Thanks to the person who commissioned this! I had fun writing sweet, domestic Venzhong.
Zhongli lives his days as they come because he's too old to know how to do anything else.
Usually, he enjoys them. Wakes up in the morning and has a nice cup of well-brewed tea. Listens in to the conversations of the people of Liyue and interjects an occasional story here and there. He even stirs up rumors of Morax and the past, finding it funny to think where they might end up decades from now.
It's something that's certainly entertained him before.
But, some days are worse than others. Even Zhongli isn't exempt from the dreaded 'very bad day'. This morning he wakes with a crick in his neck, a deep-set twinge of pain right at the base of it.
The aches are relatively new. Pain isn't, of course; it's an old friend and confidant of his. The adepti aren't immune to it- not even Morax in the days of old. He's had his fair share of injuries and leftover scars.
This is different, though, a softer pain not bred by battle, but age instead. He's tired too, exhausted despite a full night's sleep. Zhongli isn't sure if all these changes are the result of losing his Gnosis, and he might not ever know. Perhaps it is just age, or maybe it's erosion.
These are his persistent, nagging thoughts nowadays.
"Your day is what you make of it," he says softly as he stands, a borrowed phrase that always starts his days. He stretches his shoulders and tries to work out the kinks. To no avail.
His morning tea goes well until the cast iron teapot cracks. Zhongli frowns as he watches the water spill all over the wood-burning stove and counter.
"Odd," he murmurs, inspecting the pot. It's one he's had for decades, incredibly sturdy and well made. "Perhaps it's time for a new pot," he says as he sips at what he managed to salvage.
Then he frowns. Not the best tea that he's ever made.
#
The terrible day continues on and for a brief moment, Zhongli wonders if this might be divine punishment.
He forgets his wallet not once, but twice- he went back to his apartment to procure it only to get distracted and forget it a second time.
Xiangling burns the perch in his lunch, something that isn't even rare, it's unheard of.
Zhongli repeatedly trips as he walks; on the stairs, over a small child, even over his own damn feet. He barely catches himself every time, a soft apology leaving his lips as he regains his balance.
Yanfei corners him about some paperwork that he filed incorrectly on behalf of the funeral parlor, and all Zhongli does is sigh, expecting the worst of the day by now.
"You seem… off," says Hu Tao eventually.
Zhongli's sitting at his desk, making a copy of the monthly finances per the request of Yanfei. "It's nothing," he says in that quiet baritone of his, dipping his pen into a well of pitch-black ink. He taps it gently, letting the ink drip off before moving to the paper.
The moment that the pen hits the parchment, ink splatters everywhere, staining the report beyond irreparable repair. Zhongli grunts, incredibly annoyed, and Hu Tao's eyebrows rise sky-high.
He knows why. She's never seen him so aggravated, but really, he's at his wit's end by now.
"Um, Mr. Zhongli-" Zhongli drops the pen and rubs at his face, uncaring that there's probably ink all over his hands. Hu Tao sighs softly and leans against his desk. "When was the last time that you took a day off?"
"A day off?" It's a soft murmur from his mouth. Likely never. There hasn't been a reason. Whatever schedule Hu Tao gives him is the one that he takes, and he plans his extracurriculars around it.
She reaches out, nudging his shoulder. "Hey, go home and get some rest."
"I don't need-"
"I've never seen you like this," says Hu Tao, sounding just a smidge worried. "Seriously, you're usually like an unmovable stone, but this?" She waves vaguely and turns up her nose. "You're useless to me like this. Go home and take some time for yourself."
He doesn't want to because that isn't how Zhongli is, always taking care of others instead of himself. But then he thinks of what he says every single morning: Your day is what you make of it.
Zhongli takes her advice with the gentle dip of his head.
The walk is a little too long and not uneventful enough. He trips yet again, pain shooting down to his foot.
Zhongli wonders briefly if this is what it's like to be mortal, constantly ridden with aches and ailments. How miserable, to have wanted this, he thinks. But then he remembers the misery of being long-lived instead and sighs.
Each has its pros and cons, and there isn't any use in thinking about it now. Instead, he climbs the path to his home, one step at a time.
Zhongli hears him before he opens the door to his apartment, his heightened senses still a godsend. He shucks off his shoes and stands awkwardly in the entryway, feeling beaten down by the miserable day.
Venti peeks his head around the corner, his smile wide with a greeting. But then he takes in the way that Zhongli looks and how his shoulders sag, and Venti's face falls into something more gentle and subdued.
"Venti," greets Zhongli, looking at him tiredly.
"A bath," replies Venti, "Let's get you taken care of, yeah?"
Zhongli rarely indulges in pampering from others, but just this once… it sounds nice. He follows after him without another word.
#
There are very few pleasures in life that Zhongli truly partakes in, but a really good, hot bath is somewhere near the top of his list. He lounges in the tub, water up to his shoulders, sighing at how the warmth seeps into his bones. The tension seems to melt away, leaving nothing left but a tired puddle of Zhongli.
Then he sees Venti reaching for a bottle of soap.
"Relax," says Venti when he sees Zhongli tense. He shoves an arm into the water to pull the plug for a moment, uncorks the bottle, and pours a generous amount in. Then, he turns the tap on again and replugs everything once the water level's dipped just enough to allow for bubbles.
The room fills with the calming scent of sandalwood and glaze lilies. Venti's hand dips back into the water to spread the bubbles around, easing the way for them to fluff up. "Better?" he asks softly, resting his chin on his other palm as he watches Zhongli.
