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Another chilly winter morning. Another bout of sneezes. He's been bedridden since the beginning of this week, it's becoming torture. He hates confinement like this, he'd much rather be at work helping others. When his sneezing fit ends, he releases a hefty sigh and plops back down on his bed.
He grumbles and groans, he feels as if he's melting, yet feels the occasional chill shoot up his skin—making the experience that much worse for him. He so rarely becomes sick, yet when it happens, it hits him like a meteor.
How funny...
His throat feels like it has sandpaper dragging across it—causing him to constantly clear his throat to no avail. It's gotten bad enough to the point of being barely able to speak—the coughing fits he gets don't help much, either. He sighs. He coughs. The air rushing down his throat irritating it. He hasn't thrown up despite his nausea, at least. He's thankful for that much.
Oh, how the selfish part of him wishes you were here to give him some comfort. Yet, he doesn't want you getting sick as well. His heart cries out for some overdue love, anyway. He dreads the fact that you're out for the week—on some travel or another. He can't quite remember while he's in such a disdainful state of being.
He falls into another deep but unrestful slumber. He shifts and rolls around in bed, hands clawing at the empty space next to him—searching hopelessly for your warmth. He wants all of you against him, protected in his arms. He never wants to let you go again, even if it's just for a small while.
Even in his desperate dreams of you, he doesn't rouse at the sound of the front door opening and closing. When you call out his name, he still doesn't awaken. You amble to the bedroom, pushing the door open only to see your beloved curled up in a tight ball underneath the blankets. He grumbles in his sleep, hugging your usual pillow tightly between his arms.
This is such unusual behavior for him that your worry is instant. You look around, spotting many used tissues about the lamp table. You even spot a half-drunken cup of ginger tea—it's most definitely cold by now. You sigh, figuring that he must've somehow caught a cold or the flu. With deft hands, you decide to pick up the mess and throw it away. Once you wash your hands, you make your way back to him. With sneaky fingers, you peel away a bit of the sheets that hide his head.
"I'm home early, Zhongli." You coo, voice soft as the fluffy pillow he clutches.
Your attempt to waken him is to no avail, as he remains deep asleep. He's always been quite the heavy sleeper, slumbering like a rock. A chuckle leaves your lips as you slide the sheets back over his head.
"I'll go pick up some medicine at Bubu..." You whisper, rubbing his sore shoulder through the blanket before leaving the house once more.
Once you return from the pharmacy, you begin to reheat the tea on the stove. While it comes to steam once more, you depart from the kitchen to grab his half-empty teacup. You gaze at him, watching him stir before kicking the blanket off of himself and splaying across the bed—yet still holding onto your pillow. You can't help but chuckle and smile, shaking your head at how cute he can be sometimes.
Most think he's a refined and dignified gentleman, yet you know all too well of his goofy and cute moments—you've lived with him long enough to know every last one. Before picking up the teacup, you lean over to him and kiss his cheek—causing him to faintly smile in his sleep. You leave the room, with his teacup in hand.
When you return to the kitchen, the tea is almost hot enough to be properly consumed. You hum, leaning against the counter as you watch the unmoving teapot. A thin, faint stream of hot steam leaks from the spout of the teapot.
You shift to the other side of the counter, grabbing the necessary ingredient for the tea—ginger—hoping it helps with any nausea of his. You're certain the nausea stirring his stomach is more than he would ever come to admit.
He hates admitting weakness—especially to you. He'll always ramble on about being your anchor, your rock. In those moments, he'll pull you in close, a smile on his face as he tickles your jaw and cheeks with kisses. You can't help but fluster at the thought—a wide grin stretching across your face.
The teapot begins to screech, your eyes going wide as your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. You're quick to remove the pot from its spot on the stove. You sigh in relief once it stops screaming, you don't want to wake him up any time soon. He needs all the rest he can get.
You pour the newly heated water into the cup before adding the ginger. Once it's mixed and prepared, you pick up the medicine and head off to the bedroom once more. You rest the cup down on its porcelain coaster, using your now free hand to grab him by the shoulder and shake him.
"Zhongli. Wakey-wakey." You murmur, trying your best to not alarm him too much.
He grumbles and groans, stirring and shifting before his eyes flutter open. At first, he's far too dizzy to see properly, his eyes screwing shut and his hand flying to his head to hold it.
"Beloved..." His deeper-than-usual voice rings out, "What are you doing home already...?" He queries.
"We can talk about that later. You need to take your medicine and tea now." You coo, brushing a hand across his cheek before moving his messy hair out of his eyes. "Can you sit up?"
