Eros/Nocti.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · The Fourth Interregional Economic Forum Palais Mermonia, Fontaine 21:13 · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

Fear wasn’t quite the word Eros was looking for—but it wasn’t like he was having the time of his life either. 

The symposium had long since drifted beyond tolerable. Hours of polished rhetoric echoed beneath Fontaine’s gilded ceilings—trade projections, diplomatic assurances, carefully rehearsed optimism dressed in expensive language, the works. Eros sat quietly among the Sumeru delegation, posture straight despite the exhaustion beginning to settle into his shoulders. Talk less; smile more. That’s what they’d tell him. And smile, he did, no matter how uncanny it had been to watch the analyst mockingly smile at the parchment before him. Most exchanges in politics, he’d find delightfully droll. But talks of macroeconomic policy, of trade, and of global finance? Not quite his taste. Though he was no stranger to the burden of having to attend ungodly amounts of seminars, assemblies, meetings, or anything of the like, his attendance to the current one didn’t seem to matter much… And this fact was indeed made evident—particularly to the neighboring delegations—by the sight of said analyst simply skimming through the most ridiculous quotes he’s been jotting down for the past hour, with naught but a snicker or two escaping him against his own volition.

Bullshit. That’s all it ever was and ever will be, anyway. Just a bunch of bullshit. 

…Yet even bullshit, Eros supposed, could be delivered elegantly. The current speaker certainly seemed intent on proving as much. Could this be it, he pondered. Could it be that he’ll finally pay attention?

From the opposite end of the symposium hall came a voice smooth enough to cut through the exhaustion settling over the assembly—measured, refined, practiced to the point of appearing effortless. The sort of voice that belonged to men who understood precisely how to command a room without ever needing to raise it. It had everything Eros wanted to hear in one’s average deliverance, but alas, it held no true power to tempt the analyst into looking up despite the subtle twitch in his ears. He listened anyhow, continuing to fumble with the quill that rested between his fingers. 

“…Economic cooperation,” the man continued, “is most effective when nations learn to relinquish inefficient notions of isolation.”

Ah.

There it was.

Slowly, albeit stiffly almost, Eros lifted his gaze from the margins of his notes.

At the forefront of the chamber stood a man draped in Snezhnayan black and silver, posture immaculate in the presence of over hundreds of attendees from all over Teyvat. The chain of his glasses catches the warm glow of Fontaine’s gilded lights, purple gemstones glinting under them in quiet elegance. His silhouette stood at a height that neither sagged nor crouched, shoulders squared as he spoke on the matter without any need of consulting a script—as if he was just too good for it, as if he were brilliant enough to be without it unlike many others who stood at the podium with a paper in hand. Even from a distance, there was something distinctly artificial about the composure he carried—not false, per se, but sharpened into something deliberate. Refined. Weaponized. Irritating, almost. 

The Regrator.

Eros feels his brows knit together in mild chagrin. A few diplomats nodded immediately, whereas others avoided reacting altogether. Whatever it was that had been said for the previous hours… A part of Eros agreed that the statement itself was neither the first to faze him, nor was it as alarming as the rest of what he’s heard in passing. Free trade allowed the commingling of foreign competitors and other such actors, and yet to frame it as though it had been a universal truth free of its own flaws was nothing short of vexing. Though talks of ideology and the need to expound on the technicalities were as common as any other talking point, Eros still wished he hadn’t been so pedantic about it… Then again, these discussions remained far preferable to the increasing prominence of theatrics in court—not quite the kind endemic to Fontaine, but rather genuine incompetence hidden beneath needless dramatics. 

Still, the measured cadence of the speaker’s voice persisted from the forefront of the chamber—smooth, unwavering, practiced enough to cut through the haze of the analyst’s wandering thoughts. The Regrator, much to Eros’ dismay,  continued. 

“The reluctance to accept external assistance often stems more from pride than practicality—an understandable instinct, perhaps, though not always a productive one...” 

He spoke, with steepled fingers and a subtle shake of his head. As though he lamented the possibility of brittle diplomatic ties. Bastard. 

“...Partnerships, when approached rationally, create opportunities that would otherwise remain inaccessible. Trade encourages stability. Cooperation encourages growth.”

