#diluc reader insert

Your hands begin to braid his hair. He involuntarily shivers at the pleasant feeling of your fingers in his hair.

He manages to finish his work just as you're at the end of his braid. You help him clean up and close Bubu Pharmacy for the day, and as you’re walking home you ask if the two of you can take a detour tonight.

He’s tired, and he almost asks if you can go on this detour another night, but the stars in your eyes and the way you’re holding onto his arm causes him to say “Okay, but only for a short while.”

Huh.

Looks like he’s not the only one who knows how to use his stunning looks to his advantage.

He follows you to a secluded area on a hill, and he looks to the sky in awe alongside you.

It’s a full moon, and the stars are clearly visible tonight without a single cloud in the sky.

As you continue to look at the stars he subtly shifts his gaze to your face. As your eyes glimmer with profound emotion, the truth reveals itself to Baizhu. 

He realizes he can see the stars anytime he wants.

“It’s getting late, it’s time we rest. Sleep is vital to your health, you know.” Baizhu ushers you away from gazing at the beautiful sky with a teasing lit to his voice.

“But I remember when you told me that you’re usually too tired to come here and see the stars at night. You said the other night when you had enough energy to come here it was raining, so you just went home…” He glances at you as he intertwines your arms together once more, and he chuckles at the adorable pout on your lips.

“Yes, I did say that. However, I recently came to the realization that I could see the stars whenever I wish since you’re always by my side.” He enjoys the way your eyes widen in surprise as you quickly decipher the meaning of his words.

Just in case you don’t come to the correct conclusion, Baizhu clues you in. He leans forward to press a kiss against your now closed eyelids.

Before you can open your mouth to speak Baizhu announces your shared arrival home. 

“Oh, would you look at that. We’re home.” You can only chuckle as he opens the door for you, and you follow him into the comfort of your shared abode.

Diluc ☆.｡.:*ヽ

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

♡ This man is definitely “okokok”

♡Anytime it rains, he always has an umbrella for you to use. He doesn’t need one, but he always has one on him in case you need it.

♡ Whenever he makes a new drink he’ll have you taste it before he releases it to the public. If you don’t like alcohol he’ll make a virgin version for you to try if you still want to taste it.

“Diluc, rest your head here.”  He’s silent for a moment, openly contemplating whether he wants to do what you asked of him.

It isn’t long before he comes to a decision. He moves to stand in front of you, and you motion for him to sit in front of you.

His expression is absolutely adorable as he fulfills your request with a sigh of false exasperation.

“Honestly..” He begins to say, but he’s silent once your hands are in his hair. He visibly shudders as your fingers comb through his thick red strands. You get to work on your usual self care night time routine with Diluc. 

First, you comb through the tangled strands of his hair. You know he enjoys this part the most, but he refuses to acknowledge it whenever you ask him. Once you’ve combed out all the tangles, you usher him up to follow you to the bathroom.

“Do we really have to do this every night?” He asks this as he leans his face closer to you, allowing you to place the face mask on him. 

“Yup. Stop complaining when we both know you enjoy this. Now, come cuddle with me.” Diluc is happy you put the face mask on him already so you can’t see how flustered your words make him. He dutifully follows you to the area of your choice, which is the couch tonight, and he doesn’t voice a single complaint as you pull his body towards you.

He sighs in content as he rests his head on your shoulder, careful not to smudge the face mask. You’ve scolded him countless times for resting his head there with a face mask on, but somehow he always manages not to smudge it so you let it slide.

As you two sit in silence, enjoying the warmth your bodies provide, Diluc quietly begins to tell you about his day. You comment when he pauses to hear your thoughts, and you pride yourself on getting a chuckle out of him when you tell him a joke. 

It feels like hours pass before the timer goes off. When you tell Diluc to get up, he groans as he begrudgingly follows your command. “Can we go to bed after this?” Diluc’s voice is unusually soft as you lead him to the bathroom. You giggle at how cute he sounds.

He’s perfectly still for you as you follow the instructions for removing the face mask. As Diluc washes his face you return to your shared bedroom to hand his clothes to Adelinde to be washed for tomorrow. 

When he returns from the bathroom he looks refreshed and ready for bed; his eyes are noticeably droopy, and he yawns into his hand. 

Diluc joins you in bed, and he wastes no time in cuddling up to you as he places his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Goodnight, love.” His whisper, combined with his lips pressed against the skin of your neck, causes a shiver to go down your spine. You run your fingers through his hair as you reply, “Goodnight, my love. Sleep well.” He’s asleep moments after you wish him goodnight, and it isn’t long before you follow suit.

You’re both asleep in each other’s arms soon after.

Dottore * ੈ♡‧₊˚

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚

♡ How did you get this man to be in a relationship with you? Are you sure it’s him and not one of his clones?

♡ Well if you weren’t sure before, you are now. After all, he wouldn't stop grumbling over the inconvenience of losing his clones due to ‘a fair trade with the dendro archon’ for weeks. 

Will gives you crumbs of kindness to keep you hooked.

That is, until he finds himself buying your favorite treat for you at the nearest grocery store. You ran into his arms crying after a bad day, and he has to do something to cheer you up. He was disgusted by the tears streaming down your cheeks, and aggravated that the source of your angst was another human being. 

As he quickly makes his way back to you, your favorite treat in hand, he suddenly stops walking as his anxious thoughts of you come to a halt. He’s come to the unfortunate realization that you’re not the only one in love. 

He’s a busy man with things to do and places to be, yet he finds himself content holding you in his arms as your tears slowly subside upon his return. 

He hates the way his cheeks warm when you finally smile as you eat the treat he most definitely did not go out of his way to retrieve for you. 

He silently contemplates if he ever felt this way for another person before as you make yourself comfortable in his arms.

He decides it doesn’t matter as he sneaks a picture of your sleepy face, with your cheeks squished against his chest and droopy eyes struggling to stay open.

Hm.

Maybe he enjoys your company more than he lets on.

♡ He will begrudgingly happily go along with whatever you ask of him. His annoyance and snarky comments are only for show.

“Dottore, hold my hand.” “And why should I waste my precious time heeding your childish request? I have research subjects I need to test on, and I need both of my hands available to do so.” You roll your eyes as he slips his hand into yours, even as he continues to complain and ridicule your request. 

Good thing a kiss never fails to shut him up.

You relish the rare flustered look he gives you when you pull away, and you internally swoon when he chases after your lips.

Speaking of expressions, has he ever shown his face to others beside you?

Zhongli * ੈ♡‧₊˚

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺

♡ You’re still struggling to solve the mystery of where this man gets all his money from.

♡ There’s no way Zhongli has the funds to be buying you all the extravagant gifts that he does, but somehow your room is full of gifts. All of the finest quality.

He’s a calming presence beside you wherever you two go, and you love to close your eyes as he tells you facts about something that has caught your interest.

You may or may not go out of your way to think of things to ask him, things that you know only he’ll know being the Geo Archon. 

Just so you can hear his voice.

As you two are walking side by side around Liyue Harbor, you decide to ask him something so you can listen to him talk. You slip up and ask him something that’s virtually common knowledge to the people of Teyvat. His eyebrows rise in question. You anxiously hope he doesn’t catch on as he remains silent.

It takes a moment before his facial expression changes, almost like something registered for him. You realize he’s finally caught on to the truth behind your endless slew of questions. You can only hope he isn’t offended by your actions. 

Zhongli starts chuckling, and soon he’s hunched over and slapping his knee in amusement.  

You start laughing at the sight of Zhongli bent over and slapping his knee like an old man, but you don’t tell him that.

Zhongli literally has tears in his eyes as his laughter continues. Since he’s bent down, you move closer to him before you press a kiss to the unshed tears on his pretty lashes.

He awkwardly coughs as he suddenly stops laughing; your actions clearly fluster him. His face is as red as a Jueyun chili, and you adore the sight of him in this state. Oh, the tips of his ears are red too. Wait, is he.. shuffling his feet?

Aww.

His hand searches for yours, so you waste no time in fitting your hand in his. He squeezes your hand as he straightens himself. 

You squeeze his hand back as he begins to tell you everything he knows about your very obvious topic of conversation.

You take note of the way his eyes soften as he looks at you, and a warm smile presents itself on your lips. His eyes follow the curve of your lips with a gentle smile of his own. 

Oh, he loves you more than you’ll ever know.

Tartaglia ✧˖°.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

♡ Surprisingly really serious??

♡ Once he’s closer to you he drops his whole ‘happy go lucky’ act since he feels he can be himself around you without judgment.

♡ He’s still friendly and silly at times, but it’s significantly less than the front he puts on for others.

He almost hates the way his heart lurches as you finish getting a bath ready for him.

“Come.”

He’s silent as he obeys your command. He sits on the edge of the tub as you do your usual scan of his body for any new cuts, bruises or scars.

“Has this one always been here?” You suspiciously eye a cut that, yes, has been there for two days now. He recalls you scolding him when you initially discovered it.

“Actually, it has-“ The rest of his sentence gets caught in his throat when he feels the press of your lips against his skin. You mindlessly trace the scar with your finger as your beautiful orbs stare into his.

“Are you okay, Ajax? You seem a bit.. out of it tonight.”

A lump forms in his throat at your question. His emotions threaten to spill over as he gives a shaky exhale. He’s not sure how you can tell he’s had a rough day today, but he’s thankful for your keen eyes.

“Join me tonight?” It’s almost as if your clothes magically come off as you usher him into the welcoming bath. 

He steps in first, and you’re right behind him. Your arms wrap around him as your fingers locate the scar they were previously tracing.

“Want me to wash your hair?” You reach over to grab the shampoo bottle, already knowing what his answer will be.

As you gently rub the shampoo into his hair he closes his eyes in bliss.

He always appreciates your doting.

So it’s no surprise that once you two exit the bath, you open your shared bedroom to an overflowing pile of expensive gifts ranging from clothes to a physical copy of the newest video game, if that’s something you’re into.

“Ajax.” Your stern tone only causes his grin to grow larger. “I have to show my appreciation for you in some way.” His playful tone is quite adorable, but you push that thought to the side. 

“Ajax-“ He stops your scolding with a passionate kiss to your lips as he wraps his arms around you to bring you closer. 

“Well, there is another way.”

He loves the knowing look you give him. “Oh really? You might have to show me, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

He loves the way you shiver as he presses a kiss below your ear. “Gladly.”

Xiao ༺♡༻

Reader is implied to be afraid of heights. If you aren’t afraid of heights, imagine it’s high enough to make you feel a bit nervous. 

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖˖⁺‧₊

♡ Bro’s touch starved.

