excusing himself when he entered, closing the door as he went. Baizhu smiled at him from where he was now seated at his place on the divan, a tortoiseshell comb braced in his hands. Zhongli bowed his head and smiled back.

Sectioning a good length of hair, Baizhu settled the teeth of the comb at his roots. His hair was endless, unspooled like a ribbon. “I’ll just be a moment now.”

Zhongli leaned against the sofa. “Take your time.”

The comb caught no knots, the section of hair stretching like pale fibers strung in a silk loom. There it was too, his Dendro Vision slung by a jade tassel like a green flame, next to the swarthy skin of Baizhu's bare stomach. Baizhu was very attractive, even an uninterested observer would acknowledge that.

“Is your room to your liking?” 

“Yes.” After a beat, Zhongli added. “That wasn't necessary. Gui tells me it used to be your bedroom, and little Miss Qiqi seems to be attached to it too.” 

“Nonsense. It's been gathering dust since. Besides, I wish for you to have it.”

Baizhu lets Zhongli mull on it, and works through the second section of his hair completely before issuing his next question.

“Are you squeamish, Zhongli? To viscera, blood, and excretions. Of the surgical nature. I understand you teach but I do not know if you take part in the embalming itself.” 

Zhongli's lips prickled. If only he knew of the battles, sieges, and fortunes that had passed under Rex Lapis’ hand. "I do not, and to answer your query, nothing of the sort bothers me. But I have not been trained in any medicinal capacity, and my understanding is limited. I would like to learn.” 

The curl of wistfulness in his voice surprised them both.

“Well. I’d like your opinion on something before we go to that tea house of yours.” Baizhu sets the tortoiseshell comb on the divan, and rose. Zhongli watched him pad barefoot into, what could be an antechamber leading to a bedroom. He returned with his purple flat shoes and the handsome birch cane with its royal golden eye. “We’d have to stop by the morgue. There’s a case Sergeant Fengyan asked me to spare an opinion on. I’d say it’s more your expertise, arguably.”

Zhongli laughed, sufficiently intrigued. The doctor and the mortician made a sturdy pair. “May I ask what it is about?”

“You’ll know soon enough. ”

As if skirting a delicate fracturing point, as if shy, Baizhu leaned next to him. Zhongli let Baizhu embrace his arm, and held him there, in the fashion of old familiar lovers.

-

“There’s a gentleman, Gentry De’an. You’ll learn to recognize him soon enough. He comes and lingers at the pharmacy’s entrance some evenings, always buys a perplexing amount of qingxin flowers, as a formality, of course.”

“Of course.” Zhongli agreed politely, and Baizhu’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “What is it that he wants?”

They passed under the archway that shaded Mingxing Jewelry. Down at the pier, the open-air market was vibrant, thick with the smell of cardamom and frying fish. 

“Oh...poor man suffered a tragedy. His daughter hurled herself down a water well in passion. A man of his honorable standing naturally wished to find a good match for his daughter and she’d taken to some boy that was neither.”

“Hm.” Zhongli hummed, and asked, “You sound like you don't believe it.” 

At this, Baizhu made a false show of being aggrieved, a hand over his chest. “How you wound me, Zhongli!”

The Milileth headquarter was sprawling and dense, and Baizhu knew precisely where to see himself when they came to a stop. A tense guard prepared to lead them in after preliminary introductions. Baizhu squeezed Zhongli’s arm to catch his attention and spoke in a level, toneless voice as the guard led them through hallways.

“Gentry De’an put Sergeant Fengyan on the job. He has the means to, you see, Mora is power. Sergeant Fengyan finds a body, identifies it with a De’an family heirloom on it’s person, and sought me to inspect the body. I'm instructed to keep it hush hush, until today, I have been made known that the magistrate has concluded investigations with this discovery and declared it suicide. I suspect something is afoot.”

“Go on.”

Pleased, Baizhu turned his face upwards. “Second Young Miss De’an - Huachu, her name - is in fact alive and well.”

The guard took them into a cold room eclipsed in a grimy twilight. Their footsteps echoed with its vastness. Zhongli knew well this stagnant smell of death, of detritus and of watertight fabric that covered the faces of the missing, unidentified, and the unclaimed that would be put to burial when the eulogy of their transient lives is sorted out in two paged documents penciled out by a jaded secretary. 

They stopped in front of a low table with a lumpen mishap of a body shrouded in a cloth. The guard left without parting or thanks once she was done with what her superiors had asked her of. Baizhu detached himself from Zhongli’s side to move to the head of the table. Intent, trim, captured.

“The good people at Feiyun Slope reported foul tasting, low pressure, discolored water for seven days continuously. Miss Huachu left her family home two weeks ago. Investigations uncovered,” With that Baizhu lifts the cover over the body’s face, “An unidentified young woman's corpse to be the cause of the dreadful contamination in the precise water well. On her person, they found a Ge’an family jewel. A ring encrusted on her index finger.”

"I see. How have they ruled out the possibility of foul play?"

"Miss Huanchu left a letter at home. The contents are undisclosed to me, but it is enough to make Gentry De'an and Sergeant to believe she herself threw herself into that well."

Zhongli glanced at the disfigured face. The rot of water had settled in, and there was very little to salvage in what was once a face with a nose bridge, hollows for eyes and a pair of lips. All that was left was a bloated mass, desperately made presentable for the upcoming funeral rites for the second miss of a prominent family. 

"Do you not think it an unusual way to put oneself out of their misery?" 

"Well. I suppose so."

With an avian tilt of his head, Baizhu shifted towards him, echoing with interest. "'Suppose so?'" 

Zhongli had been careless, and dismissively so over the body of this young woman. He no longer wished to talk about what he thought. “You seem to know for a fact that this woman is not Miss Huanchu.” 

Baizhu’s strange eyes were dull, languorous in the dark. He merely looked over at Zhongli, deciding not to comment on their deliberate shift of conversation, and moved towards him. “I do.” Closer still, Baizhu looked as if he would lean up instead he took Zhongli’s hand and pressed a cool ellipsoid bottle in his palm. “Go on. Take the cork off. Tell me what it is.” 

Holding the bottle under his nose, mingled with the rot and sour water, the thin film of liquid was unmistakable. “Embalming chemicals.” Realization dawned on him the moment Baizhu cracked out a smile, beatific and wide. “Our Second Miss De’an dug up a grave.” 

“So she did. I was called upon to determine the time of death at the earliest. This woman has been dead for over a month. No blood sure enough, when I took the sample. Scientific knowledge, there is weight and power in it. These stuffy traditions hold no value.”

