Chapter Text
As far as he can recall, his grandfather’s bookshop has always been Zhongli’s favorite place.
Situated in the building that was once the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, the store is nothing if not a place taken out of a fantasy novel: a vast space with high wooden walls, covered from top to bottom in bookshelves filled with rows and rows of old volumes. In the center, a sturdy oak staircase that leads to a second floor, red-carpeted and equally surrounded by bookshelves, in between long and narrow floor to ceiling windows. In the front corner of the first floor there is a big mahogany counter, where the books that have yet to be assorted pile up until the person behind it is barely seen.
On the top floor there are various soft looking armchairs with red, velvet cushions, and next to each of them, a small table with big, paper lamps that show Liyue’s landscapes pained in reds and ochres and golds.
Zhongli used to spend all his free time comfortably seated in the armchair at the far corner of the second floor, next to a window, reading book after book until not even the lamp’s light was enough for his tired eyes.
So, when his grandfather died and left the bookstore to him, nobody was surprised.
“You’re not thinking about keeping it, aren’t you?” His friend Lumine had asked, as they stood on the opposite sidewalk, looking up at the old, golden sign that read “Wangsheng home for second-hand books.”
“I am.”
“But Zhongli, you know nothing about running a business. You studied philosophy, and you’re doing a masters in Ancient History; not a single thing that you’ve leant is useful in the real world.”
She had a point, of course she did. Everyone thought that deciding to keep his father’s old bookstore was a bad idea, but only Lumine dared to tell him the real reason.
“The bookstore’s too old.” His mother would say.
“It barely has any customers anymore.” His father would say.
“You have twenty-six and haven’t been able to save a single mora.” Lumine would say.
There are all valid and well-thought opinions, but Zhongli, for all his calm and sweet disposition, is nothing if not extremely stubborn, so, when he decides that he’s going to keep the store and take after his grandfather, it’s a contract set in stone.
*
The moment he sets foot in the bookstore the first day, he is instantly reminded of the main reason that made him reluctant to part with it.
See, Zhongli’s not stubborn just for the sake of it. He is a very rational person, and he usually ponders the pros and cons before making a rushed decision, so, truth being told, his reasons for keeping the bookstore are hard to understand, even for him.
Since he can remember, there has always been a strange feeling in the back of his mind, sometimes prickling in his fingertips, sometimes tugging from an unseen rope to certain directions. It’s hard to explain, the feeling. It’s… it’s not exactly sad, but it’s not happy, either, it feels like nostalgia wrapping itself around his tongue, like a memory that tries to crawl from a whole in his mind that not even he can access.
And it all, for some reason, increases tenfold when he’s in the bookstore.
In the bookstore, he feels closer to whatever memory his brain is hiding, he feels something warm and familiar that calms his nerves and fills him with expectancy, as if something important were about to happen, as if someone he knows and misses will, at any moment, walk through the heavy wooden doors.
He will never admit it, but he’s a little disappointed when nothing happens for the first month.
But suddenly, on the first strange, rainy afternoon of the summer, it does.
Zhongli’s kneeling on the red-carpeted floor, hunched over a box of old books that a customer dropped off in the morning, when the bell at the entrance chimes. He’s still not used to it, so it still takes him some time to process that he is the owner, and he’s working, therefore he’s supposed to greets the clients when they come in. This time, as many others, he’s too engrossed in the task at hand to remember.
“Ehm…”
Zhongli looks up, startled, and his eyes are immediately drawn to the person standing awkwardly by the door.
The feeling he knows so well hits him then with the force of a meteorite. Something grabs the corners of his memory and tugs, but, as much as he tries, he still doesn’t know what it is.
“Please, come inside.” He greets, standing up and dusting off his beige sweater. “Welcome to Wangsheng.”
The guy by the door still doesn’t move, choosing to study the room from his spot instead. Sharp, golden eyes scan the bookshelves as he passes a hand through his mane of damp, green hair.
“It is a strange day to be out looking for books.” Zhongli says, as he walks up to him and offers him a small towel that he keeps for emergencies such as this one. When the guy makes no move to take it, he smiles. “For your hair.”
He looks at Zhongli, unsure, but takes the towel nonetheless and starts to dry his hair with slow movements.
“Thank you.” His voice is low and hoarse, as if he’s not used to using it.
“It must be cold outside; do you want some tea?”
The guy keeps staring at him, golden eyes filled with something Zhongli can’t quite place, but finds strangely familiar.
“You don’t have to.” He says.
“I insist, I would not like you to catch a cold the first time you come to my shop. It would not be a good memory, now, wouldn’t it?”
He doesn’t wait for the guy to answer before he walks up to the small golden bar-cart where he keeps the electric kettle, teacups, and a great variety of teas.
“Do you have any preference?”
“No. Anything would be…fine.”
They’re silent as Zhongli prepares the tea, and the silence is surprisingly comfortable, as if they were old friends that have been doing this for ages.
“What brings you here?” Zhongli asks, once he’s done, offering the customer a cup of tea, and taking the towel he gives him in return.
“I was looking for a book.”
Zhongli chuckles.
“Usually, everyone who comes here is.”
The guy frowns and looks away, he seems embarrassed, and Zhongli finds it endearing. Endearing and… familiar.
“Rex Incognito.” The guy says, taking a tentative sip of his tea. “I…I’ve looked all around town, and on the internet, but there are no copies left.”
“You like old tales?”
The guy focuses his eyes on the content of his cup, for a moment, he seems very lost, and very lonely.
“No. I don’t, usually, but there’s a woman in the…place where I live. She sometimes tells stories to the children, and when I heard about this one I…I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
That was very vague.
“I am familiar with the feeling.” Zhongli offers, smiling. “And I think I might be of help. What is your name?”
“Xiao.”
“Xiao.” He says, and the word is all too familiar on his lips. “I’m Zhongli. Come with me.”
Have I met you before? Zhongli wants to ask. I feel that I have met you before.
Xiao looks at him like he wants to ask something, too, but neither say anything.