♡ King of hand holding and innocent touches.

♡ He loves to caress your thigh as he rests his head on your shoulder, watching on with whatever you’re doing.

If you happen to be on your phone and you scroll past a cute couple video, he tells you to scroll back to it so you two can watch it together.

Will shyly suggest you two do whatever couple trend is going on, but make it seem like you were the one who asked.

“I know humans love their silly trends. You don’t have to look at me like that, we can do it. I’m only doing this for you, you know.” He even sighs as he says it, making it seem like you’re really forcing his hand when he’s the one taking the initiative.

You honestly don’t mind and find it adorable.

Although some trends he’ll hesitate to do, especially if they’re a bit more hands on.

“Do I really have to guess what flavor this is?” He’s asking this as he leans in to kiss you, his cheeks blossoming into a hue that’s as red as a rose.

Despite his obvious hesitance, he enjoys any and all “incomprehensible” fun human past times you two do together.

Cue going to an amusement park as Xiao somehow wins all the rigged games and all the oversized stuffed animals you could ever ask for.

When he rides roller coasters with you his face becomes more expressive the more intense the roller coaster is. You love the subtle wide eyes he’ll make or the clench of his jaw as you two go barreling down the coasters’ track with the other riders.

Your favorite part of the whole day is when you two go on the ferris wheel.

I know, cliche, but it’s the feels good warm butterflies in your chest cliche.

When you two reach the top it stops, and as much as you’d love to enjoy the beautiful orange and purple hues of the sky your heart is pounding in your chest.

You look anywhere but down, eyes darting left and right.

Xiao huffs in annoyance, and when you turn to look at him he’s walking over to you from across the small pod.

“How could I forget? Humans and their weak minded fear of heights.” Before you can retort his comment with a snarky reply, he’s beside you and pulling you into his arms.

You muffle a weak “sorry” against his chest, and his response is a heartfelt sigh. 

When he presses a sweet kiss against your hair, your heart pounds for a different reason. 

“Be quiet. I like holding you like this. I don’t need the sunset with you here in my arms.” Although he probably wasn’t intending to be romantic, your cheeks warm and a giddy giggle escapes you.

Que the adorable sight of two idiots holding each other as the ferris wheel makes its slow descent down, the orange hues of the sky faded long ago, as the stars glimmer and wink in the romantic night sky.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ˳༄꠶ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

“Lalala”

Alhaitham, Kaveh, Ayato, Wanderer, Albedo

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Alhaitham ✧˖°.

Listen, I know Alhaitham would be an “okokok” person in a relationship. Just let me indulge in my delusions for a moment, okay?

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

♡ Alhaitham has never been in a relationship before; he’s a busy and productive man who has things to do. He goes home early to be alone and read in relative peace.

♡That is, until he got to know you.

Alhaitham doesn’t see himself as the romantic type, yet he finds himself doing simple acts of service for you without a second thought.

Do you wake up completely exhausted after studying all night? A steaming cup of coffee is gently placed into your tired hands as soon as you greet Alhaitham. You don’t like coffee? Alhaitham substitutes it for something that’s more your taste.

You’ll find fluffy blankets draped over your previously slumped figure on cold nights, your papers neatly organized after a quick bathroom break, and even little note cards placed on your belongings with encouraging words.

It took you multiple instances of these caring acts of kindness before you realized Alhaitham was the one behind them.

The notecards are what gave him away.

You thought you were being delusional as usual when you recognized Alhaitham’s handwriting on one of the note cards, despite sparsely seeing it. You confront him about the little note cards you've been seeing despite your apprehension of him behind the person behind these kind acts. 

Lo and behold, a few conversations and a study date later, Alhaitham is your dedicated boyfriend. Although he’s different than you thought he’d be in a relationship. 

In a good way, of course!

During a late night stroll in Sumeru, Alhaitham gently intertwines his hand with yours. When you look at him in surprise, he looks away with an obvious redness to his cheeks.

In another instance, Alhaitham walked in on you dozing off over your study notes. “I thought you said you were going to study all night, no interruptions?” Alhaitham’s teasing voice against your ear catches you off guard, but what really surprises you is the lingering kiss he presses underneath your ear.

With your study partner Kaveh gawking at him from the other side of the table.

This time around, Alhaitham’s head is resting on your chest as his tall figure is basically sprawled across your lap. It’s honestly adorable, but if anyone were to see this scene with their own eyes they’d probably think they’re hallucinating. Surely there’s no way the Akademiya’s scribe would behave this way, right?

Well they’d be proven wrong, and quite quickly.

Alhaitham reads his book without a care in the world as his head rests on your chest, flipping a page to continue reading out loud to you. “Honestly Alhaitham, I didn’t expect you to be so… openly affectionate like this in a relationship.” You hope your words don’t come across as offensive, but this is Alhaitham you’re talking to; You're not worried.

Alhaitham’s silent for a moment before he looks into your eyes. Your heart skips a beat at the swirling emotions you see in them, a rare sight for a man like Alhaitham.

“I feel at ease when you’re around, and I love many aspects about you, including your flaws. Why should I be bothered to conceal these feelings? Doing that won’t get me anywhere. Only a fool would hesitate to show how much they love and care about their partner.” Alhaitham’s words are concise and brutally honest, yet it’s as if he’s serenading you with a romantic ballad.

In a trance, you hardly register the way he presses a sweet kiss to your lips before he continues to read out loud to you, distracting you from your many assignments as he originally intended.

…

Oh.

“Okay.” Is the only breathy response you’re capable of. 

You don’t miss the smirk on his lips when he hears your response.

This time, you’re the one who kisses him.

Kaveh ♡˗ˏ✎*. ˚

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺

♡ Putting Kaveh anywhere other than lalala wouldn’t feel right.

♡ Kaveh, the hopeless romantic who smothers you with affection like it’s his job.

♡ Kaveh, who’s somehow always up before you to make you breakfast and ensure you have everything you need for the day.

♡ Kaveh, who pepper's your face with sweet kisses before you walk out the door in the morning and when you return home for the evening.

♡ He was a blushing mess when he asked you out, and his face was an adorable display of elation when you happily agreed to be his partner.

Now, Kaveh rests his head on your shoulders as he peers at the video you’re watching on your phone. “Honestly if that were me I would have broken up with him by now. Did you see the way he rolled his eyes as he let go of their hand? How disgraceful.” Kaveh clicks his tongue as he criticizes the male lead. 

You burst into a fit of laughter when Kaveh begins to cheer the male’s partner on for dumping a glass of wine over his head.

“He doesn’t understand how lucky he is to have someone care for him so deeply and intimately.” Your words strike a chord in Kaveh, and he reaches over you to pause the video.

“Wait, what do you mean by that?” Kaveh’s worried tone reaches your ears. You’re quick to turn around and press a loving kiss to his lips to dispel his worries.

“What I mean is, I’m lucky to have you in my life. You’re a ray of sunshine on my sunniest and darkest of days. I can only hope I make you feel as loved and cherished as you make me feel Kaveh. I’m the luckiest person in the whole of Teyvat to be able to wake up to your pretty snores.” Kaveh blushes as he scoffs in indignation. “Snores? I do not snore. Even if I did, you're wise to realize they’d be the prettiest snores you’ve ever heard. They wouldn’t be as obnoxiously infuriating as, say Alhaitham’s, would sound.” 

You chuckle at Kaveh’s indignation, before your chuckles quickly morph into uncontrollable giggles as Alhaitham chooses that moment to return home.

Unfortunately for Kaveh, Alhaitham heard his name being said. As Alhaitham questions Kaveh on your topic of conversation, Kaveh's fingers trace imaginary hearts on the back of your hand.

You enjoy the sound of surprise Kaveh makes when you grasp his hand to place a kiss against each of his fingertips.

Thankfully Alhaitham takes the hint to leave the two of you alone, and you two spend the rest of the day in each other’s arms, enjoying the irreplaceable warmth your bodies provide each other. 

Ayato❀

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ- -ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

♡ To be the partner of Kamisato Ayato is a blessing in and of itself.

♡ Waking up to his pretty face resting beside you is now your favorite way to start your day.

♡ You love the way he’s always one step ahead of you. When you suddenly remember you forgot to bring an important item, Ayato’s calming you down with hushed whispers of love as he hands you the item in question.

You groan in annoyance as you put the paper in your hand down. You’ve been craving your favorite snack since this morning, and it’s getting harder and harder to resist the craving. You come to the conclusion that it’s worth putting your work down to get it, and at that moment Ayato enters the room.

It’s almost creepy how Ayato walks into your shared room with said food item you are currently craving.

You love how Ayato’s not afraid to kiss you in front of his retainers, and how he often brags about your achievements to others in front of you.

“Thank you for your hard work. Oh, speaking of hard work, my partner successfully completed that assignment I told you they were so worried about. Haha I know, they were worried over nothing. I’m quite proud of how far they’ve come. They even- my, what’s got you so riled up?” Ayato knowingly teases you when you approach him with a flustered expression, dismissing the retainer's soft chuckles and fond expression as they watch the two of you.

Ayato’s not one to shy away from cuddles and spending time together. No matter how busy his schedule is, he always makes time each and every day to spend with you.

 Whenever you’re together Ayato always has some part of him touching you. Whether that be his hand against the small of your back, his chin on your shoulder, or even his hands tangled in your hair, he’s always touching you.

When asked about this habit of his, he’ll simply respond, “It brings me a sense of comfort.”

Whenever Ayato’s seen with you, he’s the physical embodiment of  “…and all of the stars and infinite galaxies could be found in the vast beauty of their eyes. All it takes is one look at their partner, and their eyes shine like the sun's first rays of dawn.”

Wanderer *ੈ✩‧₊˚

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰ ─── ───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰ ───

♡ You fell first but he fell harder… and when he did fall, oh boy.

♡ He’s severely touch starved.

He’ll make any excuse to cuddle and be physically close to you. “This pillow isn’t fluffy enough and it’s hurting my neck. Move closer so I rest my head on your chest.” “But my chest isn’t fluffy???”

“I’ve never been in a romantic relationship before, and I need practice.” “Practice holding hands? That seems pretty straightforward to me-” “Silence.” You only watch in amusement as he averts his gaze, shyly holding your hand.

He looks so cute like this, you know you have to take a picture. As he’s preoccupied with avoiding your gaze, you deftly maneuver your phone in one hand and open the camera app. You snap an adorable photo of him.

Unfortunately for you, your phone flash was on.

You talk your way out of deleting the picture by agreeing to take a selfie with him.