Zhongli barked out a laugh. “And here I thought Mora was power, doctor.” 

Still looking at him, Baizhu replied in a leopard's purr. “Get with the times, consultant.”

-

By the time they reached Heyu Tea House, it was well on its way to wrapping up for the day. The singers had retired and the crowds receded, but Zhongli was ushered in when tea master Liu Su got wind of his arrival. They had plum wine, and two fragrant courses. A beautiful young man plucked a zither on the central stage. It was apparent that the encounter in the morgue did little to dampen Baizhu’s appetite, who ate his fill. 

Closing time was inevitable, as much as Zhongli would have liked to simply stay and talk on the merits of the exact characters chosen for the ‘Bubu’ in Bubu pharmacy, all accusations which Baizhu had so far denied. 

“Erm,” And here came the predicament at last, paying for the meal. Zhongli had spent all of his Mora on the ceramic for Ming-er’s father. How could he have forgotten?

“Master Zhongli!” Tea master Liu Su, a man with an innate flair for melodrama, whispered hotly as Baizhu fished for his wallet. “You simply cannot court like this! It is about time you settled down, yet you still manage such-such hapless blunders!”

Before Zhongli could divert Liu Su's ill-informed concern, he had turned to Baizhu, addressing him directly. “Kind sir, Master Zhongli is not usually like this. He will learn. You must not leave him, there is no one else who makes him laugh like you have!”

Flushed and rosy with alcohol, Baizhu was still sharp. He was smiling like the votive of a gracious and magnanimous god. “Oh?” 

Casting his final attempt, Zhongli insisted firmly. “Baizhu has been drinking, leave him be tea master-”

“That is surely no way to address your sweetheart!”

Zhongli coughed. Baizhu processed this, deliberately counting his Mora. “How right he is. Help me up, won’t you?” He paused, smiling and a little drunk. “Won’t you, Zhongli?” 

Chapter Text

The foundation of the main building of the pharmacy was cemented in times when the people of Liyue had began to settle by the coastline, and saw little use for architectural aesthetics. Zhongli had no doubt that the pharmacy, under Baizhu’s watch, had been extended and refurbished. Yet the effect of its center was still felt on the ground floor with its dense walls, windows far and few. Such that when it got cloudy, Gui would have to start lighting lamps by noon.

One such overcast day Qiqi had informed Zhongli over breakfast that she’d be taking off for Minlin at the earliest. 

She packed her wicker basket, strapped her scabbard and accessorized the look with a Mond styled sun hat and a blue ribbon fastened under her chin. She had hopped about Zhongli’s legs, completely ignoring his suggestion that he did not need a hat himself. In the end, he’d conceded, and tipped back the rest of his rice in haste to prepare and leave.

It could be something to look forward to. The river water would still be sweet and pure before silt settled at the onset of the seasonal showers, and Qiqi had proven to be a mindful hiking companion over their last few outings. 

The child had an uncanny sense. She would sense the riot of leylines as readily as readily he would and would find sweet flowers growing together in patches while stepping lightly around a Whopperflower slumbering in the pretense of a sprig of mint. She would summon revolving phantasms of Cryo that froze rivers for them to cross, and would sometimes touch Zhongli’s hand to manifest a cool talisman like a silk-stitched curlicue on the leather of his glove. 

In the end though, Zhongli had spoken too soon. Her preparations were all for naught as it began to rain in the wake of a heavy, red downpour. The hardening wall of rain would not relent in time for them to set out.

“Oh no.” Qiqi shuffled and looked at her shoes. They stood at the doors, with their baskets and hats, with her grip on his coat-tails tightening. Zhongli had learned over the week he’d spent here that she could not physically cry, but there were moments she would if she could. 

“How’s this? If it is raining this badly Miss Yaoyao wouldn’t have set out yet either. You can take an umbrella and catch her.”

The rain hurled down with torrential force, spraying the front of Zhongli’s boots, even under the roof’s shade. Qiqi did not answer at first, but she tilted her head to her side as if she were considering it. “Yaoyao…yes, I would like that.”

At this, her grip on his coat-tail loosened. Zhongli squinted up at the firmament, mighty and thundering as if he could will the rain to halt its course. He was long past those days. 

“The weather won’t last long. We will set out soon. You have my word.”

“I am sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize, child. Come now, let me help you take off that hat. That’s a very firm knot.”

“Okay.”

Once inside, Qiqi saw herself right on top of Gui’s desk, dutifully tilting her head as Zhongli shook the ribbon under her chin loose with a finger. The knot was strong and winded twice over, had she tightened it any more, Zhongli would have had to resort to slicing it open with Gui’s letter opener. 

“Thank you.” Qiqi’s tone was no-nonsense and flat, plucking her sunhat from him the moment he freed the ribbon. She seemed not to want Zhongli’s hat back though, the same one she’d eagerly squeezed over his head before. “I will go to see A-Yao, Mister Zhongli.”

With that she hopped down and trailed inside, leaving Zhongli to stand alone at the entrance. 

There was no one manning the front this time with Gui on his day off, and his assistant idling in the dispensary weighing and reweighing the same packages to stall counter duty.

The pharmacy was never truly closed, Zhongli would not expect it to be, but business on a day like this was slow. He imagined that unless the situation was dire, a patient would rather lay low under their roof than walk in this barrage for a dose of milk of magnesia for a stomach reflux.

Better than leaving the front unmanned, Zhongli sat by the counter. 

He became aware of Qiqi’s gift. Taking it off, he turned his new hat over in his hands. It was rather a pretty thing, with its hay-colored weave and the long curve at the brim. Qiqi’s blue ribbon looked fashionable paired with her hat, but Zhongli’s had none.

He’d have to see a seamstress about the kind of orange that would compliment his dark hair, but such was the simplicity of its design that even a braided string to loop around the band would do.

Behind Zhongli, the bamboo blind rustled and Gui’s assistant emerged. She spotted Zhongli, her brows ticking up in surprise, then clasped her hands to bow in apology.

“I’ll take over.”

“There is no issue.” Zhongli trapped his new hat under his armpit, and slung Qiqi’s wicker basket over his forearm. He nodded at her, “Good work.”

He circled around and behind her, to emerge into the corridor. Shadows were long and dark between these lacquered narrow walls. Give it a month more, and his breath would start to coalesce into vapor with how unusually chilly the central building was. 

