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Zhongli is, truth be told, tired.
He also knows himself well enough to admit to fear over that. That he could go to sleep in his tiny, sparsely decorated apartment and not wake for centuries. It hasn't happened and the longest he'd ever slept was three months. And that came with the Calamity 500 years ago.
Unlike that useless drunken bard, he had duties to tend to. Rex Lapis did not have time to sleep the ages away. Not when the title of Archon hung like a noose around his neck.
(The loss of the Geo Gnosis is a bleeding, gaping, monstrosity in his chest. Everytime his hands brush Mora, it's a constant reminder that no more would ever be produced. Everytime he walks the streets of the Harbor, the stone beneath his feet feels foreign.
It remembers him, as stone was bound to. But the Harbor itself doesn't. It recognizes not Zhongli, and certainly not Morax. It cries in slow erosion for Rex Lapis. The one version of himself that would never see that light of sun or moon again.)
(Morax is a withering mass of instincts and sensation. Of old hurt and older bloodlust. The Prime of the Adepti is a calling forever ignored these days. Most often than not, the oldest version of him longs for wine and bright laughter.
Zhongli has never quite managed to make that part of himself understand that Barbatos would never again grace them with song and dance. For he may the Oldest, but Barbatos won his Gnosis long before his own was granted. And the wind did not chain itself to stone.)
So, he is tired. Ever exhausted and hiding beneath glamor to fool even his oldest acquaintances. Zhongli hides the way he hasn't managed to glamor his arms and legs into something resembling human since the False Moon broke.
It's exhausting. Zhongli wants to sleep for a century but that is precisely why he won't. There is, somewhere wrapped in that, the fear that if he fell asleep for too long, he will not wake. Not soon, not for anything, perhaps not ever.
"You've been organizing the same certificate for the last half hour, my dear consultant," and that's his headache doubling in size.
"Director Hu," he's not some child, unwilling to be polite. "What brings you to this side of the Parlor?"
The gremlin, the headache, the Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor herself, hums, finger trailing on the books in his cramped office. Zhongli viciously stomps on the growl raising his throat. He will not growl at a child like he's a hundred.
The Omega, butterfly-soft and tomb blazing, twirls around his office, leaving her paw prints on everything. "You're taking a break. Starting now, consultant."
Zhongli blinks, momentarily losing the growls and hisses building. "Break?" he asks, tipping his head.
"Alright, not a break," the Director says, sleeve fluttering as she waves off his worries. "You're... Suspended."
He doesn't let himself do something as undignified as gape at the girl. "Pardon?"
"Suspended. You're not working. Go home!"
The order and the whine do nothing but muddle his thoughts even farther. "May I ask why?" his voice is thinner than he'd like, but the girl thankfully ignores it.
"Zhongli," she says, petal-eyed and softening, "the fact that you have to ask is part of the problem here. You need sleep. A vacation. You're not going to take it, so I'm forcing you to. Get out of Wangsheng and, I don't know. Talk to your friends? By Barbatos' feathery wings, talk to that Fatui Harbinger!"
The Prime of the Adepti, the former Archon of Liyue, is promptly thrown out of his office and the Parlor.
"I don't want to see for two weeks!" Hu Tao throws over her shoulder before slamming the doors closed.
The Ferrylady doesn't even spare him a glance, eyes resolutely forward. Zhongli, with horror dyed amazement, wonders what the young Omega threatened his co-worker with.
"Well! Aren't you sight?"
Zhongli has more dignity than to slam his head into a pillar. "Why are you here?" the growl in his words male the poor Ferrylady flinch and shuffle back.
"A spoil sport as ever, I see," the bane of his very long existence says, pouting like a little child. "Director Hu asked me."
He's going to eat that girl. "I see no reason why," he says, pulling at his jacket to straighten it.
A small hand grabs his tie with surprising strength and tugs him around. "I've been here for two hours," the annoyance hums, sound snuffing out everything except those fingers fixing his tie. "I even stayed on the balcony for a bit. Played my lyre."
There's a pit opening in his stomach, Zhongli notes with some detachment. Anemo-green eyes fixate on his own, bright and sparkling with something he'll never name.
"I fail to see what that has to do with me," he grits out, hands coming to lightly wrap around those dainty wrists.
Bright eyes flash, darkening when Zhongli doesn't release him. "You need a heat."
The pit in his stomach falls along with his heart. "Watch your tongue," he hisses, hair rising as cold spreads through his limbs.
"Morax," the name is whisper, a breeze for his ears only and out of silently parted lips. "A rut would do, too."