When the alarm on his phone wakes you up the next morning you tap his phone to turn it off. You stare at his phone in shock as it lights up. His lock-screen is the selfie you two took together a few hours ago.

♡ Will literally do the sweetest and most heartfelt gestures without being asked, and then get defensive about it when it clearly makes you happy.

You wake up to a bouquet of flowers and breakfast in bed. Wanderer’s silence as you stare at him says all the tender words he struggles to voice.

When your eyes water and a wobbly smile presents itself on your lips, he clenches his jaw and rolls his eyes.

“I returned home late last night and missed the opportunity to fall asleep beside you. I figured you’d appreciate this sweet gesture, but clearly your mind is too addled with sleep to properly thank me. ..Wipe those tears away, they’re unsightly.”

He’s the one who gently wipes your tears away without complaint. 

As he presses a chaste kiss against your lips, you tell yourself you chose the right man to be your partner.

Bonus: If you ask for him to pray with you to whichever deity you follow, including the archons, he will. Despite believing in no deity or higher being, he’ll happily pray with you since he knows it’s an important aspect of your life. He’ll respect that and pray with you. It’s no big deal; he enjoys the thankful expression you have anyway. Don’t worry, he knows he doesn’t have to, but he chooses to do so with you because he wants to. Plus, he gets a free favor out of it every time. What he uses that favor on differs each time, but it’s always a good result for the both of you. 

Albedo ｡･

.・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜✭・..・。.・゜

♡ Albedo is known to not be the most.. expressive individual, yet he has no trouble expressing his love for you, consistently and with the same amount of fervor every time.

♡ Overall he’s the best partner you could ask for. He's your safe space, and you’re his.

♡ Albedo’s experiments are of utmost importance to him, so when an emergency arises that you need assistance with, it warms your heart when he stops his experiment mid way through to help you.

“I’m sorry I asked for your help while you were in the middle of an experiment. I couldn’t reach anyone else, and-” Albedo stops your hysterics with a tight hug and a kiss against the crown of your hair.

“You’re just as, if not more important to me than any of my experiments. Please, don’t hesitate to contact me at any given time, even if it’s not an emergency. I’ll always welcome the opportunity to hear your lovely voice, although I’d prefer if you didn’t sound so distressed.”

“Hey, ‘bedo, you’re zoning out again.” “Oh, my apologies. Here, I’ve completed it.” He hands you yet another sketch of yourself. Your features are beautifully depicted to be looking off into the distance, with dragonspine serving as a mystical background.

“You could sell these you know. You’d make a lot of Mora.” Albedo looks at you with clear offense in his eyes. “The day I sell my drawings of you is the day I stop loving you, and that’s a day that will never come to pass. Come, the temperatures are dropping and I’ve gathered enough starsilver for my next experiment.”

Your heart skips a beat as your hands effortlessly find each other’s. Albedo’s flushed cheeks are prominent as he presses a kiss against the back of your hand.

“Oh, there you are. I made you hot chocolate, the temperatures are lower than normal… Do you want to cuddle?” When your response is an immediate “yes” Albedo wastes no time in guiding you to a comfortable area and tangling your limbs together.

PART o: kismet

Once, on one of your several trips to Sumeru, you visited the Akademiya. You only went to poke at dusty books and sit in on a few lectures as a wanderer who liked a good story and a bit of learning. There, you met a scholar whose name didn’t stick with you, from the Rtawahist darshan.

They had the far-off look in their eye of someone who had seen a bit too much, for who they were. You knew that some scholars went mad in their pursuit of knowledge. Saw things that they couldn’t cope with even if they tried. Your new friend looked to be close to such a threshold.

Perhaps, in an act of pity, you took this scholar out for a drink. Or two. Or seven. The exact number of cups and goblets escapes you now. But what you do remember, as you sat together on a terrace high above Yazaha pool, legs swinging, was their ramblings. 

“There’s a map of everything, up there.” They gestured wildly to the sky, twinkling and bright, with the moon as company. “Deciphering it... Well. That’s another thing. But it’s there. And if we figure it out, fate will be in our hands to know.”

They continued, stretching their hands to the cosmos above them, as if their fingertips could decipher the orchestration of the Gods with nothing but passion, wine, and will. It was admirable, in your drunken state. Perhaps foolish to your sober mind. 

Nonetheless, such an idea stuck with you. Even after you departed from your bygone friend, and continue your wanderings, you think about it. You laid on your bedroll more than once, staring upward, and wondering—

Why did the gods mosaic the sky? 

You are just a mortal, how are you to know? You tried not to dwell on that specific thought. The one you find yourself coming back to, in your worst nights—

(If I could read the stars, and foresee a tragedy, is there any way for a calamity to be stopped? If you knew fate’s charted course, the crest of its fortune and the wake of its tragedies— could you circumvent them?)

(Could you have stopped your calamity?)

It was a self-deprecating thought, and it dragged you back to a place and time that was both unpleasant and unnecessary to recall. 

There’s no way to change the past, you reminded yourself. You could only move forward. Never back. You only balked at the stars in your weakest moments and pondered such ideas like fate and destiny. You could live in the illusion of carving your own destiny as you traversed Teyvat. One where you wrapped gauze around wounds after the disaster had passed. Heal sullied ground. You could do everything you could to help people. That was enough, you decided early on in your travels. 

You’d help people (and avoid the nation Mondstadt). Simple enough.

One foot in front of the other.

PART i: there’s a puzzle we crafted

You’re tired. 

So tired. 

It’s a merciless type of exhaustion that you rarely, if ever, let yourself slip into. To wander Liyue’s peak and narrow paths in such a condition is dangerous, even if the Millelith and Guild did a decent job keeping settlements of Hilichurls suppressed. In general, you can take down slimes on your own— except when you find yourself this deliriously tired. 

Normally, you don’t even bother traveling in this state. You would drag yourself to the nearest village, throw some mora at a layperson and set up shop wherever they had space. Be that an inn, back room, or stable— you aren’t picky. As long as you could rest for a few days, perhaps help out the village in your spare time. 

Your most recent wanderings, however, took you far onto the Yaoguang Shoals for several days, and by the time you returned to solid, proper earth, you were desperately low on essentials. Your nearest respite was an old village crawling with Hilichurls. Your next best option would be a miniature expedition onto the shores of Dragonspine and hope the cold wouldn’t kill you before you could find shelter and stoke a fire.

So, you keep going.  

All the way past Stonegate and the quarries beyond it. You’re only half-lucid as you wander into Mondstadt for the first time in years. 

You roost in an abandoned cottage some ways down the road. Finally resting for the first time in days. Never mind your still-damp bedroll or the structural unsoundness of the ruin. You practically fall to your knees and pass out, given your state.

(Running has made you tired, hasn’t it?)

When you awaken, you ache. (Familiar). You nibble on the last of your rations and it hits you—

You’re back in Mond, aren’t you?

Archons.

You should leave, really. It’s your first thought when you realize where you are. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not even near the city proper, but a panic unfurls in your chest like you’ve been struck. You immediately begin to pack up your things—

Two things hit you then:

One: You’re far lower on supplies than you had thought. 

This isn’t a new development, however. It’s just far worse than you thought. You paw at the contents of your bag, realizing that the dried zaytun peaches and jerky you had for breakfast were the last of your rations. The weather had been poor across Liyue in the past weeks, and many of the normal markets you would’ve run into were shuttered because of it. Regardless, you didn’t think you were on your last fucking morsels. 

Deep in your bag, all you have is a torn, unusable tarp and a pitiful handful of the crystalline shards you used to purify water. 

You don’t even need to look at your medicine kit to know the paltry state it’s in. Far too many empties. 

Two:  A burning sensation that splits you wide open and threatens to eat you alive. 

You barely twist your foot the wrong way. Hardly at all. Regardless, something like liquid electro shoots from the twisted (broken, mutilated—) parts of your right foot, up your thigh, and shakes you down to your bones. 

You stumble, using the wall for support and keeping your weight off the injury. It shouldn’t be aggravated this early in the day. You shake it off from your ankle, lowering yourself to the dirt floor to massage out any of the tension and subsequent pain that you can. You’ll be able to walk, surely, but it’s getting harder and harder to deny that the old injury isn’t worsening over time. 

You remember, vaguely, hearing tell that there was a skilled healer in Mond once again. Younger, a Vision-bearer in the Church, maybe? 

You know enough about the Church of Favonius that they would at least look at your injury, if this half-remembered healer really does exist and is affiliated with them. 

You hate that Mondstadt seemed like the best option. 

(Later, you’ll realize it’s all a bit like fate, pushing you toward that stupid city.)

You find yourself at a loss, shake your head, and sigh, “... I guess it wouldn’t... really be so bad to visit.”

You’ll just stay for a day or two.

...

Mondstadt’s front gate is so familiar it nearly hurts. The guards have different faces than the ones you remember from your youth. Their demeanor is the same— kind, open, like how people from Mond tend to be. They don’t hound you too much as you pass, and you enter the city without issue. 

Midday sun lights Mondstadt proper when you arrive (your journey from the quarries took a bit longer than necessary, considering your route went wide around a particular plot of land that you refused to go near.)

The city bustles with noise and activity. Merchants line the streets, carts and stalls overflowing. Seafoam banners and floral wreaths hang along the stone arches and walls, while garlands of fresh flowers stretch from building to building. The scent of fresh flowers, baking bread, and sweet wine envelopes you.

Windblume, you remember. It is spring, after all.

You hope the crowds of the festival will help you blend in as you meander through the city. You keep your head down, counting cobblestones and being quick with your purchases. Better to get in and out, probably. If you can snag a new tarp and bedroll, you could set up across the bridge for the night, and be gone by morning if you could track down that healer within the afternoon too. 

As you walk up the main run of Mond proper, toward the fountain and the smell of warm spiced meat, someone, archons, gasps from behind you and says your name.

(Later, you’ll recall this moment. Perhaps kismet turned on its axis for you to still and—)

You freeze, going stiff. You’d know that voice anywhere. Sweet and teasing, curling down your spine in a way that feels both ambiently flirtatious and horribly familiar. 

Part of you screams to ignore her. Let her think she has the wrong person and continue your journey in Mond unimpeded by an old specter. You could be out the gates in a number of hours, if not minutes if you really need to (run, run, run).

But, there’s a temptation. It breathes itself alive, from the back of your mind to the front, entirely unavoidable. 

(How long has it been since you’ve seen a familiar face? One that you know instead of just recognizing?)

You turn slowly. “... Hi, Lisa.”

...