Midway to the storage he changed his route to the kitchens once he inspected the contents of the basket. Tucked between the empty containers and the clippers she used to shear leaves, Qiqi had packed half a flask of water and a box of plain rice with fried tofu. She herself could not ingest, much less eat, but had thought of Zhongli. 

Even with the windows open, the kitchen was warm. Someone was already loitering about, and Zhongli had a faint inkling to who it might be. He braced his steps and leaned at the door.

“Have you not eaten yet?”

The taper's flame guttered, and light dipped across Baizhu’s face. He had not heard Zhongli approaching. Baizhu's cane rattled where it stood, hooked at the edge of the table on one end, as Baizhu turned from where he sat.

“Oh, it is you.” Baizhu’s hair was especially bright in the flame as if worked through with a bright thread. “I had a late breakfast. You? Peckish?” 

“Not particularly, no.” Zhongli saw himself in and set Qiqi’s basket on the counter. Baizhu had laid out an entire spread of minced meat in a bowl with thin squares of flattened dough and flour fanned over a wide surface. “Qiqi’s outing to Nantianmen is indefinitely put on hold.” 

“So it seems. Poor darling’s going to be moping about it all day.” Baizhu dipped his fingers in a bowl with water, then peeled a square of dough. His attention drew to the sunhat. “That’s a nice hat.”

“It is.” Zhongli gave it a twirl about his wrist for Baizhu's appraisal before he reached for the mist cupboard. Changsheng’s absence meant Baizhu had been holed up in his lab for most of the night and that she had likely abandoned Baizhu in favor of curling by a window in a slice of sunlight. It struck him that he hadn't been truly alone with Baizhu since that evening. “Qiqi left it with me.”

“Careful now dear Zhongli, next you know she wants to dress you up in frills.” 

Scraping out the rice and tofu into a bowl, Zhongli stashed it before he gave himself the liberty of pulling a chair across Baizhu. “I have no qualms about that whatsoever.”

Baizhu's honey-colored eyes fluttered in amusement, his lashes long and flaxen. The lamplight made him more golden than usual. “You should know my Qiqi would naturally know not to pass up such an opportunity.”

“Naturally.”

Baizhu kept smiling, working on spooning meat into the last few sheets of dough. Liyuan dumplings boasted many shapes, and the ones Baizhu liked in his household were compact, and heavy-bottomed with pinched corners.

They were rows upon rows with their translucent skins. A string of pearls in the pale mizzle. There was an untouched bowl of yogurt that was watery in consistency and spiced with mint and pepper set aside too. That was a condiment, then, though an unusual one.

Baizhu did not ask him to help, and Zhongli did not offer it. He watched Baizhu crease a corner close with damp fingers, and thought of Ferrylady’s note. She said she’d ‘like’ to see him at the funeral house early in the morning if he should be available. Undertaker Zhao was due his lecture today and Director Hu hadn't summoned Zhongli to her office. There was no need for him to come in, and yet it was better that he should heed Ferrylady’s roundabout advice all the same.

Besides, it was a good enough incentive to set out in this weather as any. Zhongli would take the detour he had been meaning to for a while now. 

“I will be off soon. Is there anything required of me?” 

Baizhu gave him a sidelong glance, but he did not pry. “Not at all.” 

The flour caked in Baizhu’s fingernails was peeling with water, and Zhongli’s eyes drew to Baizhu’s arms. Spindly, long, and bare without his arm brace and gloves. Zhongli parted his mouth to speak, and under the blood from the meat and sapid starch of the dough, he got a mouthful of the perfumed powder that Baizhu usually dusted at the back of his hands and his arms before he fitted his gloves. 

Baizhu was always generously perfumed if he were otherwise not trailing the mephitic vapors of antiseptic spirits with him. With Zhongli’s sense of smell, it was getting harder not to notice.

Today, the powder was like the organic rind of a pomegranate and labdanum gum. This was a new one, the one before had cloves and jasmine. Zhongli swallowed around it, and had a ridiculous notion, then and there, that the flour and the powder would be near impossible to tell apart. “...I must attend a lecture. For the trainees.”

Baizhu finished one more dumpling and shook his bangs out of his eyes. There was flour streaked in his hair. “Then you must go. I would like it if you could join us for lunch, but it is understandable if you would rather eat with your colleagues.”

“I’ll stay put if I get to sample those.” Zhongli smiled when Baizhu looked as if he were seriously considering this, and offered surrender. “Please, save me a seat. I’ll be in time for lunch.”

“I’ll be delighted to.” 

By the time Baizhu would direct his attention from his handiwork towards the door, Zhongli would be gone.

-

Mrs. Jifang of the Wanmen Bookhouse, who was always a tad bit cranky early morning, reddened as Zhongli put in his request. 

Just around Zhongli's arrival, she had bound her bookshelves in tarpaulin and pushed them under the awning. It wasn't just Qiqi whose day had been soiled by these end-of-the-summer showers. Mrs. Jifang, sodden and miserable, had to make do and receive him like that, with no time to properly cart her wares inside the storage. Zhongli would have excused himself if he had not owed payment for Ming-er’s book, and if he hadn't had to pick up the scrolls he had pretended to carefully select through a list of poetry for Director Hu.

He’d also been gathering his wits for this other matter for a week now. Zhongli had some readings he wanted to...reexamine.

“Is there an issue?” 

“Well, no, Master Zhongli, I see no issue getting these volumes for you.” Mrs. Jifang purveyed the list he’d penned with a scandalously injured air, all the while refusing to meet his eyes. “Have you not, er, inquired about the collection they keep at the Pearl Galley?” 

“I am aware of it.” Zhongli sighed when Mrs. Jifang looked at him. Now that she was asking outright about it, they could be frank amongst the two of them. “Those volumes are a delicate matter. They were donated to the Pearl Galley as gifts by a Major in the ranks of the bakufu for Lady Black Jade. She has not visited Liyue since the Inazuman borders were sealed, and I do not wish to disturb Lady Black Jade now.” 

“Pardon me?” Mrs. Jifang asked, a little startled, and Zhongli carried on.

“The Major. She was-is- Lady Black Jade’s foremost and only patron.” 

“No, what I mean to say is...ah, so this ‘Lady Black Jade’ is an entertainer aboard the Pearl Gallery.” 

“Yes.” Zhongli mindlessly thumbed the spines of Director Hu’s books of classical poetry. “Besides, I wish to reference articles of a more different taste than the Majors’, ergo, the ones available at the galley. Hers are very distinguished.”

“Distinguished.”