He merely groans in response, slow to sit up against the headboard, your pillow still in his other hand. His eyes open one by one, testing the waters to see if vertigo strikes him again. It doesn't this time, he exhales deep in thankfulness. His tired and droopy eyes look up at you—a weak smile already tracing his features. He’s so happy to see you, like a puppy.
You smile back, eyes glittering with joy at seeing him so happy. You pick up his medicine, shaking the small bag. Understanding the notion, he makes no fuss about taking the medicine quickly. The taste is bitter with a hint of—what is that?—saltiness. The taste overwhelms him for a few short moments, his face twisting with displeasure. You can't help but snort.
"Taste bad?" You ask, teasing him a little.
His only response is to playfully glare at you before turning his attention to the cup of tea that he picks up. He takes a sip, sighing at the encompassing warmth and lovely ginger taste. Its sharp, spicy flavor would wake him right up if the heat of the liquid didn't almost put him right back to sleep.
"Thank you, Beloved..." He murmurs; gazing at you once more and smiling. His voice clears up the more he drinks the tea—sounding less dry and rough.
"I bet you're hungry." You muse, smiling back at him.
Right on cue, his stomach rumbles loud—he clears his throat, looking elsewhere as he flusters over the noise his body makes. You laugh a little and brush a hand through his tousled hair. You let your hand rest on his forehead, feeling his skin burn against your hand.
"Wow. I don't think you've ever been this sick before..." You sigh, losing your smile. "I'll make you some of your favorite soup."
"Thank you once more. You are truly a candlelight in the dark of night." He sighs as well, yet it is one of relief.
"Oh, hush. You drink your tea." You can't help but let a smile tug at your lips.
You rub your hand against his hot cheek, feeling him lean into your touch and grumble happily. Your cheeks and ears heat up by the tiniest measure, adoring how soft he's being. Well, softer than usual. You plant a chaste kiss against his forehead, offering him some affectionate comfort for the moment before departing to the kitchen once more.
He almost whines when you leave, wishing you stayed longer. He stares back down at his tea for a moment; he takes a small sip as his eyes flutter shut. He can't help but think of you and how much you dote on him. He would never admit it, but he loves all the attention you give him. Hugs, kisses, cuddles, he will never pass them up when you're at home together.
He recollects on the memories of all your firsts together—his fondest memories being your first kiss and when finally you moved in together. Thinking back on your first kiss makes him crave your tenderness once more. Your body squishing against his own as he holds you close and safe. He releases a tiny whimper when he comes back to the realization that he shouldn't be kissing you when he's this sick.
His reminiscing seems to only worsen when he's ill. He ends up thinking about you the whole time you're away as he finishes his tea. He reminisces of every memory you two have shared together. From when you two first met to up until now. His mind becomes so foggy with longing and happy memories that he doesn't notice you reenter the room with a bowl of soup in hand.
"Hellooooo to Zhongli!" You coo, tilting your head in front of his face—waiting for him to notice you. When he still fails to notice you, you blow cold air into his face, watching him blink back into reality and stare at you. "Welcome back to reality." You smile.
"Ah, apologies... I was...thinking of you." He murmurs.
"Huh?" You blink, flustering at the sudden information.
He takes the glass bowl from your hands, resting it on the pillow on his lap. He would take a deep inhale of the scent if he could smell, to begin with, but alas, his nose is too stuffy to even bother. He thanks you for the meal with a chaste smile, then begins to eat it. He would critique your cooking ability if he could taste anything at the moment; for now, he'll have to merely enjoy the warmth of it.
"Thinking of me?" You fluster further, voice tiny and soft.
Every time he tells you how often he thinks of you, it never fails to heat up your cheeks and make your heart skip a few beats. It makes you feel fluffy and warm on the inside, bringing a dorky grin to your face.
"Mhm." He hums.
You shake yourself out of your thoughts. You leave his side to get dressed into something more comfortable—something that's not traveling gear. Once you're more comfortable in new, fresh clothes, you sigh in relief. Turning around, you notice that he's beginning to fall asleep again. You take the bowl of soup away, placing it on the end table so he doesn't spill it all over himself.
"Comfy cozy..." You murmur happily.
Before you can move anywhere else, he wraps his arms around your waist and hauls you up onto the bed. You're sufficiently trapped in his embrace—close, warm, and safe. You could complain about catching his illness, yet your heart sways your body to stay and give him the comfort he craves.
He can't feel any more thankful at this very moment. He mumbles his sweet gratitude to you. He pulls you closer—holding you a bit tighter than before. A smile traces his features as he falls back asleep once more, the warmth from his tea and soup sending him into a pleasant slumber.
You decide that maybe it's time for a nap, you are quite tired from your travels after all. It won't hurt to take a nap with him. You crane your neck to the side, kissing his cheek and murmuring a gentle good night to him as you fall asleep soundly in his arms.