And, somehow, you end up in the Knight’s of Favonius headquarters, with a perfectly warm cup of tea in your hands, nestled in a library you hadn’t been inside for nearly a decade. It smells of old parchment and leather. Steam rises from your cup, fragrant with Sumeru rose and Guili cinnamon stick with black tea leaves. You recall the scholars of the Spantamad darshan favored this blend; you shared more than a cup or two during your visits to the Akademiya. 

Lisa settles in the seat across from you, with a small box of pastries that look sticky and sweet. Your mouth waters. 

“How have you been, dear?” Lisa gives you a soft look. “It’s been so long.”

So long, you add to yourself. Sitting across from Lisa is giving you a gut-twisting sense of deja vu that has your palms sweating.

“I’ve been well,” you say, gently. “Travelling, still.”

“Oh, how exciting.” Lisa smiles and lays her cheek on her palm. “What was your most recent destination?”

You hummed. “I recently went to Natlan’s capital, just for a few months. I ended up staying with a smith who gave me odd jobs in exchange for housing.”

“Oh, wow,” Lisa preens for you. “And before that? I apologize, dear, I’m not caught up with your journeys.”

Ah, the lack of letters.

“I apologize.” You rub your forehead. “I haven’t been writing lately. It’s been... hard to keep track of things, though it’s not an excuse.”

“I would disagree.” She flashes you a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been crisscrossing Teyvat; it makes perfect sense why you would struggle to keep in touch with folks. I’m sure you’ve met plenty of friends on your travels, too. I imagine you have lots to juggle.”

Lisa is partially correct, you suppose.

“You continue to give me so much amnesty— too kind,” you laugh, and lean back in your chair. 

Lisa looks a bit wistful as she puts down her cup in exchange for one of the pastries. You recognize the expression on her. You’ve only seen her wear it once before.

“How long are you staying in Mond?” Lisa asks, nodding down to the box. You leave the treats untouched.

“Not long.” You refuse to look at her as you answer, “Just for the day. I needed some supplies and Mondstadt was the most convenient.”

It’s a clinical answer. One you say intentionally, perfectly, so she can’t poke holes in your logic. You hope, pray, she doesn’t push back on your short visit. Any longer, and you might accidentally run into more faces you don’t wish to see. Lisa was tangentially related to... everything, but she was the least obtrusive person you could have run into. Still, you’re in the lion’s den, in the Ordo’s HQ, for a cup of tea, praying that you can slip in and out undetected outside of Lisa.

(It’s easier like this, you tell yourself. You can’t get twisted up in this place again.)

Lisa examines you, tracing you up and down with her gaze in a way that’s horribly disarming. If it was from anyone else, you’d think they were checking you out, especially with the sweet, upward quirk of her lips. But, this is Lisa, and you had forgotten how astute she is.

“Only a day? That’s a shame.” She sighs, sitting back and stirring the tiny spoon perched in her teacup. “It's Windblume. You should stay.”

“I could,” you muse and give her a sympathetic smile. “But, I don’t think it would be wise. It would be better if I got on my way quickly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How far back would a few days in Mondstadt put you on your travel plans?” 

‘Plans’. 

You nearly bark out a laugh, but you keep it lodged in your throat. 

“Not terribly far, but I... I don’t want to stay, Lisa.” You reach across the table and squeeze her free hand. “It isn’t good for me to linger here.”

The look she gives you breaks your heart. Her brows wilt, her eyes get a little sadder, and she grips your hand unyieldingly. “... Are you sure, sweetheart? I’m sure the Knights could put together some lodging for you—”

She presses, and you hate the feeling of it. You know her kindness is not misplaced, but it makes you roll around in your skin regardless. Archons. You interrupt her with a tight smile, “Truly, Lisa, I am grateful for the offer, but I will be on my way come tomorrow morning. Perhaps another year.”

“Perhaps.”

You sip your tea in silence for a moment. You stew, barely, not at her specifically but circumstance. It boils just underneath your skin, just as it has been since you entered Mond’s border. Speaking to Lisa has only made the feeling grow and burn. 

You can’t meet her gaze— you can’t. You can feel it on you regardless. You know you’ll see more pity and maybe that familiar bite of anger she wields so well. 

“Why don’t you tell me when and how you got that Vision then?” She nods low, down to your waist. Your dendro Vision hums there, tied to you with a fraying, braided string that desperately needs replacing. 

There isn’t a problem with indulging a bit of... this, is there? You’re only sitting to chat. Drinking some tea. You can hunt for that healer and duck out of Mond’s walls by sundown. Easy. You pluck one of the buttery-looking pastries from the box and plop it on your plate. 

“Sure, but only if I can get a refill on this tea.” You smile and raise your cup.

...

You lose track of time, talking to Lisa. 

You do tell her how you obtained your Vision, and of your subsequent journey through Snezhnaya to its port following your graduation. She tells you some of the new gossip of Ordo Favonius, and that she’s been thinking about picking out a ring to give to Jean (though, she has a hunch the other already has one in mind. Lisa thinks it'll be fun to meddle with whatever precise plan the Acting Grand Master (nice) has in place.)

She continues to pour you tea and push more baked goods onto your plate. You enjoy them, and her company. It’s a rare treat to sit down for so long with nothing more than chatting on your mind. 

“How was studying in Snezhnaya?” Lisa asked, eyeing your various bags. “Cold, I imagine?”

“Very.” You grimace, fishing around in your satchel. “But, worth it.” 

You pull forth a palm-sized metal insignia. You keep it tucked away, most of the time, only flashing the thing when necessary. You only need legitimacy every so often.

“Oh, wow.” Lisa gawks a bit. “May I see?”

You hand it to her. “Be my guest.”

She studies the metal, running her fingertips along the edges where the different colors meet. Vibrant blues meet greens and whites, with pink and purple flowers cast around the bottom edge. The shape resembles something between a shield and wheel, with each one of its seven portions having some meaning for the institution. They escape you now. 

“I’ve heard that the Tselostnyy School is quite the place,” Lisa says. “No one at the Akademiya seemed fond of them, but I imagine it was out of some sort of insecurity.”

You snort. “Probably. Folks at Tselostnyy actually teach healing— not just study the human body for the sake of some academic pursuit. The two schools have opposing goals.”

It was one of the main reasons you declined to apply to the Akademiya at all. 

“I’m glad you found a place to study— I know it was hard, after Teacher passed away.” Lisa reaches out as she speaks, going for your hand. 

You withdrew your own from the tabletop, hiding it in your lap. “It was. But I managed.”

‘Managed.’

Lisa gives you a look that drips pity. She looks as though she’s going to reply, just as the door to enter the library clicks open. 

Your gut drops to the floor and your shoulders stiffen. 

“Lisa? Could you proofread this draft for me? I’m afraid I sound too formal again—” It’s Jean, it’s Jean.

It’s her voice, the distantly familiar click of her hard heels against the wood flooring. You bunch the fabric of your trousers in your fist, forcibly reminding yourself to breathe. Jean walks from behind you, rounds the table, stops at Lisa’s side and looks at you. 

Jean’s eyes widen.

“Oh, sorry sweetheart— I’m a bit busy with a friend right now,” Lisa says easily, oblivious (seemingly, probably not.) She gestures to you and winks. “I can take a look after lunch, if you can take a break with me.” 

Jean says your name— gasping it more or less, tightening her grip on the document in her hands. 

“... Hi, Jean.” You give her a little wave. “How have you been?”

It’s bittersweet, the feeling that curls and grows in your chest as she brightens and pulls up a chair next to Lisa. It’s familiar and rotten, all the same.

...

The commotion in the library brings other visitors.

Lisa wears a smitten smile as other knights make their way into the library. Aramia and Flyn— they look older, long grown out of their adolescence and more into their skin. Hertha has crinkles around her eyes that grow tight when she recognizes who you are. 

The Spark Knight barrels in the room being lazily chased by—

Kaeya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck— 

He scoops up the little knight and turns to the tea table, now surrounded by familiar faces, and you can see he has his lips pursed for some sort of teasing quip. Probably at the expense of the Ordo’s acting Grand Master and Librarian.

Then, Kaeya sees you. 

You watch his jaw snap shut. Whatever clever thing he had to say dies on his tongue and you watch it. It’s a little satisfying after all this time. You’ll cherish this moment, you think. The split second of confusion, the realization, the shock and— the guilt.

He wipes the expression off his face easily, as if it were never there to begin with. But you’ll revel in his discomfort. Your own little revenge, several years too late.

“Oh, wow—” Kaeya whistles, clicking closer and settling Klee on his hip with a bounce. He says your name almost breathlessly. “Little sister, it’s been quite some time. We’ve missed you.”

“Did you?” You tilt your head. “That’s surprising.”

You hold your tongue. You dig your teeth into the sides of it, forcing yourself quiet. The feeling that’s boiling in your chest won’t be extinguished by verbally thrashing Kaeya in the middle of the Knight’s HQ— but, Archons—

It’s tempting.

“‘Sister’?” The little knight’s nose scrunches. “Mister Kaeya, you said you only had Diluc, who’s only kinda your brother. No sisters!”

“He’s teasing me,” you placate her, voice sweetening. The little knight looks at you with wide eyes, a little awed. “‘Mister Kaeya’ is an old friend of mine, we played together lots when we were little like you.”

An oversimplification, of course. Little Klee doesn’t need to know what happened after the sun-swept days of sword fighting and house ended at the winery. Kaeya’s air quickly fades as Klee squirms down and asks kindly for a hug. You don’t think she can remember you— you only held her once, when she was so small— but you know her kind age and remember so differently from your own.

“Why are you in town?” Kaeya asks. “I thought I’d never seen you within city limits again. Color me surprised.”

You lock your jaw, as Klee bounds away from you and wrestles her way onto Jean’s lap, “Passing through, is all. I’ll be gone by morning.”

“... So, you’re not staying for Windblume?” Kaeya sits, pouring himself a cup of tea. You think you might hate him. “That’s a shame.” 

“I’m not,” you clarify and roll your eyes. “Though everyone is insisting that I do.”

“You really should.” Lisa takes the opening and insists, “It would be lovely to have you.”

Of the group that has congested in the library, you only hear agreement. Jean has a bright look in her eye that makes you shy away. 

“I... I really shouldn’t.” 

“Why not?” Kaeya grins, foxlike. You think he just likes making you squirm.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Jean inquires, setting her chin on her fist.

“Well, no—” There’s always somewhere for you to be. You can’t stay. You shouldn’t even be here now. 

“Then, stay.” Eula leans against the doorframe, entered at some point. 

You’re being thoroughly peer-pressured, it seems. 

“...I’m being bullied into staying for Windblume, aren’t I?”

