"Let me tell you a story," says Guizhong to him. She leans over a garden box full of carefully maintained flora. One hand cups a delicate leaf on its underside as she sprays it with a bottle. Mist clouds the air in front of her. Water clings in dewy drops, dripping down waxen stems.
"Once there was a girl who had no friends and so she talked to the flowers instead. They were wonderful listeners and though they never talked back, she still found camaraderie within their petals. Affection bloomed, cultivated by her love."
There is a tinkle of laughter as she looks back at him. "You see, flowers are hardy things. It doesn't matter if the pot is half-broken, or the soil half-rotted, they still can thrive when doted upon."
Zhongli leans against the doorframe, brow raised, arms crossed over his chest. "Are you sure it isn't because of your magic? Guizhong, you can bring the dead back to life with the right incantation."
She tuts at that, her mouth curled into a grin. "Just listen to the story, yes? It's a sweet thought."
"It's a useless thought."
Guizhong turns to him, her eyes half-slitted in a salty-sweet stare. "What a curmudgeon." It isn't the first time she's called him that. She sighs dramatically, petting the velvety leaves of her plants. "What will it take for you to have a romantic thought?"
"Some people aren't built for romance in the way that you are."
She tilts her head, eyes shimmering. "Surely, you don't think that. Zhongli, there is a person for everyone, it's only a matter of waiting."
"And yet, here you are, falling in love with flowers instead."
She clicks her tongue at his teasing, pulling away from the box. Her clothing is soil-stained, tinged brown with her hard work. Dirt crusts her nails, turning them dark. "Take this Glaze Lily for example," she says, crossing the space to a lone pot on the far side of the room. "This is a flower unique on its own. It thrives on—"
"The memories of those that surround it," he finishes, having heard this tale a thousand times.
Guizhong levels him with a calculating stare. "Glaze Lilies thrive on memories and the love of those around them."
Zhongli finds it to be an absurd notion, even if the flower is magical.
Guizhong does not elaborate. She curls her fingers around the glittering blue petals, leans forward, and sings to it, a meandering tune full of nonsensical verse. She pets it as though it is precious to her, eyes alight as it leans to her as though she is the sun.
She dies shortly after. There is no rhyme or reason to it and Zhongli's days turn dark without her smile to brighten them.
And to Zhongli, my warlock in kind, says her will and testament, I leave you my shop. Perhaps one day you'll learn a lesson, the soft petals of my hard work piercing your thick skull. Oh, and forget about that dumbbell.
He turns the key in the lock too early in the morning. He mists the flowers and spins romantic stories that make women coo and titter about. It is startlingly easy to pick up Guizhong's work and over the years Zhongli finds comfort in tending the shop.
Her Glaze Lily suffers, drooping. Zhongli has tried and failed to end its rot and wilt, but perhaps she was right; Glaze Lilies require love as well.
The only love found within these soiled walls is the bitter heart of a lonely old man who misses his friend.
#
One day starts like any other.
Zhongli walks to the shop dressed in clothing far too nice to garden in. He slips the key into the old, creaking lock, jiggling it about to get the tumblers to turn. He counts the register. He mists the flowers. He cuts, trims, and bundles together bouquets. He mists the flowers again.
And then things change when a man throws himself inside, the door slamming behind him. The frame rattles with the force. The man plasters himself against the wall, peeking through the window, his brow furrowed.
Zhongli watches with a placid look, though mild annoyance swells in his breast. He pauses, scissors in one hand, twine in the other. His gaze washes over the dark trousers and plain white t-shirt, red hair tied back, and bangs hanging in his eyes. The man hisses, pulling away from the paned glass.
Unimpressive, particularly when the man hisses out an obscene curse.
"Must you throw my door off its hinges?" asks Zhongli, snipping a length of twine.
The man startles, turning to him. Zhongli's gaze narrows, thinking that the man looks familiar.
"I—look, I'm sorry, but I had to duck in here. I can't risk being seen."
"By?"
"By anyone."
"What do you—"
"There's no use in small talk." The man is watching through the window again, thumbing his chin. "Maybe they'll leave if they're left waiting long enough."
He says it to himself, but Zhongli asks, "They?"
"Groupies." The word comes out as a hiss. "Can't work a day on set without a gaggle of them."
It clicks then, why the man looks so familiar. "Ragnvindr," murmurs Zhongli.
"Celestia above, not you too."
"No, no, just—I have seen a movie of yours."
The man raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "Just one?"
"Should I have seen more?"
To Zhongli's surprise, the man bursts into laughter. "Gods, I'm sorry, I shouldn't—" He swallows a breath. "I'm unused to people being unfamiliar." A pause as his mouth twitches up. "Only one movie? Really?"
Zhongli scoffs, keeping his attention firmly on the bouquet in his hands. "I don't make a habit of watching television, Mr. Ragnvindr."
"Diluc, please." Another pause as he peeks through the window for the umpteenth time. "Old-fashioned."
"Which suits me just fine."
Diluc looks at Zhongli from head to toe, eyes lingering on his cleanly pressed shirt, amused. "Do you always dress so fancy when working with plants?"
"I wouldn't say this is fancy." Perhaps it is, to most. To Zhongli, it is merely normal, a natural quirk of his prim sentimentalities.
