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Zhongli presses his fingers into the stone ledge and pulls. His muscles are straining, but his body swings up obediently over the ledge nonetheless.
There, just out of reach. A decidedly ungainly grunt escapes him, but Zhongli manages to scoot across the ledge, stretch an arm, and reach the elusive purple flower. Its softly curving petals are a pleasure to look at, though he cradles the flower gently in his sweaty fingers, careful not to damage it.
The setting sun is golden in the distance, and Zhongli gazes over the cliffs. The sweet scent of violetgrass drifts on the wind.
It’s evening when he arrives at the pharmacy; cooler than the sun-baked afternoon on the cliffs. Zhongli savors the simple joy of cool air across his skin, in his lungs.
He spots a lamp burning in the back room, and steps quietly across the floor toward it.
Baizhu’s head is bent, working. Zhongli can see the lamplight’s hazy glow outline his profile, the waves of hair tumbling over his forehead. Baizhu looks up, and sees the flowers Zhongli is holding.
All sixteen of them.
Zhongli is suddenly very aware of heat high on his cheeks, and a breathless feeling of anticipation.
The slow smile that grows across Baizhu’s face feels like the warmth of the setting sun.
“Are those for me?”
Zhongli nods, moving closer to place the flowers in Baizhu’s hands. “They are your favorite, are they not?”
It’s Baizhu’s turn to have pink spots appear on his cheeks, and he lifts the flowers to inhale their scent. At the same time, aureate eyes slant a look slants sideways at Zhongli. The smile deepens.
Later, as they sit under the stars, Baizhu’s shoulder presses gently against Zhongli’s.
He falls asleep that night dreaming of the slight weight of it.