“Perhaps.” Jean gives you a sheepish grin. “You’re missed, Windblume is just an excuse.”

You ache. 

“Stay in the city, enjoy some wine,” Lisa insists. “Catch up with folks. I’d love to see more of you while you’re here. I’m sure you have stories to share of your travels.”’

You barter, “... If I do stay, I need to find a healer. I heard that there’s a skilled one, living in Mond. A Vision holder.”

Jean opens her mouth, but Kaeya speaks first. “Done.”

You consider. 

You’re fully aware that your arm is being horribly twisted into staying for Windblume. You know this is unwise. But—

(There’s something to it. Something you can’t admit it to, not aloud, not yet— but being in a room full of people who do not see you as a stranger, but rather an old friend. They know your name, and you know theirs. There’s something to knowing the streets you will walk if you stay. Familiarity is a wretched comfort.)

“If you need lodging, the knights could easily put you up in the dormitories,” Jean offers.

“No, I—” You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your cheeks. “I appreciate the gesture, but if I do stay I’ll camp outside the city.”

“So you’re staying?” Klee’s eyes shine. 

“I—”

“In that case, come out for drinks tonight,” Kaeya insists with a sly smile that makes you want to eat glass. “I’ll buy a round.”

“Wait—”

“Angel’s Share does bring out its Windblume vintage tonight—” Lisa says enticingly. 

“Absolutely not.” You smack your hand on the table, far louder than you intend. 

Kaeya cocks his head, amused. Lisa and Jean share a look, and the rest of the knights look a bit bewildered. You hate to raise your voice, but Archons, this crowd can be pushy.

“I’ll stay. But I’m not going to Angel’s Share.” Never ever again.

Lisa does seem to notice her error in suggesting it and gives you an apologetic smile. She reaches for your hand and squeezes. You feel a bit lighter.

“Diluc won’t be there,” Kaeya states. On the nose. “He doesn’t bartend on weeknights, even during Windblume.”

“... Really?”

“He doesn’t,” Eula corroborates. “I have knowledge as well that he is in the middle of merchant deals with a group from Natlan. There is no reason to think he’d be at Angel’s Share this evening, if that’s your concern.”

You pick at the skin around your nails. 

“I’ll think about it.”

(You agree, by the time you leave Ordo HQ. After many other promises of free wine and dancing, you find it hard to refuse. It doesn’t hurt that you confirm with multiple others that Diluc doesn’t bartend on weeknights. That he’s been caught up in business, and hasn’t been in the city much at all.)

...

You had enough mora for a few nights of lodging. You figured that Goth may have even given you a discount, as an old friend of his. Archons know how many times you worked odd jobs for him and his sons, patching up walls and the occasion twisted ankle or jammed finger. 

After some searching, you find Goth in one of the many gardens of Mond proper. As happy as he is to see you, he regretfully informs you that he has no free lodging. 

“Windblume has booked out all of my short-term properties,” Goth sighs. “Unless you’re looking for a minimum six-month lease, I don’t have any rooms available.”

(Goth explains to you that the goddamn Fatui has rented out the entirety of his hotel... indefinitely? Upfront? Hence the lack of a room.)

You tell him it’s no trouble, wave off his concern. You don’t mind a few more nights of camping. The only allure of an inn or hotel was the possibility of consistently bathing and a soft mattress. 

You pick a spot outside of Mondstadt proper to set up your camp. There are many tents already set up— travelers, like yourself, here for the festival. You recognize colors and fabrics from all over Teyvat. It warms something in you, that you aren’t alone in being an outsider here.

(Such a thought feels wrong, because it is, isn’t it? You aren’t an outsider at all. This is your home. The only place you’re not an outsider.) 

You struggle to set up your tent, and decide to leave it for later. Wandering around Mond for the afternoon aggravated your injury, and you instead take the time to poke around in your medicine kit for a quick tincture. Something to settle the—

(Burning, screeching pain that tracks up your leg. You’re grateful the other travelers aren’t watching how you collapse against a pile of discarded crates, barely holding back a hiss of pain.)

(It’s getting worse, isn’t it?)

Teacher always said that nothing was harder on sickness and wounds than stress. It was a wisdom you remembered but barely heeded.

You use the dropper and place the tincture under your tongue. It tastes bitter and coats your throat as you swallow. 

...

The sun rains gold on Mond as you meander toward the Angel’s Share. Liquid amber that coats the buildings and cobblestones. It’s nostalgic in too many ways, and it makes something behind your ribs ache.

(You’re hit with the distinct urge to run. To turn tail and leave Mondstadt forever, again.)

You shove it down, swallow it whole, and bear it. Bear it. Not forever, just for a few days. You can catch up with some old friends, leave any old scores unsettled and untouched (undisturbed, unthought about—), and depart. Maybe even fix up your foot in the process.

You hesitate outside of Angel’s share.

It looks different than you remember. The door and its frame have been replaced, the door and its frame hardly ached. There’s a message board outside that you can’t recall being there previously. A wreath hangs on the door, woven with blue and white flowers for Windblume.

You want it to be different. You do. Because if things are different, walking into Angel’s Share wouldn’t feel so daunting. You could pretend that this horribly familiar tavern was someplace else entirely. Maybe even delude yourself into thinking that this little building was its own, unique, carved-out square during one of your travels. A fantasy where you’ve never been here before.

(The warmth under your disgust wouldn’t feel so misplaced then.)

You enter.

It’s lively, bustling with patrons of all types with the festival beginning so soon. You recognize clothes and people from all corners of Teyvat, and it comforts you once more. You blend in easily, lingering near the door, and peek at the bar.

Diluc is nowhere to be seen. Another barkeep mans the kegs, barrels, and bottles. You don’t recognize him— which brings you some relief. 

It would be easy. To be delusional about this whole thing. That Angel’s Share could be just a tavern in the middle of nowhere and the faces that are around you have no chance of being familiar. You’re in a sea of folks who are travelers, just like, or mostly unfamiliar. You could, couldn’t you? Tell yourself that this isn’t a place where—

(You had your first drink. Learned how to mix cocktails with Crepus. Play fought Diluc and Kaeya in the rafters on the third floor. Where you last saw Diluc—)

You clutch a hand to your chest. Who knew that emotional pain could be so violently physical? 

Jean calls your name from across the room, pulling you from your stupor. You meet her eyes, and the smile you force to meet your eyes feels a little more genuine.

With the call of your name, several other patrons look up and gawk for a moment. You get a few more ‘oh hello!’s and ‘I didn’t know you were in town!’ thrown your way and you give them all sheepish smiles. Faces you can’t place very well. Features and familiar expressions mutilated by time and a botched memory. It makes you feel sick to your stomach— archons, and you haven’t even sampled this year’s selection of thousand-wind’s wine, have you? 

Jean flashes you a sympathetic look when you finally make it to their table. The table is flushed full— intimidatingly so. The knights have come out tonight. Lisa and Jean cozy up on the same bench seat, while Kaeya (die) and Albedo sit across from the two. You offer the alchemist a timid wave, which he returns in kind. Some of the other knights have spilled out to the tables around you, chattering away with wine-stained lips.

And the night’s still young.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show,” Kaeya practically purrs (choke) and leans closer to you on an elbow. “Were you able to find some lodging for the festival?”

“Yeah, I found something that will work.” It’s not technically a lie. Besides, they don’t need to know where you’re sleeping.

Kaeya raises an eyebrow and Albedo elbows him politely in the ribs. You make a note to buy him a drink later.

“I’ll get this round,” Lisa says, standing and grabbing you by the arm. “My treat. A welcome home present.”

You let her tug you through the crowd.

You end up seated properly at a barstool while Lisa orders. She wove her way through the crowd and up to the bar so easily, like liquid. You hardly have to wait at all before a drink is passed to you across the bar top.

You gulp half the glass down, greedily.

You, notably, have chosen not to cessate from dandelion wine in your absence. It was a rare treat to come across outside of Mond and Liyue, so when you could get your hands on glass, you let yourself partake. Whatever melancholy it brought with it could be tempered with more of it anyways.

It goes down easy— it always does. Thicker than other wines, sweet but bodied, with some type of nutty and berry note to it. You never understood the process of winemaking, despite so many years spent at the winery. When Crepus or Diluc or one of the staff attempted to explain, it all easily went over your head. 

The tannins sour your cheeks. You swallow down another mouthful, greedy, and slam down your empty goblet. Lisa looks at you wide-eyed.

“I don’t recall that you were ever much of a drinker,” Lisa remarks as she flags down another glass for you. She sips her own, mischief in her eyes. 

You shrug, nodding to the barkeep who fills your cup. “I indulge, occasionally. Forgive me for needing a drink in this environment.”

You gesture to the carousing around you. A lyre and fiddle play in the corner, and you distinctly hear two different bard songs. One is significantly better than the other, and you may have even enjoyed it if you could hear it fully. 

Being near the bar forces you to see changes. They’re hard to not notice. The signage behind the bar has changed. An old menu and drink list have been changed out for something sleeker. Paintings and their frames replaced. The glass you’re drinking out must be new, along with the tankards that the barkeep washes whenever he has a free moment.

There are still ghosts in the corners.

“Gods, you look like a wet towel.” Kaeya’s shouts, nearly in your goddamn ear, as he slips into the empty seat next to you. He drapes an arm over your shoulders like you’re old friends and not the byproducts of a dissolved relationship. You think about shrugging his arm off, but decide against it. 

You throw back the rest of whatever is in your glass and shout for another.

Kaeya catches your eye for a moment with a nearly unreadable expression. You recognize it (and concur that you need to be far more drunk than you currently are in order to survive the evening.) His brow lays smooth, lips in a not-quite smile, and his posture is a bit too rigid. You know he’s picking you apart, albeit quietly.

The expression disappears a moment later, and he has a new bottle of wine in his hands (“For you, little sister.”) Your cup fills yet again, and you drink.

The world begins to feel fuzzier, easier, and the pain in your foot and leg dulls. God, you try not to indulge in drinking too often (it’s simply a recipe for reliance, given your condition. Regardless, you're a physician who knows better than to turn to the bottle rather than medicine), but you feel the temptation of it occasionally. 

It’s an easy friend to indulge in under these circumstances.

One of the bards, the one with loose braids, strikes up a conversation with Kaeya, looping you in with an exchange of introduction. Your cheeks warm when you notice the slur of your words, sipping your cup to disguise any embarrassment. The bard must be drunk, with how much sweet wine he drinks, but he hardly acts it. Poised.

Lisa pats you on your back after your fourth glass, seemingly pitying you in your stupor. 