“She is interested in women only, suffice to say—”

Mrs. Jifang cut him off with haste. “Yes, I understand precisely the tastes you speak of, and the tastes, erm, you require.”

As if berating herself for her own comment, she folded the paper thrice, attempting to fold it into nothingness if she could and cleared her throat. “If you will follow me. I do not have all the titles, but you are welcome to examine the ones we do have at the storehouse.” 

Zhongli was a step behind her when he pieced her awkwardness together. “I apologize. I did not think to ask if you would be comfortable providing me these titles, this is not your usual fare.” 

She shook at the lock and peered in as the door creaked open to dry bliss. “Well, yes, normally I would not indulge anyone else, we are a family-friendly establishment after all. But I know you Master Zhongli. With a straight face like yours, earnestly asking me for some high-ended hand-painted shunga scrolls I dare say this is yet another one of your many academic curiosities. And we are Liyue’s foremost book house after all.” 

She shrugged as she beckoned him inside, putting herself at ease more than anything else. “And as you said earlier. I’d rather you not stoop to some shady third party that’ll rob you blind. Watch your step, it’s dark in here.” 

“Yes. That’s the gist of it.” Zhongli took a second lamp from her. She led him to a lone corner and pointed to a bookshelf with sparse clothbound books, frail yellowed scrolls that curled unto themselves. “Thank you.”

Her heels clicked as she turned to leave. He moved once he heard the door close. 

There was very little that dual cultivation could offer an Adepti of his stature. He had examined the practice in texts only, intended for cultivation and pleasure, or both. Ganyu’s father, a Qilin like Zhongli himself, but a lesser Adepti all the same had taken a human woman on a hill, where they had conceived Ganyu. The human lived until she was frail and gray, and Cloud Retainer had taken a shine to Ganyu. Halflings like Ganyu, and Adepti with weaker cultivation bases like her sire were thus less suited to practice inedia. 

Nevermind inedia. Mornings like these Baizhu smelled sweet enough to eat. That little incident, inebriated as Baizhu was, must have slipped his mind entirely. And Zhongli…while having no dishonorable expectations, struggled to understand this facet of himself.

He pulled at one scroll without looking at the title, and unrolled it at the length of his forearm. The paint was faded but well done, the paper aged. Both parties were partially clothed, close enough for their bodies to be cupping each other like saucers. A bearded man held his hand, wide, between their two bodies. Zhongli only understood the purpose for that once he turned the scroll upside down and got dust all over his face.

The second scroll had boys that were sweet-faced, naked as the day they were born, mouthing each other. They were detailed with tints that were pinkish and azure, a tryst in a flower garden. He moved on to the next one with only mild interest and paused. 

This one showed a Sumerian hammam, secretive, though gilded as it was. The painter had captured the sheen of their skins. The steam was such that it was a parted curtain. Zhongli lingered on the long hair strewn in tendrils on pale tiles, the golden skin, the open wanton desire.

Unbidden, Zhongli thought of the evening he and Baizhu had returned from the tea house. Baizhu had crowded him against the wall outside those two paneled doors, steering Zhongli’s hands to the line of his waist, light and undecided like a butterfly. Drunk and flighly. His breath was humid and fast at Zhongli's neck, and his fingers were deft when they pressed onto the muscles of Zhongli's abdomen, inched up to anchor to his arms. Then, it was Baizhu who withdrew first, and Zhongli apologized. 

He decided he'd seen enough.

Mrs Jifang smiled, when he emerged back into daylight. “I’ve got Director Hu’s books prepared. Thank you for your patronage.” 

Zhongli silently pocketed the receipt, gathered the books, and bowed briefly before he turned to leave.

There was a blockage in Zhongli’s throat that refused to dissipate as he climbed down the stairs. Now that he had committed himself fully into this life, drunken fumbling in the dark was a common human pastime and should not amount to much, yet he had been taken aback at his own physical reaction. It was mortifying, even painful, to deal with. 

He stepped into three puddles before he ever rounded the corner to the funeral house. Liyue was better suited to such outings when the sun hung at spear’s length, not under a wet cloth that rendered the fortuitous reds of buildings washed out and garish.

“You are here.” The Ferrylady announced the moment she saw him rounding the corner, and paused to regard Zhongli's flappy blue umbrella. If she thought it wasn’t typical of Zhongli's usual fashion then she would be correct. The umbrella belonged to Gui’s assistant, and Zhongli could only hope the girl wasn’t cursing his ancestors for borrowing it in the nick of time. He was going to be back before she’d leave. 

Zhongli bowed in greeting as she did. “It is good to see you, my friend.” 

“We see each other everyday.” She said, but held the door for him. “After you, Consultant.” 

Zhongli could normally hear Director Hu, chipper, and all too pleased with herself with the students before he ever even stepped past the threshold to the funeral house. It was, instead, how the house of the dead should be, solemn and quiet. “Director Hu?” 

“I believe she has begun.” 

So she had gone to the lecture. “Unusual for her.”

The Ferrylady eyeballed him and the stack of bound scrolls he’d been carrying, sensing his line of questioning without him having ever voiced them. “Director Hu was not aware you were going to make it. You know that she respects you.” Then after a pause, “Undertaker Wen had been sweating profusely and asking after you, it seems it is him who has accompanied her in your stead.”

“I see.” 

“By the archons, I hope that you do.” The Ferrylady muttered and braced herself against the door they came to stand at last. “The Director will scare those kids. They make them soft and putty these days, and then I’ll have to work overtime.”

The Ferrylady would not have to worry about working overtime, or about Ming-er growing up to be soft and putty, but Zhongli bit back any unsavory retort. “I’ll be going inside the lecture hall, then.” 

“That you most certainly will, Consultant.” 

She gripped the handlebar, and all but bodily pushed Zhongli inside before sealing it behind him. Director Hu was in the middle of some account that involved a lot of gestures, swinging a trocar in her right hand.

As soon as Undertaker Wen saw Zhongli, he made a beeline for the back door, with no regard to Director Hu’s current running joke which seemed to not have reached its crest yet.

The class before him consisted of morticians-in-training struck with intimidation, or jittering amongst themselves like a roost of starling at Director Hu’s enthusiasm. 

“Good morning Consultant!” Nothing escaped her, of course. Director Hu might as well have announced it, with her jarring voice cutting her own laughter, her cheer reducing the room in size and scope. Every head in the room - about two dozen - turned to look at him. 