Zhongli tightens his hands, vaguely aware that they're probably causing a scene in front of the Parlor. "Do not use that name."
A considering hum works a shiver down his spine as those hands reach just above his collar. "You want me to, though," fingers brush against his throat, feather-light and cautious. "We're leaving, you blockhead, wherever you want to or not. I want to lay on those glorious sheets in your Abode."
The request, coupled with the touch and his rising irrigation at everything, crumples what is left of his restraint. "Fine, don't blame for your state afterwards, Barbatos. I want your word you're doing this willingly."
One of his hands gently tugs the wisp closer, covering Venti's left hand and slowly guiding it along his jaw. Zhongli's control is fracturing in the middle of the street, eyes burning and reflecting on Venti's soft features. A breeze, uncommonly cold, flutters his hair.
"Morax," there's power crackling in that name, "you have my word on this. Let's go, you great, big, scaly lizard."
The only finesse comes from ages of experience, rather than intent. Melting into stone and traveling is as easy as breathing, even if his Domain bars him entry from below. It leaves Zhongli stepping out of the earth outside the entrance, Venti clutching at him.
The right side of his neck would be bleeding if he let it, from the sharp claws scrapping against his stone-blackened skin. The wisp shudders against him, claws shredding his jacket as Venti tries to deal with the sudden transportation.
"Barbatos," Zhongli says, apprehension prickling up his arms.
"Give me a moment," the other snaps, lifting his head just enough to glare. "You wouldn't like it if I whisked you up into the air, would you?"
It's hard-won control that stops Zhongli from shivering at the notion. He's ability to fly is entirely dependent on controlling his own gravity. The last time Venti made good on that threat of his, the Anemo Archon didn't set foot or feather on Liyue for three decades.
"Okay," Venti mumbles, slowly peeling himself off. "Are we getting this show on the road or what?"
The bright smile, brimming with enough mischief to make Zhongli suspicious, returns. He ignores it. He could ask, wants to. But even the travel has sapped his energy and his Domain is so beautifully furnished...
It opens without fanfare, seals dispersing into glowing particles. Venti waltzes in with about as much care as he has for anything, which is to say, very little unless it concerns Mondstadt. He follows.
Gold veins run underneath his feet, pulsing faintly in time with his heartbeat. Zhongli takes a moment to breath, seals closing at his back.
Tension bleeds slowly, every breath draining it out of him and into the fortifications of the Abode. A marvel of engineering that Guizhong had created, using his emotions to power the seals.
(Even when he had felt inclined to think otherwise, emotions flowed through him. As they did through every being under the sky.)
There's a pair of shoes already tucked when Zhongli removes his own. A silly hat on a raised table, neatly covering that ridiculous cape.
The sight is... good, he decides. Warmth is already crawling up his spine with maddening slowness. He throws his jacket into the hole that forms under his hand. It was beyond saving, anyway.
Heated stone and minerals sluggishly pours from his scent glands. It hurt, somewhat, and Zhongli wrinkles his nose at the faint scent of copper mixing in his personal smell.
It should have occurred earlier, that his glands would protest their opening. But honestly, the former Archon just... Hadn't cared. Not about the pain and certainly not about the feeling of atrophy that desiccated the sensitive glands. It had been 500 years, Zhongli had forgotten the feeling that the atrophy had caused.
Venti is nowhere to be seen when he finally breaks through the cloud of his own pheromones. And that fine, Zhongli doesn't want to deal with the wisp yet. Not as horns branch above his head and he needs to remove his pants to avoid tearing them with his suddenly emerging tail.
The fluffy tip brushes against the stone flooring, stirring up the (thankfully minimal) dust. His shirt gets lost somewhere between the entrance and the armory, Vortex Vanquisher a siren song to every instinct.
He's starting to leave the human-shell of Zhongli with each step, claws clicking on the floor, and scoring deep gashes into the wall to his right. The noise brings some half-forgotten pleasure even as it raises every hair on his body.
The spear, his spear, stands on its holder without a single particle of dust on it. Beautiful as the last time he saw it, and Morax purrs as he trails a clawed hand over it. It glows in welcome.
The Prime of the Adepti, the God of Contracts and War inhales. He is proud of himself, of his memory. For he has not seen the true spear since 500 year ago.
It's instinct that makes him stretch out his arm right before the room darkens. Dainty feet land near-weightless on his shoulder and arm. Wings bracket his head and body, feathers brushing teasingly.
"That's a pretty sword," Barbatos chimes, voice airy. "Wouldn't happen to belong to a certain wayward sister of mine, would it?"