The good bard, at some point, leaves Kaeya’s side. Kaeya’s back to leaning into yours, the furs of his outfit prickling your nose. If you were sober, you’d be spewing curses at him. But in your drunken mind... it was fine. Fine. Maybe the warmth of him against your side wasn’t entirely unwelcome either.

You loosen up, whether you want to or not. 

Lisa drags you out of your stool after your fifth drink, to take pulls off a pipe a traveler offers and to dance with her in the main room of the tavern. The bards play a duet now, in tune, though the good bard from earlier carries the performance.

You laugh as she twirls you, dipping you near the floor. Some of the patrons cheer and whistle at the move, and you let loose a giggle that never would’ve left you in your right mind. Her face swims before you. Your insides are warm. Things are okay, maybe. For now.

So, you dance.

You dance with Jean and Kaeya, even dragging Hertha in for a round. Eula refuses, though apologetically. She’s a bit too drunk herself, and Amber insists on staying by her side to nurse her with water and pyro-warmed pets to the back of her neck.

(Do you envy them? Maybe. The skinship of it seems nice. They’re so familiar with each other, even from a distance. So lax and tender with each other even within such a setting. You cannot imagine receiving such treatment.)

Kaeya spins you back to the bar and buys you another glass.

“You dance better than you used to,” he croons in your ear. “even with that dreadful limp of yours.”

You bark out a laugh and punch him in the arm with hardly any force (you’ll regret not making it hurt more, later). “Wow, and here I thought wine curbed your silver tongue.”

“Unlike some, I can hold my liquor just fine.” He shrugs and sips.

You, on the other hand, turn the corner from ‘tipsy’ to ‘blasted’ as you hit the bottom of your goblet. Your stomach churns, spelling a hangover that will rot your stomach and the space between your eyes come the morning. The room doesn’t spin, not quite yet. 

You lay your forehead on the bartop. 

“Aw, had a bit too much?” Kaeya tsks. “How unfortunate of you, to not know your limits, even after all this time.”

You grumble something unintelligible. 

He sets a cold hand on the nape of your neck and your ground yourself on it.

(You can regret it in the morning.)

You have absolutely no idea what time it is, though the tavern is still rowdy. You imagine late, at least near the high moon if not into the early morning. Windblume was a celebration of drinking after all. Angel’s Share stays lively, despite the hour, though the drone of voices and folk songs becomes lost on you as your eyes slip shut.

Amongst the din, there’s a firm thud— the sound of wood on wood. Another sounds just after, though much closer and more shallow. You only make out the sound because of its old familiarity. The sound of the counter flap falling and straining its hinges. It must be one of the only pieces of original hardware from the old Angel’s share— the sound is identical to the one in your memory (maybe, you’re drunk, you may just be nostalgic—)

The barkeep (Charles, he told you his name though you didn’t give him yours) shuffles away, maybe, based on the thump of feet amongst the roar of the tavern. A shift change.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d show.” Kaeya’s hand leaves you. You can hear the grin in his voice.

There’s a huff from behind the bar. The clink of a glass. A squeak as it’s dried and shined with a rag.

“Do you think I’m unreliable?” 

Your eyes stretch open, wide, in a flash. Horrible, wretched familiarity (with the way a voice can bring you so much anguish and warmth in tandem.) You don’t look up. You stare down at the floorboards, count the grains and notches in the wood. Steady your breathing. 

You know that voice.

You look up, slowly, against all better judgment. If you were sober (Archons, if you were fucking sober—) you would’ve turned, held your eyes shut and ran out of the bar without looking back. You would’ve never dared to peak and pull the thread that dangled in front of you.

He’s blurry, but he’s there. A trim waist that leads up to broad shoulders, arms that bulge more than you remember, scarlet hair that falls in waves from a high-tied ribbon. Scarlet eyes, cut and polished like rubies. 

It’s Diluc, who meets your gaze for the first time in almost a decade. Just as shocked and wide-eyed as you are. 

The glass slips from his hands and shatters.

PART iii: the World (born)

You met Diluc Ragnvindr when you were just children, doing what children do best— playing while the adults talked.

Your parents— traveling merchants— and Crepus Ragnvindr sat down for wine and sweet rum after a lavish supper. Your parents shooed you off. They didn’t need you clinging to their legs while trying to discuss the intricacies of a potential (and lucrative) contract with Dawn Winery and its splendid dandelion wine.

Crepus takes you under his wing a bit, showing your parents to a fine vintage and you to his two boys.

“They like to play in the vineyard this time of day,” Crepus says, a bit wistful. He leads you by the hand. “The crystalflies soar lower when the sun dips beyond the hills, and the fireflies come out.”

You like fireflies.

He shows you out to the courtyard, and you catch sight of two boys scampering around amongst the greenery. Crepus calls them and they both dutifully bound over, the way young boys do, enthusiastic and fast. The one with the pretty blue hair follows the one with the pretty red hair.

Crepus introduces you. Kaeya. Diluc.

Diluc has round cheeks and a soft jaw. He carries baby fat still, pudgy in his arms and legs and round in his belly. His cheeks are flushed with the late summer’s heat and a day of play. He has a brush of freckles over the bridge of his nose and cheeks. His hair is shorter than it will become, but long enough that you think your mother would envy him.

His eyes widen when he sees you. You’ll never be sure why.

(Kismet turned for him earlier, maybe. All it took was you.)

You spend the evening with your side wedged into Diluc's, watching the lazy flight of anemo crystalflies by the water. You tell the boys about the constellations you know, and make up a few that you don’t. You trace them in the sky with the tip of your pointer finger. You ask to braid Diluc’s hair and he lets you. 

Crepus finds you all, just after dusk, dozing as the fireflies begin to dance.

...

Your family visits the winery several times each year. You enjoy the visits immensely. You’ve grown quite close to the Ragnvindr’s, and Kaeya too. You always barrel off your family’s wagon, running ahead of them to greet the boys, who are always waiting for you too.

You play swords with them, though you aren’t any good at it. You always bring them trinkets from wherever you and your family have been. You like to gift Crepus a book or two as well, though you don’t know what they’re about. You choose them based on the covers.

Diluc lights up when you hand him a little shell from Liyue’s shore. You tell him about the cliffs where you found it, and how you’ll go there together some day. You’ll show him the geometric columns of stone that seem to climb all the way to Celestia. You will show him where the sand bars become one with the sea, and how to dig for crabs and shells with your bare hands. 

Diluc likes you, you think. He always lets you slip into his room after the manor has fallen asleep. You sit across from one another on the velvet window bench. You hug a pillow while he tells you about how he’ll start training as a knight soon. He holds a vision now— he pats it with pride. 

(He tells you how he obtained his vision in your absence. The first time he picked up a sword against an adversary, it appeared to him. It’s a grand thing, brave. He was protecting one of his favorite stray winery kittens from a boar near the edge of the property. He raised his rubber training sword and he was granted Celestia’s blessing.)

You think he’s lovely.

...

The boys start training with Ordo Favonius. They practice with the Gunnhildr girl, the older one, who wears a ribbon in her hair and has eyes like midday sky. She’s a few years older than you, and intimidates you with her maturity, but she’s kind. 

The older knights let you watch their training when your family visits. You post up during their drills, watch their forms, their blunders, and their successes. A knight named Varka always takes Diluc aside to teach him how to best wield his vision with his weapon of choice. 

(A greatsword. A claymore. It’s almost your size, probably. The one Diluc uses during training is Favonius issued, smithed with their crest near the base of the blade. You know the one he’ll really use. A family relic that Crepus brought up from storage for him— a rectangular blade, metal cast in black and red, with an elaborate furl stretching from the hilt. Crepus asks Diluc to wield it when he’s ready.)

Kaeya offers you his sword, one day, at the end of training. The junior knights soak in their own sweat as you take the blade from Kaeya. The knights make it look so effortless to wield such weaponry. They carry it at the hip like it's an accessory and not carved metal. When you wrap your hand around it, the weight shocks you. You barely heft it up, struggling with the balance of it. The trainees rib you a bit for it, and it makes you blush hot and hard.

Diluc scolds Kaeya, taking the blade from you when it's clear that brandishing it one-handed as intended is close to impossible for you. You feel some relief when Kaeya takes it back and shrugs. 

“You won’t have to worry about wielding a weapon like that— ever.” Diluc says on your way home (home, home, home, it’s becoming your home—) that day. “Especially a sword.”

“Why?” You ask.

“I’ll make sure you never have to.”

“Hm... what if I want to?” You try to be cheeky with him.

He gives you a playful shove and you bump into Kaeya. The latter groans and makes a choking sound.

“You don’t,” Diluc replies, flashing you a smile. “If you did, you would’ve played swords with Kaeya and I more when we were little. You always liked to watch.”

“It’s more fun that way!” You hip check him. “It’s interesting to see all of it, rather than participate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Kaeya chimes in. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with how weak your arms are.” 

He squeezes your bicep and you shriek at him, chasing him ahead down the path. You squabble all the way home (home, home, home), rolling down the hills back into the Winery’s valley. You belly laugh together, tears in your eyes. It’s good. 

You only go silent when you notice your family’s wagon, packed and ready for departure, idling in front of the winery. 

...

You don’t travel well, you never have. 

Your parents had informed Crepus of this during your first visit (“Never well, even when my wife my pregnant— the little thing gave her the hardest time on the road.”) Despite this, you had always meandered with your family on their circuit from Liyue to Mond. 

One of your visits to the winery, just around the turn of your childhood to adolescence, you fall ill.

Your parents brush off your complaints upon arrival. Chills, aches, and a cough— “It’s from the rain. Your clothes are still damp.”. Your usually lively arrival was dulled. You barely touched the dinner Crepus provided before retiring to your favored room.

You hate being sick. You hate how your gut churns and you feel so cold, despite the fire one of the maid’s stoked in the big fireplace. You sniffle and snot over the back of your hand, fighting tears. You fall ill so frequently, but it doesn’t make it easier. Even your softest clothes feel scratchy against your tender skin— you feel horribly breakable. 

There’s a gentle knock on your door before it opens. Diluc joins you by your bedside, kneeling, watching you with wide ruby eyes.

“My father told me you’re sick,” he says gently. “You don’t look well.”

You give him a wilted look. “It happens.”

“... It shouldn’t,” Diluc says with a conviction that your fever forces you to miss. “He says that you get sick often.”

“I don’t travel well.” You parrot what you heard your parents say a thousand times, to innkeepers and merchant-folk alike. “It’s alright, Diluc. I’ll be well in a few days.”

Your teeth chatter. You bury yourself deeper in the covers.