“Good morning, Director. Excuse my tardiness.” Zhongli had seen her shift and had stopped his approach timely. He smiled as kindly as he could manage, his headache from earlier still lingered. His students, upon recognizing him, prepared to rise. “Please, keep your seats.” 

Director Hu slung a grin across her mouth and kicked her feet under her but said nothing else as he approached her. 

She handed him the trocar. Zhongli shot her a loaded look but took it. 

He taught etiquette of funeral rites, ceremonies, and conduct. Embalming, restoration arts, and reassembly of the deceased from the moment they were transported to the funeral house were under Undertaker Zhao’s tutelage. Besides, such teachings were not conducted in a roomy hall of the funeral house, they were taught hands-on, on the dead themselves.

Director Hu turned away from him and smiled sunnily at the class. “Undertaker Zhao is unavailable today! At his behest, Teacher Zhongli and I will walk you through some precision instruments. Undertaker Zhao will continue from this introduction in his follow-up class.” 

Director Hu paused and began to speak once more. Zhongli followed, filling in her pauses. Theory at least, he could do. 

At some point, his students started chiming in with answers to Director Hu’s impromptu quizzing. It gave Zhongli the reprieve to survey the table she’d set out a sundry of tools on. She had even bought the headrest they used to keep the deceased’s head raised during embalming, so as to not allow stagnant blood to pool behind the ears. 

It was his conversation with Mrs. Jifang earlier that brought to his mind the pillows courtesans at the Pearl Gallery used after an elaborate coiffure. Simple enough to suit their purpose; elevated, long-necked rest with a bag of wheat chaff under a cover, so as to not soil elaborately made-up hair in sleep.

A young man aboard tagging alongside a Snezhnayan merchant at Miss Wanyan’s table had complained of how the neck rest was hard as stone. Zhongli imagined it was about as comfortable as this rest humans reserved for the dead. 

Detached, Zhongli thought that although a far-fetched association, the resemblance was almost uncanny. And then, he thought of nothing at all.

-

“Consultant, a word.”

“Director.” 

His students were ahead, in a single file, all chatter and murmur ceased. He himself only barely stopped short of falling in step with the Ferrylady. Zhongli could not see the shadow of the sun from inside and had no way of telling if he was late for Baizhu’s prepared lunch. It would be a shame to miss. 

“Consultant. Firstly, thank you for bringing my books.”  Director Hu smiled, a little cross-eyed as she looked through Zhongli, and not at him, apparently more distracted than he was. “Secondly, I’ve been meaning to discuss with you. Instead of that dreadful dirge, why not arrange something, hmm, modern? Next class of yours, in fact. A fresh tune!” 

Zhongli waited for her to elaborate, but took it on himself. “By ‘dreadful dirge’ you mean the traditional funeral march music.” 

She rolled her eyes heavenward as if to stress how dull she thought he was. “Yes, Consultant! We must strive for better service, keep up with the times! If it were me, I would shift in my grave if that old goat’s bleating marked my rites. We must… liven things up, so as to speak.” 

Zhongli’s lips twitched before he could help it. She jumped at it, baring her teeth and pointing at him in accusation. “Ha!” 

“I did not—” 

“You did, Consultant! I daresay you were smiling!” 

Zhongli attempted a bow to salvage what was left of his dignity. “I will try my best to find something appropriate.” Though he could not imagine if said ‘old goat’ - once a musician of the foremost emerging opera troupes in Liyue, fingers buttery on the strings of a yueqin - and her singing could be reduced to ‘bleating’. 

Director Hu was a disagreeable, crude child sometimes, but it was true that their current musician was well past her prime. As her knees knocked together and her age showed, she developed the zeal that many were prone to later in their mortal lives. Quitting her troupe altogether, she offered her services to the Funeral Parlor, and spent her earnings pouring libations for the Adepti at the foot of Mt. Hulao. 

“You will manage?”

“Certainly, Director.” 

“Well, just let me know if you,” With an exaggerated wink she finished “hit a dead end.” 

Rex Lapis had cultivated alone, between pine-needle loam and wastes of snow. The prime of the illuminated beasts had remained unsullied and unmarred from human and animal desire. He could damn well bite back a smile now.

Director Hu observed his stony face for a beat, then scratched the underside of her chin. 

“That was a bit much wasn’t it?” 

“If you say so, Director.” 

-

He was late for lunch but as it turned out, while Gui’s assistant secured her umbrella from him she briefed him that Baizhu had retired to take a nap after he’d surfaced from the kitchen. Whether he was awake now, she did not know.

“Miss Qiqi is out on the porch with her drawing things.”

“Yes, I saw.” Zhongli shook the water from the fabric of her umbrella before he folded it, which she received with a grimace. He spared a glance at Qiqi, who was perched on a lone dry bench, tracing lines and pressing blobs onto paper. She didn't look in any better spirits than before. “Thank you for the umbrella.”

The clenched line of her teeth was perhaps meant to be a smile. “Then, I’ll be eating at home, Master Zhongli. Have a good day.”

“Thank you. You as well.” Zhongli paused at the hinge of the counter as she turned to leave. “If you would like to eat with us, I’m sure Doctor Baizhu-ah.” 

But she was already marching out. Zhongli watched as she leaned over next to Qiqi to whisper to her, patting Qiqi’s arm with awkward affection. No one ever actually got snappy with little Qiqi.

The child only pinched her mouth, smoothed out her papers, and looked back at the pharmacy, over at Zhongli.

Just as Gui’s assistant took to the stairs, Qiqi gathered her brushes and pots to her chest and skipped inside. Once she did, she dumped the clutter on Gui’s accounting desk and blinked up at Zhongli.

“Yue-jie said I should help Mister Zhongli wake up Doctor Bai.” 

Her extended hand was splotchy with ink, it would be hard-pressed to take the stains out of Zhongli’s glove. He took her hand between his gloved fingers anyway. “Do you think we should let him rest instead? We could set aside some for him.” 

“No.” Qiqi shook her head and swung Zhongli’s arms with it, “Doctor Bai needs to eat now, so he can take his medicine.” 

“...Very well.” 

Clearly, Qiqi was sold on the idea that waking up Baizhu should be a group effort. Zhongli would rather she did it alone. He did not think inviting himself to Baizhu’s chambers was decent, but he let himself be led along a tight squeeze through the counter. Zhongli had not ventured this far, electing to remain in the corner where he was assigned and needed.

