Chapter Text
Morax has no need for sleep.
Zhongli pretends.
He must on nights like these when Baizhu invites him into the apartment above the pharmacy: his most sacred and private realm, where only a few are ever allowed to tread. If Baizhu catches him awake, he will fret and harangue and scold, and the last thing Zhongli wants is to become another one of his patients. Not here, in the place where Baizhu is meant to find a semblance of peace.
He lies next to Baizhu, hands folded at rest on his sternum, staring up at the ceiling, studying the green and gold glow cast on it from their respective Visions where they sit on the bedside table. Sometimes he and Changsheng will hold whispered conversations with each other while Baizhu is asleep, but tonight Changsheng has chosen Qiqi’s room. Baizhu had seemed in relatively good health that day, and thus Changsheng had taken her cue and made herself scarce, and Baizhu had taken Zhongli to bed.
It is now half past midnight. Zhongli’s Beloved has drifted to sleep, curled up and facing the window, the starlight kissing the pale curve of his waist. Zhongli rests in his usual post between him and the door. Baizhu often teases him for it: “Do you mean to defend me, Zhongli bǎo bèi? Do you expect a horde of hilichurls to burst through my door?”
Zhongli always inclines his head with a soft smile and answers right back: “I recall you insisting that anything is possible, qīn’ài de. Do you find fault with my memory?”
Baizhu will hit his chest and huff back, “Oh, you are ridiculous.”
It is always fangless, though. Changsheng had once remarked that he sleeps better when Zhongli is nearby.
“I would stay with him every night, then,” Zhongli had told her.
“He will not let you.”
Yes. Zhongli knows that, and he will not dare to intrude on his Beloved’s realm without his consent. He stays only when asked, and tells himself that is enough.
The night wears wears on. Zhongli does not know how many minutes or hours pass. He only knows that, as the darkness deepens, something shifts — and he does not like the sound of Baizhu’s breathing.
He flips to his side and studies Baizhu — or at least, what he can see of him — and finds that Baizhu’s skin has glossed over with a thin sheen of sweat that had not been there earlier. His ribcage laboriously expands and then snaps back with a horrible wheeze, but he does not wake. His thin shoulders are prickled with gooseflesh. He’s trembling.
Intellectually, Zhongli knows that Baizhu’s illness can swoop down on him as swiftly as a bird of prey. Changsheng has said as much. He has never seen it happen, though. Zhongli sits upright. Ought he to fetch Changsheng? He mislikes the idea of leaving Baizhu, even for a second. He has heard Baizhu’s coughs —half of Liyue has— and is familiar with the refrain offered from Gui and Qiqi and Changsheng whenever Baizhu is ill: “He is having one of those days”, but Zhongli, like all the rest, has always only been allowed to offer his well-wishes. He has never been privy to what ‘ one of those days’ entails. He does not know how serious this might be.
He debates with himself too long. On the next rattling inhale, Baizhu’s breath halts as if it’s lodged in his throat. He twists, ribcage stuttering, then rolls onto his stomach and wakes himself up by hacking out a thick glob of blood onto his pillow.
Stunned, Zhongli just stares at it.
Once, he’d spotted a pile of bloodstained handkerchiefs in a basket on the pharmacy’s garden veranda. Baizhu had followed his line of sight and then blushed and mumbled something about how they were from a patient, and he’d been meaning to wash them, and had shoved the basket out of sight.
Zhongli had considered it strange. He knows Baizhu has neither the time nor the strength to manage such a chore. It is one of the many things he pays to have done for him: a washerwoman comes to collect the pharmacy’s laundry three times a week, and then returns it, dry and neatly pressed.
But the next time Zhongli had visited, those selfsame handkerchiefs were hanging on a line in the sun, freshly bleached. He had not known what to make of it at the time, but now…
Baizhu is still wheezing. He coughs again, and the sound of it cuts like a knife down Zhongli’s spine. Swiftly, he refocuses.
“I’ll fetch Changsheng,” Zhongli says, “You’re unwell. Let me help you sit up.”
Baizhu recoils from the hand Zhongli places on his back and shakes his head. “No need. She’s—” another cough, another spray of blood. Zhongli hates the sight of it. He hates that he doesn’t know what to do.
A rustle comes from the door. Changsheng slithers beneath it and up onto the bed, faster than could be believed.
“I sensed the imbalance in his qi,” she says by way of explanation. Zhongli can hear the strain in her voice, and that has the worry drumming through him shooting up to the ceiling.
“How can I help?” he asks — to Baizhu and Changsheng both.
Changsheng coils around Baizhu’s frail frame and catches Zhongli’s eye, and there is something wordless and sad in her expression, almost apologetic, and Zhongli knows the answer before it leaves Baizhu’s mouth.
That doesn’t mean it hurts any less when Baizhu rasps: “Go—” another horrible hitch of breath. He is pushing himself up to all fours, and it’s excruciating to watch the way his shoulders shake from the effort. “Go home, Zhongli.”