Diluc looks unconvinced. He disrobes as much as is proper, and asks quietly if he can join you. He’s warm, from his pyro vision, he tells you. He can see how cold you feel.

Whether he had such a vision or not, you would’ve said yes.

You pull away the duvet, inviting Diluc closer. It’s innocent, a sharing of heat. You press your forehead to his chest and he lets his arms fall naturally to your waist. It cages you. It feels safe and warm, and you don’t think you’ve felt that before.

You give him the smallest ‘thank you’, voice burnt and charred with fever. Diluc chases off the chill and embers alike, replaces them with the hearth that he will become to you, and you think that kismet might’ve shifted for you then, too. 

...

You leave, a few days later, still sick. 

You return, several months later, still sick.

Whatever cold you had during your last visit had metastasized— or so your parents say. They seem moderately unconcerned as they sort through the inventory they’ll be taking for their run.

Crepus doesn’t look convinced. 

Diluc helps you inside. You barely hold yourself on two feet, and need to stop and catch your breath several times. Kaeya loops his arm over your neck and Diluc hoists you by the waist, and the two nearly drag you to your room. 

A doctor is called, a healer from Mond that knows the Ragnvindr’s well. Diluc and Kaeya stay by your side as the healer draws up tincture and grinds down herbs and oils into a soft balm to slather on your chest. 

Diluc lays with you in bed again that night, over the covers, not daring to touch you. You seem so fragile, only half-there in the room with him. He resents your parents horribly for allowing you to carelessly decline in such a state. It shows in the way his expression twists into a scowl whenever they’re within his vicinity.

...

Crepus offers his home to you— no, rather he insists.

You’re still ill, lungs gunky and fever hardly waned, by the time your family deigns it time to leave. They plan to cart you along, never mind your condition. Diluc, if he had less restraint, would’ve cursed them out in the winery’s foyer. 

(The wet sound of your breathing. The little whimpers when your fever spiked, signaling that it was time for more of the tincture the healer left behind. The way you balled your fist in his nightshirt during the worst of it.)

Crepus says it’ll be no trouble to house you, for however long you need. You’ve always taken to the winery easily, and clearly need a stable place to recover from your illness. He enjoys taking in a stray or two. One more, especially one he thinks so fondly of and that he knows his boys adore, is simply a blessing, not a burden.

...

Diluc ascends to cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius just around the time that you make a full recovery. 

It takes months— for both of you. Diluc patrols and trains with the knights when he’s not by your side. He’s incredibly well-regarded by Mond, beloved by his fellow knights and the townsfolk as well. He has ample support from all around, and his father glows with pride. 

(Diluc bears the weight of his father’s expectations well. You don’t even notice Diluc squirm under the pressure of it. It all seems to come naturally to him— being a hero.)

You see your healer every few days, drink your teas and diligently rest while you recover. The illness sticks in your lungs and you take to reading up on medicinal plants and potential treatments. It gives you some understanding of the remedies that your healer makes for you. Your healer finds you promising, despite your sickly state, and offers you an apprenticeship, if you choose to pursue such a profession.

It’s success after success, a time bathed in thick gold sun that feels as warm as it tastes.

You and Diluc dance at his ascension celebration. He holds you by the waist, clumsy like the young man he is, but you don’t mind. You loop your arms over his shoulders, memorizing the blush that paints his cheeks, and the dimples that carve them. You twirl him under your arm and laugh up to the sun and moon alike. You pull the ribbon from his hair so it unfurls over his shoulder. You run your hands through it without a care.

(Diluc looks at you, when you’re not looking at him, with such a reverence. You can’t see it yet, but it’s a burgeoning thing. Love and devotion caramelized by innocence, by want and need intertwined. He doesn’t know how to say how he feels, not yet; the feelings are still loose and undefined. But smoldering kindling he is.)

...

Crepus offers his home to you, permanently. You have taken to it so well, and his boys— his boys adore you. The staff does. You have so much growing for you in Mond, it seems silly to pack up your belongings small and tight so you can ride out on merchants circuit once more. Only to return sick once more.

You accept, hesitant at first. It’s a scary thing to give up the life you’ve known, even if the one Crepus extends to you is far more comfortable. Your parents have no qualms. You think they enjoyed your absence too much. They seem content to leave you at Dawn Winery, promising to continue their circuit, so you’d see them a few times a year.

It makes something in your ache and cry, but there’s many things to balm it in the manor. A warm fire and Adelinde’s recipes, along with whatever new tarts and sweets Crepus brings home from Mondstadt proper— they all make it easier. Good company too. Kaeya always has new ideas for schemes and little adventures. Crepus brings you gifts and makes sure you’re settling in well to your new space. Diluc is ever-dutifully at your side, whatever the circumstance, and you at his. 

You still sneak into Diluc’s room in the late night. You nestle up, side by side, on his plush window bench. You link pinkies and talk about everything.

...

“I thought this one was a bit boring.” You look up to Diluc, backwards, craning your neck. “The love interest was a bit shallow for me.”

“I agree,” Diluc answers from above you. He shuts the book deftly with one hand. “This author’s pieces usually have a bit more depth to them. This one was a bit flat.”

You tend to come to the same conclusion on the stories you share.

The Small Study (ow, ow, ow, ow) is a room most near Crepus’ wing of the manor. It’s exactly as it sounds— a small study. Something Diluc’s mother made sure was constructed for him, prior to her leaving. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the walls, with a long table slicing the room in two. When you were young, very young, you, Diluc, and Kaeya would sit at the table and write your own stories. Color with paints that Crepus bought for you from Snezhnaya on recycled receipts and old ledgers. 

These days, the table is mostly bare and a bit dusty. You use it more than Diluc, though most of your studying with your teacher happens at their cottage, in Mond proper. Diluc and Kaeya have a training room a few doors down, one that Crepus constructed, with mats and straw targets, and more armaments than Ordo Favonius probably knows about. 

Most of your time in the Small Study is spent in the corner, tucked close to each other. You have amassed an impressive number of spare sheets, pillows, and blankets, and have constructed what could only be called a nest. You and Diluc take to lounging on it in the mornings and evenings, when you both have the time. You read together. Sometimes you aloud to him, and sometimes him aloud to you.  

Diluc’s voice has taken to breaking lately. You find it adorable and can’t help teasing him about it.

“I’ll have to hunt for a new novel at the markets today.” You sigh. The sun is rising above the cliffs, bathing the shelves and columns of dust ichor gold. You throw your hand up, watching the beam soak your skin warm.

Diluc catches your wrist and brings the back of your hand to his lips. 

Little things, skinship, he likes. He never says anything much about it, only asks quietly if it's alright that he keeps such proximity to you. You eat it up, his heat, his presence— you want all of it. You’re gluttonous in your youth (you have yet to know starvation.)

“Be careful on patrol today, okay? I’m helping Adelinde make that sweet bread you like before I visit Teacher.” You huff, maneuvering to you’re at his eye level. You tug his cheek, still soft with baby fat. “You better not have any extra bruises when I pick you up today.”

“I’ll try.” He rolls his eyes. “Even if I do, you’ll patch me up, won’t you?” 

“I could have Teacher do it,” you huff. “I know you don’t like how rough they can get with you.”

Diluc scoffs, “They don’t like me—”

“They like you plenty—” 

You squabble, soft in your chests, because it's all easy and slow. The romance novel gets tucked away into an overflowing shelf, bulging with others that you’ve already finished. 

Kaeya is shining his blade in the armory, and you collect him before heading to Mondstadt proper. It’s a routine, each day, one that you enjoy and cling to. You enjoy your training and you feel only pride seeing your boys bud and grow in their strength. You fight, like young ones of your age do, but it's all in jest. Simple. Your squabbles get settled with wrestling by the river or when Crepus intervenes and fathers the three of you.

It’s good and you never want it to end.

...

Diluc grows into himself. He’s gangly in his teen years— long arms and bulging shoulder blades he’s yet to grow into. The pudge he’d had around his belly has disappeared, sucked away by a growth spurt or two. He grows a bit more into his frame, each year closer to adulthood that he gets. Muscle building on muscle. 

Teacher says you’re doing well with your studies. You pour over books on medicinal herbs and medical techniques during the day, and watch Teacher heal when patients are around. You become adept enough to see patients on your own, for small injuries. 

You fix up Diluc whenever he comes home to you. Cuts. Bruises. The odd fracture or two. He’s the person you ever stitch a wound together for. He doesn’t flinch. So trusting.

...

Crepus gets odd, at some point. You’re almost old enough to be considered an adult. He starts asking you questions you know the answer to, but it seems like he’s seeking something other than the truth. Sentiments that he wants to squeeze out of you, to satiate something in him that you can clearly see, but don’t know how to name.

(He’s a businessman— is it in his nature to be greedy—?)

(Forget. Forget. Forget.)

...

You wish it had stayed so kind and good for longer. You wish you appreciated it more, but you didn’t fully understand the goodness laid before you until it was so brutally ripped away from you. 

The night Diluc turns eighteen, your world shatters. Burns. Immolates while you lay drunkenly dozing in a friend's warm bed. You don’t greet the wreckage until you awaken. Alone, drowning and with a new pang in your stomach.

PART iii: the stitch the wound the burning

You instantly slam your hands on the bartop. You whip your head around to Kaeya. He wears a wide, awful grin. So fucking smitten with himself.

You hate him. 

“Fuck you,”  you snap. 

You push up, knocking the bar stool over with a bang. You turn on a heel and run from the tavern. Wordless.

(You run. You should’ve run. You should’ve never come back. Ever.)

You know the display caused enough of a ruckus that Angel’s Share fell nearly silent as you left. You know that your vision shuddered out of your control, sending dendro to liven the flowers around the tavern. It felt sick. To know that the blooms would be wider and more beautiful while you ran. Running, running, running. 

Lisa and Jean, maybe, shout your name as you sprint away. You ignore them— you have to. The temptation to turn back and face them drowns in the wine that churns in your stomach. Your breath feels too hot and heavy in your lungs, like lead and steam. You feel like you might die.

(Diluc in the same room as you. Diluc in front of you.  Not a ghost, a breathing body. Flesh. He would’ve been a bit too warm, to the touch. You know him to be. He’d grown so much— how much had you missed? Archons, you miss him—)

You barely get out of Mondstadt proper before you bracing yourself on one its outer walls, forcing your finger down your throat, and heaving your guts out onto the high grass. All of the splendid wine you sampled color the ground blood red, surely staining your lips. Tears drip from your lash line. You feel sticky as you draw your fingers from your throat, spit and dribble sliding down your wrist. 