“Here now,” Tugging at Qiqi, he stopped her before she took hold of him and barreled on ahead to a set of matching twin doors he’d seen outside the pharmacy. The doors were behind a rhubarb red curtain, the handles thin and gleaming, different from the barred ones outside. Considering their position, they would only lead to the innermost of Baizhu’s bedchamber. “I’ll wait outside for Miss Qiqi.”

“Why?”

The question was delivered with such deadpanned seriousness that it made Zhongli creak his jaw close. Lecturing her would lead to nowhere, so he began as delicately as he could.

“I am not Doctor Baizhu’s family. It is inappropriate.” 

She tugged at him as if he were attached to a kite string. “Gui-gege goes when Doctor Baizhu calls.”

“Yes, because Doctor Baizhu calls him.” 

A twee little thing she was when she stuck out the moue of her lip in a pout. “Adults don't need permissions.”

Zhongli took a pause longer than he should have. “They do and they must, Miss Qiqi, if they know what’s right. At length, and often.”

He’d have elaborated more on that note if he hadn't reached the end point of Qiqi’s negotiations. She stomped her foot and tried pulling him along with force. She would have better luck moving boulders than Zhongli. So when that effort came to naught, the temperature around them plunged to a boreal cold. This was the beginning of one of her tempestuous tantrums that Gui had warned him about. Zhongli could feel her frigid fingers through his gloves, her Vision scintillating, pale and vicious.

He heard his cane before he saw Baizhu. The doors rattled inwards.

Baizhu’s breath steamed as he took stock of both of them, sleep rumpled and disheveled. He had hastily donned a deep blue robe that should have been drab with its sheerness but wasn't. The incense Baizhu burned in his room met the cold vapor of Qiqi’s anger in white tendrils. 

“Qiqi.” He sounded blatantly dismayed. “That’s enough now, dear.” 

The temperature dipped once more, then fluctuated and no longer chilled their breaths. Never to miss out on theatrics, Changsheng wound herself around Baizhu’s arm and emerged from under his armpit to gurgle at Qiqi, who inched behind Zhongli’s leg at the sight of her. “Brat! It’s cold.”

“A-Sheng.” Baizhu murmured in reproach and secured his robe tight around him. Zhongli half expected to be scolded himself. Instead he got a slow, syrupy blink. “I believe I promised you lunch.” 

Changsheng hovered her pitted snout towards Zhongli conspiringly, and Zhongli, aware of her, cleared throat behind his fist, “Yes.” And then he added, “It is not Miss Qiqi’s fault. She merely wished to wake you, and I have unknowingly incensed her.”

“Qiqi still knows better, to behave with her elders.” Baizhu spoke to Qiqi now. She was still huddled behind Zhongli, and mumbled out something in contrition that neither of them could parse.

“What was that darling?”

“M’sorry Mister Zhongli.”

“It’s alright.”  Zhongli addressed Qiqi behind his legs, then turned to Baizhu. “It’s alright. I insist.” 

With Baizhu’s hair swept up in a severe style, his face was open and vulnerable to inspection. “Alright,” He repeated, and with the air of a huffy matriarch, turned to Zhongli. “You should have just woken me yourself. Zhongli, really.” 

Deciding that both Zhongli and Qiqi were beyond reason, he blew past them. They followed, sufficiently scolded.

-

In the kitchen, Zhongli was tasked with combining bamboo shoots with water chestnuts, coriander, ginger, peanut oil, and snow peas. Baizhu would not let him handle spooning the rice into bowls, or the soup, or steaming the dumplings. Qiqi watched this unfold with no comment, bribed by Changsheng perching on her shoulder to fetch coconut milk from the mist cupboard if Qiqi were to set the table. 

“You may heat the oil before combining.” 

Gathering julienned ginger with the blunt edge of his knife, Zhongli looked at him. “I may?” 

Baizhu gave him an amused glance as he stirred the soup. Zhongli had a thing or two to say on the merits of cooking near an open flame with a robe that was this gauzy and loose but only felt his tongue thicken with his wits. “You may.” 

Zhongli focused on the task at hand and simmered the oil until it began to pop, tossed in the ginger and coriander last so as to retain their freshness. By the time Zhongli was done, Baizhu was seated, and Qiqi had been whisked away to keep up her end of the bargain with Changsheng after she had secured her cup. 

He sat opposite Baizhu in companionable silence. The warmth from the stove washed against them. Zhongli took a slow first spoonful and closed his eyes.

“Is it that good?” Baizhu sounded endlessly entertained as he shaped a morsel of rice with his chopsticks. He ate with one hand, elbow braced on the table with the other hand curled under his chin, watching Zhongli eat.

Zhongli looked down, and skimmed the surface of his soup with a spoon. The displacing fat emulsified in liquid looked like archipelagos of light. “I am very fond of bone marrow broth as a soup base.” 

They began to eat. Once Zhongli was through his rice, Baizhu spoke.

“You have a fascinatingly precise sense of taste and smell.” 

“Hm.” Zhongli smiled. “Do I fascinate you often, Doctor?” 

He had meant it in jest, but Baizhu straightened up as if considering the question. That blue robe made him look like a poisonous flighty creature as he stacked his bowls on top of each other. “Yes.” 

“What kind of fascination do I inspire?” 

“But if I am honest - and I would very much like to be honest with you Zhongli - you would think me terribly uncouth.” Baizhu took hold of his cane as he stood, giving Zhongli a beckoning glance over his shoulder as he gathered his bowls, “Let us clean up.” 

“Yes.” Zhongli stood with his own bowls and dishes. Any and all thoughts beyond Baizhu’s statement came up to be inconvenient and uninspiring. He should drop the topic altogether. 

“I would not find you uncouth.” 

“You can’t promise that.” 

“No, I can’t promise that,” Zhongli admitted, coming to stand hip-to-hip with Baizhu at the sink. Soap-suds gathered on Baizhu’s frail, brown hands as Zhongli cleared the dishes. “But you have made me sufficiently curious about it to be persistent.” 

With a puff of laughter, Baizhu looked over at Zhongli. His glasses slipped down his nose, just a little. There was a healthy sheen to his skin, well-fed, warm, and sated with his rest from earlier. “That would make it even, then?”

“It is you who are suggesting it.” 

Baizhu smiled, their forearms touched as he handed Zhongli a clean bowl to dry.  “Do you remember that evening at Heyu Tea House?”

Zhongli's breathing stilled entirely before he answered. “I do.” 

“As do I. All of it. I apologize if I have led you to believe otherwise.” 

“You do not owe me anything.” 