Zhongli sits there, immovable as stone, as his stomach sinks. Quietly, half in disbelief, he tries: “Qīn’ài de—”
“Get out,” Changsheng interrupts, voice terse and brokering no argument. “Now.”
To argue further would only cause Baizhu stress, and he has rescinded his permission anyway. Zhongli — Morax— will not overstep his bounds.
“Very well,” he whispers.
He does not bother to dress, not wanting to encroach any longer than he must. He only collects his Vision from the bedside table and his clothes from where they sit folded on the seat by window and leaves Baizhu’s room, shutting the door behind himself. Baizhu’s coughs echo through the hall — a relentless string of them, each sounding more painful than the last. Zhongli forces himself through getting his clothes on, forces himself down the stairs, step by step, then forces himself to leave the pharmacy and walk out onto the street.
After that, he goes down the road to ascend Tianheng. He spends the rest of the night watching over the harbor from the peak as he so often does — just to try to feel useful.
He does not feel useful.
Director Hu tells him how terrible he looks when he arrives at the funeral parlour that morning. Zhongli says nothing. He just goes about his day and frets.
On the fourth day since Zhongli last saw Baizhu, word has spread through the harbor: the doctor is unwell.
It is not exactly unusual. Baizhu is unwell often. Zhongli is sure that the pharmacy lobby has been stuffed to the brim with gift baskets full of pastries, fruit, and jars of jam. He is sure that poor Herbalist Gui and Qiqi are buried beneath their work. He considers visiting. He does not. Instead he busies himself with many consultations — both at the funeral parlour and from other general residents of the harbor. It is no secret that if a person wishes to know the most auspicious date for this ceremony or that, or to learn whether or not an ancient text is real or counterfeit, they ought to ask Mr. Zhongli. He makes himself readily available, filling his days with meetings and questions and visits to the teahouse, and spends his nights on Tianheng, waiting, watching.
He always finds his eyes straying back to Yujing terrace. To the pharmacy.
On the sixth day, he can bear it no longer.
Baizhu has not invited him, but he goes regardless.
He finds Herbalist Gui minding the counter, drooping over it like a wilting flower. When he sees Zhongli walk through the door, he straightens at once.
“Mr. Zhongli! What can I do for you? Are you here on business from Wangsheng Funeral Parlour?”
Zhongli crosses his arms. Quietly, he says: “No. I came to enquire about your employer. How is he?”
Gui looks away. “Doctor Baizhu is…having—”
“One of those days?” Zhongli finishes for him, because it is predictable.
Gui nods.
“Just so,” Zhongli says. He looks away too, studying one of the watercolor landscapes hanging up on the wall. From the brush work, it must be over a hundred years old. Remarkably well-preserved. Baizhu has ever been a man of good taste.
“Might I trouble you to ask him if he will take a visitor?” Zhongli says at last, still fixed on the painting.
He can hear the way Herbalist Gui shifts from one foot to the next. “Forgive me, Mr. Zhongli…Doctor Baizhu never takes visitors when he—”
“Ask him,” Zhongli repeats, perhaps more sharply than he had meant.
Flustered, Herbalist Gui scurries off.
Zhongli stares at the painting. It is of Chenyu Vale, he thinks. He recognizes that particular line of mountains as well as he might old friends. The strokes really are immaculate. He has never paid so much attention to this piece of art before. Though, now that he does, he notices one mistake: a blotch of ink in the right-hand corner. It is small, and placed amidst some other clever brush strokes that form the shapes of a village, and so the artist must have thought no one would spot it.
Footsteps. Then, Zhongli hears an unmistakable high-pitched voice snarl: “You.”
Changsheng. She sits wound about Gui’s neck. Zhongli holds out his hands to accept her. Gui balks.
“Hand me over, Gui,” she snaps impatiently.
Gui unloops her, baffled but unwilling to argue, and places her in Zhongli’s upright palms. Changsheng slithers up one arm to rest on his shoulder and orders Zhongli out to the garden.
Zhongli obeys, stepping past Gui down the back corridor and out onto the garden terrace. It’s a beautiful day, warm and pleasant. The chimes hanging from the pharmacy eaves sing in the wind. The huge magnolia tree is in bloom: a riot of pink lace against the bright blue sky, as resplendent as a bride. Baizhu would love it out here, if only he was well enough to sit on the veranda.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Changsheng accuses now that they are safely out of Gui’s earshot.
“I am worried for him,” Zhongli admits.
“You and all of Liyue Harbor.”
Zhongli clasps his hands behind his back and lets his gaze drift past the garden wall to what he can see of the sea beyond. “So,” he says, “He sent you to get rid of me, did he?”
Changsheng hums. “Believe you me, I have done my best to convince him to let someone other than me stay with him. He refuses every single time. I have never met a person so intolerably ssstuborn, save perhaps you.”
“He should not suffer alone, nor does he need to. I did not…” he cuts himself off, because his voice is starting to shake. That clot Baizhu had coughed up that awful night haunts him. “I had guessed the severity. It is different to see it.”
“Yes, what did you do to him that night to wear him out so, Morax? This bout is particularly bad.”
