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Zhongli steps onto the plane itching for a change. It is strange; he is the sort who not only enjoys routine, he lives his entire existence by it. He is older and maybe not wise, but he thinks that he’s figured life out.
Until he hasn’t.
Nights staring at notebooks with empty pages, blank canvases waiting for his austere turn of phrase. Prose has always come easy but now he just stares, paragraphs failing him. What use is an author who has lost his words? Zhongli has books and his mind. He usually spends his days weaving stories, finding pleasure in crafting tales that will live on in the minds of others.
At the moment, though, nothing comes. He thinks and tries but no story builds itself. Everything jotted down seems paper-thin and wispy, boring words that lack flavor and spice. There is no life to any of it.
Days bled into weeks into months—and now nearly a year. Hu Tao is a young and impetuous agent, and Zhongli is tired of her too-long voicemails telling him to get a grip. “A change of pace, ” she said, her tart, annoyed voice needling his ear through the phone. “Not that you’d even entertain the notion.”
Zhongli hates flying. He prefers to have his feet on the ground, linked to the earth’s sturdy, humbling embrace. It’s a flight that’s too long and spent in worry. When they land, Zhongli stands at the door of the plane, looking down the long hallway that leads to the airport, and pauses.
“Sir?” asks the attendant, resting a gentle hand against his shoulder. “Is everything alright?”
“Ah—yes.” His voice is steady, thinking about this fresh start. It’s needed, he thinks. Hu Tao is right, despite being an insufferable child.
Zhongli steps off the plane with renewed vigor seeping into his bones.
#
Zhongli’s friend lends him a home while away on business.
“I cleaned up a bit,” said Childe, “but I know you. You’ll still find it a dump.”
It is not, only a little bit dusty and sterile for Zhongli’s taste. Childe is rarely here, spending most of his time abroad for work, so it lacks personality. Doesn’t feel lived-in, more like a model home right down to the mostly empty fridge.
Morepesok is a quiet place, settled by the glittering seaside, filled with pink-cheeked and kind people. Instantly, Zhongli enjoys it. It’s small enough that new faces are immediately noticed and so they go out of their way to welcome with wide arms.
This might actually work, he thinks after spending the afternoon aimlessly wandering about the pier.
Until he sits down later that night to write. Zhongli tries everything—a well-worn journal filled with crisp, brand-new pages; his trusty laptop that’s dented around the edges, the keys so worn that the letters can barely be seen; even a basic outline, a bare-bones idea.
Everything evades him.
Zhongli sighs, slipping into the cold sheets of the bed later that night. He stares at the ceiling, pretending to count sheep, begging Celestia to give him a crumb of something.
But, predictably, Celestia never answers back.
#
Inspiration comes in the form of a willowy man with sleek, golden hair.
He isn’t young; younger than Zhongli but old enough to have laugh lines. Zhongli’s attention is caught when he says, “You’re a new face.”
“Everyone says that.”
The man peers back, amused. “Yes, well, they notice. I was the last new face here and that was years ago.” A pause as he considers the register. “Business or family?”
Zhongli blinks, curious as to what that has to do with his drink. “I—pardon?”
Aether, his name tag says and Zhongli shamelessly commits it to memory. Aether laughs brightly. “No one comes to Morepesok for pleasure, so business or family?”
“Business.” There is no use in lying. Zhongli thinks that he might try camping in the cafe despite the prying eyes that linger.
Aether nods. Their fingers brush as Zhongli pays, sparks flying. Something, he’d begged Celestia. Aether seems to pay it no mind, smiling before directing him to the end of the counter.
“Just a few minutes, yeah? I’m the only one here, so let me ring these other two up.”
Zhongli is patient. He stands there serenely, watching Aether as he moves, a tightness filling his chest. His coffee comes too soon.
He settles into the far corner, pressing himself into an old armchair that’s lost most of its shape. Zhongli pulls out his expensive and, admittedly, eccentric fountain pen, and smoothing his fingers over the crisp pages of his journal, he begins to write.
This time, words find him.
#
Zhongli has written a variety of works in his lifetime, many lauded with awards. Best-selling. Articles upon articles of hailing praise.
He has never written a romance. He expects it to be difficult but a quick glance at Aether makes words flow from his fingertips.
His days are like this: Zhongli walks to the cafe dressed to the nines because he’s never done anything half-assed. He orders something new at Aether’s suggestion. Zhongli waits for his drink patiently. He settles into that old armchair in the corner, the cracked leather folding underneath him.
He writes and writes and writes.
The penned story is simple. An older man moves to a small town in order to find a new direction. There, he falls in love. It has no frills. Clear-cut and right to the point, but that is Zhongli’s style. It is less about the flowery prose and more about the experience, how the story might suck one in, taking them by the hands gently for this story lacks the aggression of his more historical works.
Days into weeks, then nearly two months; the story is well-framed and lacks only an end.
“How’s the book today?” asks Aether. It is Wednesday, so a hot mocha. Zhongli chooses to not complain about the overly sweet whipped cream.
“It’s a book,” replies Zhongli, the same as always. They have become friends. Aether is smart. His company is enjoyable, and Zhongli sinks deeper with every conversation that they share.
“I read Rex Incognito, by the way.” Aether grins. “Thought you could keep that one away from me, hm?”
“Of course not. It’s a bestseller.”
“I see why. I don’t think I’ve laughed—”
“You laughed?”
Aether blinks, sitting on the arm of another armchair. “Was I not supposed to?” His gaze melts into something owlish. “No, probably not, considering you.”