“No, you have never given me such an impression.” The receding rain bought long drowning shadows that made Baizhu look almost haunted and histrionic as he reached for Zhongli’s clothed hand with his damp one. "May I touch you?"

Zhongli nodded in assent when Baizhu looked up at him, feeling only distantly aware of his own body.

“I took you by the wrist that day, much like this.”

He touched the base of Zhongli’s hand, palm side. Three fingers pressed onto the bones under his fifth finger. Zhongli recognized this gesture and felt encumbered by it, he had seen many medics, over a millennia do this very same. “You didn't wear these then. I felt your pulse, or lack of, thereof.” 

The crown of Baizhu’s hair permeated with incense from his bedchambers tickled at Zhongli’s chin as he turned over Zhongli’s hand. 

“It is easy to miss. But I have monitored Qiqi’s condition for over a decade now.”

He inched his hand, wisplike and damper than Zhongli had expected, up the length of his other arm. Under his bicep, at the clothed hollow diamond of skin, Baizhu pressed a thumb there. “When you put your hands on me, I tried feeling for it here, bilaterally. On both sides, that is. Perhaps you had some illness you weren't aware of.” He felt for a pulse point that should be at the level of his heart. There wasn't any, couldn't be any. “But that’s not what this was. That's not all there is to you.”

His fingers crept across Zhongli’s shoulders, “You weren't wearing your coat that day. Your Vision is kept threaded through a chained tassel, sewn onto it. It would have gone by me entirely if Gui hadn't asked me to brief you of the rules within our facility. We do not use elemental energy in close quarters besides our stations. He was unaware where you kept your Vision, or if you had one at all at the time you summoned a Geo construct to tend to Qiqi.”

Met by Zhongli’s stony silence, Baizhu made a fussy, impatient sound.

“I’ve tried asking about you since. A gifted geomancer, an almost uncanny awareness. No one knows where you came from. I can hear your breathing now. I felt your desire that day.” He looked up at Zhongli unblinking. “You will never fall sick. You will never die.” 

Zhongli suppressed his flinch as Baizhu moved to touch Zhongli’s jaw with his knuckles. “You don't scar either, do you? It is as if you are made of the elements, like your flesh alone will resonate with a Vision. You…”

“A professional curiosity then.”

A sudden dark temper rose from Baizhu, his pupils thin, set in brass. He jerked at the sound of Zhongli’s voice, ignoring the accusation entirely.  “I had thrown Direction Hu off my case. You felt too important to let go.”

“I am glad that you did not.”

They caught each other’s eye. They were close, breathing against each other. 

Zhongli touched Baizhu’s hair, the way he had longed to since he saw it. He dipped down, a diver searching for a pearl in the mouth of water, just as Baizhu reached for him. Then they were kissing.

Baizhu’s lips were dry, and the inside of his mouth was mellow. Feeling palsied by his own strength, fearful of what he might do, fearful of not knowing what to do altogether, he let Baizhu steer them both. He trembled as they sighed into each other. Or did they both? They were at odds with each other in more ways than one.

Abruptly, there was a hand between them. When Zhongli leaned in and chased after that maddening leer, that open-faced greed, Baizhu turned his head so Zhongli's lips landed at his hair, "Wait. Someone is here.” 

He was right. Zhongli almost immediately heard footsteps descending. 

They untangled. Zhongli ran a hand over his mouth and stilled. Baizhu turned to grip the sink, his robe looking burrowed in, the bare nape of his neck flushed. 

“Doctor Baizhu—” It was Gui, who slowed his steps at the kitchen’s entrance. A few days of respite had done him good, he looked fresh as a glaze lily, and the bruises under his eyes were almost entirely gone. 

It also meant that he had his wits about him at that current moment. “Um.” He cleared his throat, betraying his own awareness of their situation. “A Captain or somesuch requests your presence, Doctor Baizhu, sir, at the counter. Good evening, Master Zhongli. Sorry to—yes.”

Gui dawdled, then retraced his steps back, abrupt and wanting to be done with it. Baizhu caught Zhongli’s eyes and laughed soundlessly.

“Don't you dare speak,” Zhongli warned.

“You look like a cornered animal!”  Baizhu slouched against the sink, and laughed, full of childlike mirth. His hair were long and silky down his back, now loosened, by Zhongli's hand. 

Again, Zhongli felt a longing so cavernous opening up in his chest, it was hard to do anything but look away. He searched for Baizhu’s cane, finding it slanted against a chair. 

“You must attend to a Captain. Or somesuch.” 

“I must.” Baizhu took his cane, rapped it against the leg of a stool, and drew to his full height. “Will you keep Gui and our guest company until I change? I am afraid it will ruin him for life if he finds we have retreated to my room together after this.”

“Yes.” Zhongli watched him be calm with a kind of surety that was personal to him, half-dressed and drowning in his robe. There was very little Zhongli could deny him at that moment. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you.” Baizhu drew his arms around himself and watched Zhongli. He then touched Zhongli's gloved hand briefly as he went. “We will talk about this.” He lingered, but only for a moment.

When he left, Zhongli busied himself by tidying up what they hadn't already. He packed their leftovers, and moved Qiqi’s cartons to a level she could reach herself. He wiped dew from the windowpane, shook at the sink which had started to drip, and touched his jaw where Baizhu had touched it and felt moved beyond his intelligence. 

-

Loud, rambunctious laughter. Gui couldn't manage a laugh like that if he coughed up his entire lung. 

Leaning over the counter was a woman almost as tall as Zhongli, wearing a deep maroon cross-collared jacket with a side fastening. Impressively bulky, scarred in a way that vouched for her many years spent at the sea. Her eyepatch looked sewed on, skeins of capillary redness at the seams, suggesting the kind of injury that had snuffed the light out of that eye. She cut an astonishingly wide figure that dimmed both of her companions’ and Gui’s presence.

“Ah. Captain Beidou.” A very frequent name in the Tianquan’s dealings, when that was still his business. “Miss Xinyan. Traveler, Paimon.” 

Xinyan blinked, clutching what he assumed was her prescription, to her chest. She was surprised to see him at the other side of the counter. They had never exchanged words before this encounter but Zhongli knew enough of her and of preference for pickled radishes, through Xiangling.

“Zhongli!” Paimon squealed, a shimmering halo popping up comically between Xinyan’s pigtails. “We don't need you! Where’s Doctor Baizhu!”

Aether signed rapidly with his hands, frowning as he did, Captain Beidou’s crew is sick.