“Mind yourself, Yào Jūn.”
Changsheng only snickers. “Forgive me for my attempt to create some levity in the situation. I must find it where I can.”
Zhongli sighs and returns to the topic at hand. “Try as I might to understand mortals, this insistence on secrecy baffles me.”
“He is frightened,” Changsheng says, as if it is an obvious thing.
Zhongli frowns and looks down at her. “Frightened?” he repeats, aghast. “Of what?”
“I will not say,” Changsheng replies. “That is for Baizhu to tell you, if he so deems.”
How irritating. Zhongli crosses his arms again. “But he will not see me.”
“Ugh,” Changsheng scoffs. “Go up and knock, already, will you?”
“He has disallowed—”
“Just knock. You two are going to drive me to madness if this goes on much longer,” Changsheng retorts. “Go, lest I slither down to nip at your heels.”
Zhongli fights with himself. Baizhu had not explicitly told him not to come back, he supposes. It is just that he is loath to intrude…
He thinks of that clot of blood again. Of how violently Baizhu had trembled. How awful he had sounded. He hates the idea of him up there in his bed, isolated and ill. Zhongli has not been able to get it out of his head, and he is tired of keeping his distance. How much longer can he stand by and watch Baizhu do this to himself?
Changsheng’s insistence gives him the boost he needs. Zhongli goes back inside the pharmacy and climbs the stairs to the second floor.
The house feels eerie. Zhongli is unused to being up here without Baizhu either at his side or rustling around in the kitchen, reminding Qiqi to wash her hands or teaching her —as he must do again and again every day with the same patience— how to safely cut vegetables for soup. The kitchen table is scattered with cups and piles of paper, and more dishes sit stacked in the sink. One of Qiqi’s coats hangs off the back of a dining chair. Wordlessly, Zhongli walks over and collects it to put it on the rack by the stairs where it belongs. It’s strange to see things so out of order — disturbing, almost. He cannot remember ever sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in his hands without seeing Baizhu dart between the kitchen and parlour, tidying, complaining about dust, and apologizing for the nonexistent mess, self-conscious and anxious until Zhongli takes his wrist and coaxes him — finally— to sit down.
Zhongli goes down the hall to Baizhu’s bedroom, footsteps featherlight, dreading, dreading. The air tastes almost metallic on his tongue. A mortal might not be able to smell it in such exactitude, but he can. It’s cloying and thick and he hates it, he hates it.
He reaches the end of the hall where the ornate door that leads to Baizhu’s room stands. A glance at Changsheng. She jerks her head toward the door, as if to say: well?
Zhongli takes a deep breath and knocks.
A series of wretched coughs answer him. Then, Baizhu says: “Gui, I already told you that I have what I need. Please, you needn’t worry.”
His voice is hardly audible, and he sounds exhausted beyond measure. At once, Zhongli regrets coming up here. He does not want to trouble him. He takes half a step away, but Changsheng hisses: “Don’t be a coward.”
Zhongli glares at her, then bites the inside of his cheek. At last, he says: “Forgive me, qīn’ài de. May I come in?”
His sharp ears pick up the sound of Baizhu’s dismayed gasp, even weak as it is, even through the door.
Nobody speaks for a long time. Not even Changsheng.
Unable to bear it, Zhongli rests face against the wood as if it is his Beloved’s own forehead. His eyes close. Softly, he begs: “Baizhu, please.”
When Baizhu next speaks, his voice is laced with bitter betrayal. “Changsheng.”
“Yes, I’m here,” Changsheng calls. “Let him in. I tire of this foolishness.”
Tremulous but firm, Baizhu calls back: “No.”
Zhongli’s chest feels like it’s about to collapse. He puts a hand up against the door to push himself off of it and wills himself to leave. He must leave. Baizhu has made that clear. Zhongli knows nothing of medicine anyway, so what good can he do? It is as he feared: his presence here is only a source of stress. He should never have come; this was a mistake.
“Don’t you dare,” Changsheng says in his ear even as Zhongli retreats down the hall.
“I have done all I can,” Zhongli whispers to her.
“So you crumble beneath a mortal’s bluster?” Changsheng exclaims in disbelief. Zhongli is already lifting her from around his neck. He deposits her on the kitchen table. She glares up at him, scathing and livid. “Run away, then, and prove him right.”
Oh, that hurts. That’s not fair.
“What would you have me do? He does not want me here. I will not stay when he bids me to go.”
“He did not bid you to go, basalt-for-brains. He only said you may not come into his room.”
Zhongli really ought to launch into some lecture about the blatant disrespect the Herblord has been giving him lately. She has become overfamiliar, but once again he is forced to concede that she is right. Objectively, Baizhu has not thrown him out.
Another string of heart-rending coughs ricochet through the building. Zhongli flinches at them, finding a disheveled stack of books on a nearby shelf to look at. He hears the scrape of Changsheng’s scales as she slithers off the table and onto the floor.
“Put the kettle on, Morax. I am doing what I can for his qi.”