Diluc snorts, giving him a strange look, and doesn't say much after as he keeps watch from the window. He jitters with nervous energy, tapping his foot against the tiled floor. An actor, thinks Zhongli, snipping more twine to bundle together Silk Flowers. Known for harrowing stunts.
After a time, Diluc moves to pull open the door, deeming it safe to leave. Then, he pauses, fingers tight around the handle. "Hey, which movie?"
Zhongli blinks at the unexpected question. "The Darknight Hero," he replies.
Diluc's eyes widen. "That's… well, that's an obscure one."
"Is it?" asks Zhongli, genuinely confused.
Diluc hesitates at the door, thumbing his chin. "You're interesting Mr.…?"
"Zhongli."
"Zhongli." His mouth curls around the foreign-sounding name with a surprisingly accurate accent. "Later, then."
This time, he catches the door before it slams, letting it shut gently.
#
Zhongli does not think that Diluc Ragnvindr is serious when he says they will meet again, but he is proven wrong.
Over and over again, Diluc slips into his quaint magical flower shop. "I just needed to get off the set," he says. He swears he isn't a people person and yet he chatters about, sarcastic words dripping from his mouth as he shares Celestiawood Gossip.
Zhongli is also not a people person, awkward at making friends, but he finds himself looking forward to time spent in Diluc's company.
And it isn't that Diluc is friendly—he isn't. All he does is complain about his co-stars and fans with embittered snark. He makes fun of the flowers and Zhongli's carefully planned bouquets. He spits out the tea brewed for him, gagging with exaggeration.
It is endearing, perhaps. Guizhong once told him that one doesn't pick their friends—friends pick them instead. There are worse people with whom Zhongli can find entertainment.
Days and weeks pass. Diluc is in Qingce Village for too little time, but they talk as though they're old friends without a looming deadline. There's an ease to their conversation, an effortless sort of bicker and banter they seem to share. Diluc speaks with biting words and harsh criticism, and Zhongli replies with a level-headed calmness.
They are opposites; entirely push-and-pull, but it works, their differences evening out. Zhongli's days are no longer sluggish and lonely, they're brighter, full of light-hearted jesting. He cuts stems and ties together flowers, Diluc's voice ringing in his ears.
"Say, why a flower shop?"
"Hm?"
Diluc jabs his arm. "You're a man of history, so why a flower shop?"
"I'm a warlock," says Zhongli, as if it answers the question.
It doesn't. Diluc gives him a strange look. "You're—wow, really?"
"Have you not noticed that none of these flowers are in season?"
"I don't know squat about flowers."
Zhongli hums at that, not one bit surprised. "And what would you do if you weren't an actor?"
Diluc falls uncharacteristically quiet. His gaze softens and he looks off to the side, lost for a moment. "My father had a vineyard and a winery. I'd probably work there."
"Fond of wine?"
"I hate the stuff."
Zhongli chuckles, digging his fingers into the rich soil of a pot. "I don't like flowers. Not really. This shop belonged to a beloved friend and she kindly left it to me when she passed."
Diluc is still silent when he looks at Zhongli, contemplative. And then: "It's nice of you to keep it up. I didn't pick my father's winery, I picked myself."
They part ways awkwardly that day, with a strange heaviness that settles in the air. Diluc's hand hovers over Zhongli's shoulder for a second before dropping onto it. He squeezes gently. "Look, maybe it isn't my place to say this, but… don't get stuck in the past, yeah? Live for yourself."
Zhongli doesn't reply, he just thinks about his advice. Diluc tips his head and says, as always, "Later, then."
Once home, when dropping his bag to the floor of his den and turning on the lights, Guizhong's Glaze Lily catches Zhongli's eye from where it sits in the window. His hand lingers on the light switch as he stares at it.
It is no longer entirely wilted.
#
When Diluc comes to say goodbye, Zhongli finds that his chest is tight. Not in the way it used to warm in Guizhong's presence, this is entirely different. It aches at the thought of Diluc going back to Celestiawood, leaving behind a tired, half-shell of a man who once again will be lonely, with only his flowers as friends.
Diluc stands there, shuffling about. "Zhongli, I—"
"I will miss you." Zhongli surprises himself by cutting in. He wrings his dirt-crusted fingers and picks at his soil-stained nails. "That is to say, I have enjoyed our friendship."
"Friendship," repeats Diluc. He swallows, his throat bobbing. "Right."
They hang there awkwardly. Diluc kicks at the door jam with the sole of his boot. "Look, I won't keep you waiting. It really was nice, Zhongli. Thanks for letting me hang out with you these past months." He sighs, smiling gently. "It was a good change of pace."
They do not shake hands or hug. Diluc turns with a wave and pulls open the door. Live for yourself, said Diluc one night, weeks back. Those words have lingered in Zhongli's mind ever since.
"Wait," he says, reaching out to grab Diluc's shirtsleeve.
Diluc stops, turning to him. Zhongli's heart pounds, thick in his throat.
There is a person for everyone, it is only a matter of waiting.
Zhongli has waited too long, so he pulls Diluc closer and kisses him.
And Diluc kisses back, wrapping an arm around his neck, tugging Zhongli flush against him. They stand there in the doorway of Guizhong's old flower shop, losing themselves to the feeling of their lips as they kiss and kiss and kiss.
Later that night, Diluc shares a pot of tea without complaint, pressed into the couch at Zhongli's home, their knees knocking together. He asks Zhongli just where he found a Glaze Lily that sparkles in brilliant, blue, full bloom.