Zhongli huffs. “It is a collection about Morax. Of course, you aren’t supposed to—”
“It’s an anthology of shorts detailing how he would troll the populace.”
“Morax would never—“
“I would if I lived forever.” Aether taps his chin thoughtfully. “I enjoyed it, truly—but why did you write him so lonely?”
Zhongli has never been asked this before, nor has he ever considered that his characterization might be considered as such. He hedges before finally saying, “Morax was old and had little of those he loved left.”
“And so he remained that way?” Zhongli doesn’t answer and Aether’s expression turns thoughtful. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
Aether nudges the sole of Zhongli’s fine Sumerian loafers. “Are you old and lonely?”
“I’m hardly old.” Aether, while he looks considerably younger, is actually closer to his age than initially expected. “And if I were, that’d make you old.”
“Yeah, but I don’t deny it.”
Aether knows that Zhongli came to Morepesok for inspiration. A fresh place for a fresh book, Zhongli told him. Aether doesn’t press the issue further, just turns the conversation into something else.
It is nice and Zhongli enjoys the chatter as he sets back to work.
#
The first time that Childe calls, it is to check on him. “You haven’t killed my cat, have you?”
“You have a cat?” asks Zhongli, joining in on the joke. Childe does not, though if he did, Zhongli would certainly have not killed it.
Morepesok has grown on him, despite how he enjoys the bustle of Liyue Harbor. Here there is little aside from the quiet ocean waves that slap against the grainy, rocky shore.
“Aether’s great,” says Childe when Zhongli tells him that they’ve become friends. And then, after Zhongli monologues about it, Childe cuts in with, not unkindly: “Wait, do you like him?”
Zhongli is caught off guard. “I—” He does not like people. Not since Guizhong.
Childe waits for a beat. “Gods, that’s—“
“Childe.”
“—cute.”
Insufferable, thinks Zhongli when Childe coos over the phone line, relentlessly teasing him for the rest of the call.
The second time Childe calls him is weeks later when Zhongli sends him the second draft of the book.
“I hate you,” is the first thing Childe says. A shuffle, a sniffle, the blowing of his nose into a tissue.
“Are you crying?” Odd. Childe doesn’t cry.
“Yes, and it’s your fault. I read the book—Gods, it’s so good, but—“
Ah, thinks Zhongli before Childe can finish his thought. “You’ve read the entire thing, then.”
“Zhongli, they love each other, so why’d you…”
“It’s realistic.” An immediate response. “Romances are sometimes fleeting whether we want them to be or not.”
“Only if you don’t want to put the effort in.”
“It isn’t about effort—”
“It isn’t? Zhongli, you put more effort into the minutest things, and yet you won’t—”
“Why are we talking about me?”
Childe does not answer. Zhongli already knows. He’s written his love and heartache right into his book.
“You’re allowed some damn happiness, Zhongli,” says Childe finally.
Zhongli knows this. His throat bobs as he entertains the idea of staying here, of combing his fingers through Aether’s golden-spun hair. It has been so long that Zhongli has forgotten not only how to love, but that he can.
#
Zhongli packs up his things and tidies up Childe’s home to its usual, sterile order. A coffee for the road, he thinks with grim bitterness, arriving at the cafe.
Aether is stiff and less accommodating. Curt, annoyed even, and when they meet gazes, the mere sight of Zhongli angers him. It is odd. Zhongli hasn’t told him that he’s leaving but it is inevitable.
His coffee slides across the counter so violently that it nearly tips over. When Zhongli takes a sip, the espresso is old, bitter, and thick in his mouth, burnt with its dead shots.
It is better to end this before it can start. Zhongli allows himself to sweep one last affectionate gaze over the cafe. Good memories, he thinks. He’ll never forget his months here.
The door chimes when he leaves, tinkling as he leaves the threshold. Zhongli makes it not fifteen feet before he hears a shout.
“Zhongli!” When Zhongli turns to look, Aether stands in the doorway, cheeks pink. They stare at each other as the silence stretches a little too long. “You—I—” Aether groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “The book—it’s us.”
Zhongli’s fingers tighten around his take-out cup. “Childe,” he eventually sighs.
Aether crosses the distance, wiping his coffee-stained hands on his apron. “He sent it to me.”
He smells of coffee beans and old milk. Zhongli wishes to reach out and brush his bangs behind an ear, fingertips trailing over a soft cheek. “Aether—”
“Is this how you see us?” Aether’s voice is quiet.
“It is reasonable.” It is not.
Aether surges forward, pulling Zhongli close. His lips are soft as they meet but the kiss is assertive. Zhongli curls a hand around the back of Aether’s head and falls into it, eagerly responding. And they just kiss there on the sidewalk, the world around them entirely melting away.
When they part, Zhongli thumbs over Aether’s cheek. “I—”
“Don’t go. Please.”
Zhongli’s face crinkles. He has things to do and a book to publish, and he needs to explain. Instead, he dips, kissing Aether once more, sweeter, lingering. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“You can be happy,” says Aether, brushing Zhongli’s bangs back. “This can be your home and you’ll find inspiration here again and again.”
Zhongli snorts, his mouth curling into a grin as he presses their foreheads together.
They kiss again, Aether’s fingers curled tightly into the lapels of his jacket. And Zhongli feels it, creativity flooding his being with each gentle press of their lips, bright-hot like the sunlit gold of Aether’s hair.
Yes, he thinks.