Zhongli grunts in affirmation, his eyes slipping closed.
"Bad day?" asks Venti.
Zhongli can feel his gaze on his face, but it's a comfortable thing. Over the centuries they've carefully cultivated this understated calmness that settles between them. Venti is usually loud and raucous- especially when he drinks- but behind closed doors and with Zhongli alone, he's entirely different. Soft. Quiet. Serene, like a calm summer breeze.
"Even I have them," says Zhongli eventually.
He hears Venti move, sliding closer as he kneels on the cold floor outside the tub. He's casually dressed, sans his usual bard's outfit, wearing only a simple linen shirt and trousers. His hat's missing too, likely on the entryway table.
Venti's hand settles onto Zhongli's shoulder, smoothing over the skin there. His fingers trail across the knobs of Zhongli's spine, digging in slightly as he presses into them, just at the base of his neck.
Zhongli groans, his neck falling forward.
"I could tell the moment I saw you," says Venti, "It's been a long time since I've seen such a look on your face."
"It certainly isn't an often occurrence."
Venti hums at that, kneading into the skin at his shoulders with both hands this time. It's the perfect kind of pressure, his small hands hitting the right spots, and Zhongli breathes in deep, wholly content.
"Celestia is punishing me," says Zhongli with a long-suffering sigh.
"Don't be stupid, old man. Celestia doesn't care." Venti lets go of him, prompting Zhongli to open his eyes.
Venti leans over the edge of the tub, railing a finger through the water. Then he reaches out with a crooked little smile and tugs on a lock of Zhongli's hair. "Let me wash it for you?"
It always surprises him, how much he craves for such simple, domestic bliss. "Please," he murmurs, and Venti tells him to dunk himself.
Zhongli does so diligently, dipping his entire head underwater. When he resurfaces, Venti's sitting on the edge of the tub fully, trousers rolled up to his knees and feet hanging in the water. He motions for Zhongli to lean back between his legs.
It feels a little like home, being settled like this. Venti's fingers are lathered in sweet-smelling soap, and they work magic as they dance over his scalp. Scratching at the skin there, stroking through his hair; Venti hums softly as he does his best to eke out every last miserable crumb of tension within Zhongli.
"Your day is what you make of it," says Venti, mildly amused. The same words Zhongli repeats every morning, a phrase so willingly borrowed from the bard himself. A hushed mantra meant to embolden one's day.
It doesn't always work. Which Venti knows.
"Sometimes bad days come about because you're thinking bad things." Venti's fingers pause as he leans close to his ear, his breath teasing. "What's on your mind?"
It isn't that Zhongli doesn't want to tell him, it's that he doesn't quite know how to express it. They've had talks like this, of course, over the years. There are so few old enough to understand. Xiao and Ganyu aren't dissimilar, but they aren't exactly the same- they've never carried the heavy burden of being an Archon.
"I've been wondering as of late," says Zhongli finally, his eyes slipping closed at Venti's dutiful attention whilst washing his hair. "These aches and pains that settle deep, the tiredness that I feel- is it because my Gnosis is gone?"
Venti's hands pause and he snorts. "No, it's called getting old. Everyone does, even those like us."
Zhongli can't help the small little smile that quirks his lips. Venti's calmer and quieter behind their closed doors, but he still holds a childish youthfulness that sometimes Zhongli envies. He's steady like the earth, not flighty like the breeze; there are some things that he'll never quite understand.
Still, Zhongli feels grounded here, in the gentle care of Venti's hands.
"It takes a while," says Venti softly, "for us to get to that point. But when we do, it's perhaps a little bit worse."
Erosion, thinks Zhongli, his heart tripping slightly. One of the reasons he'd retired- thought it better now than later, before he'd come to harm his people.
"All the more reason to enjoy the present, you know?"
Zhongli hums at that, whirling his fingers through the warm water. Watching as the soap suds part around them.
Venti's fingers pause again. "Zhongli," he says softly, tipping his head back. Venti looks down at him, a serene smile on his face. To everyone else, he looks so young, but Zhongli can see the age behind his eyes. The soft lines around his mouth. The way that time has worn him as well.
After all, these forms are only the ones they pick, not a reflection of who they truly are.
This is the way that Zhongli prefers him, handsome and beautiful all at once. No longer burdened by the heavyweight of being a god. Venti never really wanted for it, vying for freedom instead. Even now, he strives to roam free as the breeze.
Venti thumbs over his cheek as he watches him, then leans down to kiss him gently. It's a soft thing and a little awkward, the upside-down angle not prime for pleasure. Still, Zhongli lifts a hand and presses back, if only briefly.
Even with his nature of freedom, Venti always comes back to him. Even if it takes weeks, or months, or even at times years, he always finds his home within Zhongli's heart.
When they part, Zhongli turns and pulls Venti into the water. He yelps, scrambling about, spilling water over the side of the tub. Zhongli laughs, full-hearted, the first time he's felt happy the entire day.
They shift around awkwardly until Venti's settled between Zhongli's legs. "I'm still wearing my clothes," he murmurs, poking at Zhongli's arm.
"Truly a problem," says Zhongli near his ear. But neither of them move to fix the issue, Venti just leans against him, sinking into the warm water.
Venti sings something soft and archaic, his melody echoing off of the washroom walls. His fingers tracing patterns against the smooth skin of Zhongli's arm, soft, trailing lines that are reminiscent of Geo.
Wonderful bliss, thinks Zhongli as he loses himself to Venti's quiet song and the touch of his hand.