Eros’ ear twitched. Oh, he did not just hear that from the same man that had gone out of his way to sabotage Mondstadt’s wine industry. Perhaps he would have let it slide had it not been for Pantalone’s obvious ruse to eliminate foreign competitors and thus fill the resulting market void with a Snezhnayan alternative. Just who does he think he was fooling? The analyst stared down briefly at the notes in front of him, thumb pressing once against the edge of the parchment. Normally, he would have let it pass. Normally. But something about the ease with which the man spoke—as though dependence and partnership were interchangeable concepts—made irritation curl hot beneath his ribs. Talking about cooperation in the midst of geopolitical unrest as if there was no other choice but to let the hegemonic Snezhnaya remain a hegemon. Please. 

The moderator began moving on.

“Objection.”

…Until Eros decided it was time to scare the living shit out of himself. 

The word was not loud. But in the sudden lull of the hall, it cut cleanly through the room. Several heads turned, the chamber hall falling into terrible, terrible silence. Eros immediately regretted speaking.  Normally, arguing for the sake of arguing was one of his favorite pastimes… If and only if he weren’t at an economic forum, of which he had no business going to in the first place. His expression stayed firm, unperturbed almost, as if he hadn’t doomed himself by allowing himself to speak amidst the sea of diplomats well past nine in the evening. Lesser Lord Kusanali, when Eros hoped for career-related developments, this was not quite what he had in mind. 

Clearing his throat, the analyst  straightened slightly in his seat with the same quill in hand. 

The moderator blinked. “The Sumeru delegation wishes to respond?”

Eros exhaled once through his nose, then nodded. 

“Only to clarify,” he said evenly.

Across the chamber, Pantalone’s gaze finally settled fully onto him for the first time. Eros ignored it with immense effort. 

“Economic reliance presented as cooperation is still reliance regardless of how elegantly it is phrased,” the analyst continued calmly, “and smaller states are rarely afforded the luxury of distinguishing between assistance and leverage once dependency has already been established.”

Not quite silence—more the subtle shift of attention that accompanied any unexpectedly direct response within diplomatic circles. Some nodded, some yawned, while others merely adjusted their notes with the exhausted resignation of individuals already anticipating another hour of debate. Somewhere near the middle rows, a scholar quietly rubbed at his temples. Another delegate reached for a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. Good. Eros’ mind can finally rest. 

The moderator, in response, nodded and almost serenely so, perhaps recalibrating the trajectory of the discussion. 

And Pantalone, Archons forbid—

Smiled.

Not mockingly. Not offended. Something marginally close to the one that barely leaves his face. You could see it cross his features at most times—every forum, every gala—albeit mildly different. Eros couldn’t help but notice it didn’t seem so rigid at the time. 

“Oh?” He said softly from across the hall.

The single syllable settled directly beneath Eros’ skin in a way he found immediately irritating.

“You disagree with the premise, then?”

Eros met his gaze at last with a subtle wrinkle in his brow.

“I disagree,” he said carefully, “with presenting asymmetrical power as benevolence.”

“I simply find it somewhat difficult to speak of cooperation as though it exists independently of political interference, particularly when diplomatic relations remain as fragile as they presently are. What good can cooperation bring in the face of unrest without it eventually producing vulnerabilities of its own?”

There.

Too late to take it back now.

Though the ambiguity of his question would normally call for further expounding, Eros hadn’t wished to linger any longer than he should. Not that multilateral trade was inherently bad, but rather, to speak of it as though Teyvat existed in a state of normalcy was something Eros couldn’t have let pass. With interregional relations as precarious as they presently were, the analyst could name several instances in which economic cooperation had merely provided stronger nations with more sophisticated means of exerting influence. Again, perhaps he was being unnecessarily pedantic about it all. Perhaps the intervention had been entirely avoidable. Still, if discussions capable of shaping policy were to mean anything at all, then dissent could not remain perpetually unspoken... Or so he’d insist for the sake of preserving his own sanity. 

For one suspended second, the room remained perfectly still.

Then Pantalone inclined his head slightly, gloved fingers folding neatly together. The smile lingering at the corner of his mouth sharpened almost imperceptibly. 

“…Finally,” he murmured.