Lightbearing Moonshard glints in the light of Geo. "It is," Morax's voice rumbles, he's a little shocked at the difference in tone. "I plan on returning it after this whole charade is over."
The God of Freedom crouches lightly on his arm, one wing draped carelessly on the floor and the other over him. "What's she doing? I've been meaning to invite her to Mondstadt..."
"Zibai has been traveling Liyue," Morax says, nearly purring when he locates hooves. In his Abode, in his Domain, he's much more in-tune with Liyue than he's been in a while. It's also incredibly likely that the sensitivity will stay with him after he leaves, at least for a time.
The pounding of those hoof-beats rings like a war drum in his soul. "She has also made a point to bring back herbs for Bubu Pharmacy."
"Oh?" Barbatos carefully treads his fingers through Morax's hair, untangling it from his horns. "I wasn't aware she had a interest in medicine."
Morax lets himself relax into the light petting. "I am fairly certain that she's more interested in the owner of that place."
"Even better," the wisp laughs. "People should enjoy themselves, no matter how long it's been. We all belong under this sky, after all."
"Remind me to get it," he says, turning on his heel.
Barbatos doesn't waver from his perch. And continues to stay there, both wings dragging on the floor until Morax finally makes it to his nest.
And what a glorious nest it is. Zhongli apartment barely has a bed, let alone a nest. Certainly not one with plush pillows, warm blankets and enough clothes to make him preen.
"As beautiful as I remember," Barbatos says, hopping soundlessly right into the nest.
And all that fuzzy feeling brought about by his nest dies a painful death to heat. For all of Zhongli complaining and surface-level hatred for Venti, the wisp looks utterly devine in his nest.
"Bold, aren't you?" Morax growls, tail curling an thin ankle. "I didn't give you permission to step into my nest, little wisp."
He tugs a little, but that only gets a face-full of white feathers and a solid metal ring smacking into his head. The thing is abhorrent, he decides. That Celestia saw fit to try and chain the God of Freedom in such a way is the main reason he can ignore the ache left behind by the Gnosis.
"You like me in your nest, you old blockhead," Barbatos says, uncaring. He stretches along the pillow like something out of Morax's best dreams. Like the ones Zhongli ignores he still has.
Morax hums, letting his Domain shift with the sound. Sun-warmed stone blooms a little more, coppery tang still there. "I do," he concedes, taking in the way Anemo-green eyes flash, pupils dilating.
Obviously not about to be undone, the Anemo God releases his scent. Cecilia and crisp breeze swipe any remnant of his restraint away.
It's a step and he lets Barbatos guide him into his own nest. The scent of him, so clean and fresh, curls around Morax like he's rolling in the fields of Mondstadt. The bard is gently enough about pushing into the delectably comfortable blankets.
Heat rises at the other's proximity, but Morax is old. Control is an older friend than even his wisp, after all. Said wisp, ever happy to just do whatever, wraps his tail around that slender waist.
"You're looking absolutely delicious, Morax," Barbatos purrs, wings flaring up and open as a hand slides to the side of his neck. "You'll look even better once you've relaxed a little, hmm?"
Morax grabs those soft thighs and sits the smaller God directly on his lap. "Confident, aren't you," it's not a question. "Go on. Try you hardest."
Rosy cheeks flush, as the wisp grinds down. That hand rubs on his glands for a moment before moving to his chin. The Geo Archon allows it, tilting his head in invitation.
Barbatos doesn't hesitate, closing the distance between them to press feather-light kisses to his lips. The other hand reaches for one of his own, lacing their fingers together.
"You smell like the best parts of Guili Plains," the smaller says against his lips.
"And you like the sweetest taste of freedom," Morax returns, letting the hand on his neck rub at the soreness there.
He shivers. It doesn't feel necessarily good, but the infusion of that scent directly into one of his primary glands feels like the sweetest poison. Like a shot of sunshine directly into his bloodstream.
The smaller God keeps making short, aborted movements on his lap until Morax growls annoyed and his grinds up against the other. Wings flare as Barbatos whines.
"And here I thought, I was in heat," he mumbles against panting lips.
The trail he follows is more instinct than actual recollection. From wine-sweet lips to that neck that Morax doesn't even think before licking the flushing giant there. Barbatos squirms, panting and whining as Morax drinks his fill.
"Alright! Alright!" The other shouts, shuddering and still careful to only sink his claws in the hard flesh of his stomach. "You win!"
The Geo Archon purrs, licking another stipe across that gland before pulling back. "I always do. Now, shall we actually start?"
Barbatos' eyes flash, Anemo making those silly braids glow. "Two weeks right? Let's hope your stamina hasn't gone to shit, old man."