“Get straight to the point don't you, the both of you?” The Captain’s good eye was dark and flinty, and it took stock of Zhongli in interest. “I’m chaperoning these three to Inazuma. Just a little hiccup along the way. How you doin’, Master Zhongli? I’ve heard about you.”

“Pleasure to finally meet you, Captain.” For this vessel at least, this was true.

Zhongli knew of her more than he’d like to. He’d seen her scoop out fish guts with her fingers when she was just the runt of her litter. He’d seen the eye behind the patch, the sea dragon’s final conquest. He’d also known her for the kind of louche she was, frequent to both women and booze, the source of heartache to what was now the crown of Liyue. 

Zhongli hoped she’d reared her head to the Tianquian now, but nothing was ideal. The Captain was more central to Liyue's stability than she knew.

“Likewise.” Baring most of her teeth in a grin, she stuck out a large hand instead of bowing, a habit she had likely formed from journeying overseas. Zhongli shook on it. “It’s urgent. A-Ning said—” 

Besides him, Gui’s eyebrows inched towards his hairline. A-Ning, was what she called Liyue's Tianquian? Ninguang was too proud to put a name to hers and the Captain’s little dance while Zhongli still looked over them. Perhaps not all hope was lost yet.

“—Doctor Baizhu was the man to go to. My sailors been out of their wits since we crossed a bad stretch of Inazuman seas. The doc abroad, our Sisi, collapsed and woke up garbling nonsense. Sores and bad knees happen all the time on the sea, but this is news to me. Traveler’s seen it too.” 

Aether affirmed as he signed. Captain Beidou had to postpone her games.

Besides Zhongli, Gui scribbled diligently. “Doctor Baizhu will have to be present for this, I’m afraid. But I can help Miss Xinyan until then, if I may?”

She jumped at the sound of her name. Xinyan was straightforward in a way Zhongli had forgotten the fledglings of Liyue could be, not with Xiangling and that crafty Guhua Clan heir keeping her company.

“My throat’s been catching really badly lately. Doctor Baizhu said if gargling with lukewarm water and salt did not help, I could get a refill on one of these.” 

“May I see your prescription?” 

Xinyan handed Gui her papers, shifting in a nervous tick. “I’ve got a gig coming up soon. I was supposed to play for Captain Beidou’s crew too.”  

Captain Beidou thumped Xinyan’s back, which not only knocked the tension out of her shoulders but herself at least three steps forward. Paimon spun, delighted, at this display of Captain Beidou’s odd maternal affection for Xinyan that involved roughhousing and then some. Aether blanched, paling, as Captain Beidou turned to him to hold him by the scruff of his neck. “She’s got fire, this one! Say, Master Zhongli, if you’ve ever a need for a musician, Xinyan’s your go-to. On my good word.”

Bracing one of the lacquered boxes Gui had handed him, Direction Hu’s instructions came to him with sudden astounding clarity. “As a matter of fact…”

-

A little girl with wooden supports and her mother were the last to cross-check their prescription with Gui. Baizhu had been whisked away to the harbor quite some time ago, and only Changsheng had gotten a free pass. She had flaunted it well until the moment Captain Beidou had pinched her conniving little face, inquiring if she were indeed a real, living thing. That had offended her enough to slap her rattling tail against the Captain’s hand and climb onto Gui’s shoulder.

At some point, Zhongli took over Gui’s banal task of manning the counter. The evening stretched long and cool, and Zhongli could no longer pretend that he was invested in the book he had taken to endlessly rife through from the past hour or so. He could recite the contents of it by heart.

Qiqi was sprawled on the floor. She was also shifting through a book. For her, it was a translated copy of Mond’s beloved ‘Boar Prince’, which she adored for the big charcoal drawings that she could imitate. She stuck out her tongue as she sketched, and her assiduousness could have matched that of a Liyue Qixing’s scribe.

Zhongli ruffled Qiqi’s hair affectionately as he went to stand outside. 

He’d done his part for the day. The pharmacy was well kept, Qiqi was safe, and Gui hadn't gibbered nervously at him once today. Even without much details, Xinyan had accepted his invitation to meet at Wanmin Restaurant the following morning with alacrity. She might not take well to it once the venue for her concert was revealed, but that was Director Hu’s headache. 

Instead of walking over to the sea, as he had done the first time he'd stood at Bubu Pharmacy's veranda he faced the parched grass and mountains without end, on the other side of the harbor.

Silence seemed to drift down on Zhongli. The calls of mallards and gulls did not touch him. He once believed no matter what shape he took, he had always been there for Liyue.

That there had been no violence, only alteration. 

Zhongli heard the tick of Baizhu’s cane and turned. 

“Ah.” The breeze shifted, and Baizhu’s hair fell into his eyes. He looked smeary and tired, a tremor to his arms as he climbed the last step and leaned forward by way of his cane. He spoke briskly and briefly. “Several sailors, fluid, and pressure accumulated in their cranial vaults. Burns and singed hair too, but that was simple enough. It was only Captain Beidou who was immune to the Electro barrage of Inazuman seas because of her vision. If it weren't for the Hydro user on deck…”

“They will recover?” 

“They might. I could only treat them symptomatically.” Baizhu sighed a little, through his nose, but continued to gaze at him steadily. “Time will tell.”

Words solidified in Zhongli’s chest, like dense iron. There was an ugly temptation, to deny it all.  

Baizhu seemed to sway, the wind chipping away at what was left of him. He was brilliant, playful, and full of malice. “What is it?” 

Zhongli laughed humorlessly at the question, stepping close like they did in the kitchens. “I might never die. I might never fall sick.” 

There was only a slow blink, that Zhongli saw by the way his lashes moved. “Yes?” 

“I might never scar.” 

Closer still, he took Baizhu’s arm and Baizhu gave it to him. Zhongli took sustenance from the smell of Baizhu’s hair, sea gritty and perfumed. They leaned onto each other as they walked, Baizhu leading them to that pathway to his cedar doors.

“And you are made of the elements?” 

“I am.” 

Baizhu rested his head against Zhongli’s shoulder and was silent for some time. Then he spoke without inflection. “Director Hu has left me a message on one of the bulletins regarding Qiqi. I suggest you take a look in the morning.” And, very faintly, “There is nothing in Teyvat that you would want, nothing that anyone can give you.”

Cupping Baizhu elbows he pressed a gentle kiss onto the corner of Baizhu's lax, tired mouth. Baizhu leaned into it with his lovely eyes closed. “Only, I would very much like for you to lie down. Preferably now.”

Together they entered Baizhu’s room.