You curse and shake. 

You wipe your hands down on your trousers and scrub at your lips with the edge of your sleeve. You spit pretty scarlet and nearly hurl again.

The sun has set, and the dark is a comfort. It cloaks you, allowing you to duck easily between shadows and firelight that other travelers warm themselves by. No one looks at you twice. You’re sure you seem like a drunkard, not— Not whatever you are. You drag yourself back to your campsite.

You fall to the ground, drawing up your good leg by the knee and press your forehead to it.

Fuck.

Fuck the healer. Fuck Windblume. Fuck seeing any friends or familiar faces. You discard the plans, crushing them down until you decide they’re not worth it. None of this was worth it. If you’d only ducked in and out of Mondstadt’s market, you wouldn’t have met Lisa. Gotten twisted up with Kaeya. Dared to enter Angel’s Share. Seen Diluc.

You knew the mere sight of him would send you. You knew. You feel foolish. Stupid. If you were a fraction more sober, you would’ve dragged yourself out of self pity and set up camp for the night. Instead you stew. You swallow back dread and bile and clutch your shoulders.

(You always knew this was a risk, coming back here, didn’t you? That’s why you never dared to even get near Mondstadt’s borders. Now you’ve done it.)

You certainly have.

You rub your eyes again, grimacing at the taste in your mouth. Forcing yourself up is a task, especially trying to keep weight off of your (now very) bad foot. You struggle to balance, propping yourself up on a pile of discarded crates and get to work setting up your campsite for the night. You resolve to sleep until dawn, pack up, and be on your way. You’ll head back to Liyue and catch a boat out of the harbor. You’ll go anywhere. Do anything. 

(To be far away from here.)

You struggle with your tent and tarp. It’s infinitely harder to set up your sleeping arrangements when you’re hobbling around on one leg. Emptying your stomach of its content has made you lightheaded (or, it's the panic that is thick and porous in your blood. Burrowing into your flesh. Will you even be able to sleep tonight?) You fight to keep your breath steady as you struggle to stake the tarp into the dirt.

Someone says your name from behind you. Breathes it like it's lighter than air, weighted like a gospel.

You turn, for the second time, against better judgment.

Diluc stands above you, wearing the same shocked expression he had in Angel’s Share. 

Your lips twist, your brow falls. You feel yourself sink. It’s the same feeling you get in your stomach when you’re put toe-to-toe with an adversary out in the wilderness. It’s the feeling you get when you get a patient a little too late and can’t be sure if you’ll be able to drag them back from the brink.

You breathe his name right back.

“... You’re here,” he says. His voice has evened out. Deeper than you remember, and rougher, but barely.

“I am,” you answer as neutrally as you can. You school your expression and turn back to your tarp. “Please leave.”

Diluc doesn’t answer. He’s frozen above you, so close that you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. 

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Diluc says, like a demand and not a request.

You bristle.

“I’m setting up my camp for the night,” you state plainly. “Then I will be sleeping. I will be gone by dawn tomorrow. I apologize for any disruption I caused at... at Angel’s Share.”

You press your hands over the top of a nail. The iron digs into your palms. You shove at it anyway, until it’s snug against the earth.

“I don’t care about that,” Diluc replies with an edge to his voice that’s unfamiliar. “That’s not of consequence.”

“... Then why are you here?” You crawl across the ground, brace yourself on a crate, and stand. Your weak foot hovers just off the ground. “Why follow me, Diluc? I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You say his name like it's a curse and face him.

(And it’s like coming home.)

(If you had any less of yourself, you would’ve sank into the earth and wept.)

“I don’t,” he says. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. You see him struggle with his words, chewing on the inside of his cheek, just like he used to. “You left so quickly, and Kaeya—”

“Bastard,” you spit. 

Diluc muffles a laugh (a full sound so lovely— you used to do anything to hear it). “He didn’t tell you I would be bartending, I’m assuming?”

“He told me, expressly, that you would not be bartending.” 

“... It is my tavern. Windblume is the busiest time of the year.” He looks a bit wounded. You can’t tell if you’re imagining it. “Kaeya sent word that Ordo would be at Angel’s Share in full force this evening. My presence was called.”

You scowl, “I realize that now.”

Diluc sighs, deep and hard and full, “You left so quickly, and Kaeya told me you were most likely staying outside of the city. I was... worried.”

You let out a breath through your teeth, maybe a laugh, some unholy thing and you shake your head. You can’t bear to look at him for too long, “Well, I’m fine. Promise. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Clearly.”

“And you weren’t expecting to see me?”

“No.” Diluc sighs. “I... No. I wasn’t.”

You don’t know what else to say to him. 

“Go.” You shoo him off. “I need to finish setting up and get some sleep. Sorry again for causing any trouble.”

You turn away, going to reach for your tent—

Diluc grabs your upper arm. He keeps you steady and upright.

“You didn’t.”

The contact burns. Sears through you like you’re just gossamer and old silk. You tense with it. When did his heat become unfamiliar?

You open your mouth, part your lips just barely, but nothing comes out. Your mind empties.

“Come back to the winery.”

His words cut you from any of your reverie. Your grief forces itself up in plumes, from the base of your spine to the corners of your damp eyes.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You tear away from him. 

He lets you go. (You suffocate the part of you that mourns the loss.) 

“It’s not safe outside the walls.” He takes a step back. Breathing room. “There’s no lodging available in the city, I’m sure you found.”

“I did, and I’m fine out here, Diluc. I can protect myself just fine.” You pat the dendro Vision on your hip. Your weapon remains unsummoned and out of sight.

“It’s going to rain.” Diluc frowns. “And, your tent is torn.”

He gestures behind you, and sure enough, a massive tear runs through an entire side of your tent. You hadn’t noticed. 

(If you will not go where you are supposed to be, perhaps fate will push you there? Align the stars and cosmos just right—)

“I recall that you never enjoyed camping,” Diluc says and it's like a knife to the chest. The idea that he remembers anything about you. “You’ll have a bed for as long as you’d like.”

“Diluc—” You’re near to cursing him out, let the Archons, Celestia and the damn Stars hear it—

“I’m sure Adelinde would love you to see you too.”

Oh.

Oh— Adelinde. When was the last time you sent her a letter? Or read one of hers? You have a stack of them, sealed with purple wax and bound in twine, shoved in your bag. Among your most prized possessions. You’ve hardly let the ink smudge, despite time and condition.

“... She still works for you?”

“Of course.” Diluc’s voice sounds strained. 

“Elzer too?” You ask.

“Yes, he’s been at my side since—”

“Since you came back to Mondstadt,” you answer for him. “Since you returned to the winery.”

Elzer had been at your side too, when you were running the winery in Diluc’s absence. Same with Adelinde.

Archons, you miss them. 

“I’ll stay at the winery,” you say after a beat. “So I can see them.”

Diluc lets out a sigh, shaky and short. He flexes his hands, open and closed. Relieved. The moment of vulnerability passes.

“Will you be able to walk there with—” He gestures to your foot.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” You put weight on it, swallowing down any pain. You can bear it. 

Diluc offers his arm, and you refuse it, striding past him. 

You walk side by side back to Dawn Winery.

...

It does begin to drizzle, eventually. Nothing close to proper rain, but a thick mist that dampens your hair and clothes. The chill of it sinks into you, unpleasant but not unbearable. You cling to the discomfort of it. You and Diluc do not speak to each on the way back, other than the time or two you announce you need a short rest for your foot.

Fatigue hits you as you stumble down the valley paths leading into the winery’s main grounds. 

You blame the wine. 

The front door looks almost the same, perhaps the wood refinished. Diluc pulls forth a shining brass key (different, than the one that you had during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. That key was thick, old iron. Rusting at its corners. It always felt cold and heavy. An entire year it was tied to you. Tethered to your waist on the very same belt that now holds your vision.)

The lock was replaced.

The interior of the winery is different too, you find. It makes stepping inside less jarring— the floors, once dark, long-planked hardwood, has been redone to intricate patterns of lighter, warm-toned wood. Less candles, more electro-powered fixtures set into the walls and ceiling. The couches look different, brighter and fluffier with fresh cushions. Even the grand carpet that covers the main room, bearing the Ragnvindr crest, appears to have been freshened. Maybe even re-tuffed. It’s generally brighter.

“You’ve... updated things.” Your voice trails off as you shrug off your cloak and hang it on your arm. 

Diluc follows your line of sight to a new tapestry on the east-wall. Not of the family crest, but the vineyard. It’s far more ornate than any you remember; you can see the metallic gold weavings shine, even in the lowlight. The tapestry is ringed by paintings, portraits and some landscapes. You recall Crepus commissioning many of them, or creating them himself. There’s a number of new photographs as well.

“I have over the years,” Diluc replies. “It was necessary.”

You hum, pausing. “... I like it. It’s nice.”

It’s nice because it doesn’t feel quite as much like you’re walking into a still-breathing cadaver. You expected to be greeted with an interior you had seared in your memory. Corners you’d still see ghosts in, picture frames that were askew that you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to fix. You know which floorboards were creaky and which windows had the worst draft. 

This version of Dawn Winery from your memory doesn’t exist anymore, in any way or facet. What’s left certainly isn’t blank or void, but it’s more unfamiliar than you expected. It smells like rose oil and beeswax rather than cedar and tobacco. 

“Master Diluc? You’re back earlier than expected.”

Adelinde breaks you from your stupor. 

She looks much the same— the same uniform, though perhaps her hair’s a bit shorter? There’s new wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, sun spots around her forehead and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are still kind. They go wide when she sees you, and the mug she’s holding nearly slips from her grip.

Your chest tightens.

She says your name and it’s like you’ve been cut through. Flesh parting around a sharp blade. 

“Hi.” Your voice sounds soft and so much more broken than you can accept it is. 

“Welcome home.” She smiles, all the way up to her eyes.

If you were a little more weak, perhaps a few months more weathered— you would’ve broken then. You would’ve fallen apart in the foyer of Dawn Winery, drowning and hungry and soaked to the bone in something colder than rain water. You hold yourself together, barely, thin threads wound around you to the point of constricting keep you upright. Sure-footed. Almost-whole.

But, Adelinde knows... doesn’t she? She must. She has an uncanny ability for these things. It’s because she watched you grow, watched your toils and supported you. Mothered you when needed. You counseled and consoled each other, during the worst of it.

It makes you feel less guilty, less ashamed, when you nearly throw yourself at her. You wrap your arms around her shoulders and smother your face in her shoulder.

Adelinde hugs you in kind. She still smells like pine-cleaner and that jasmine perfume she imports. She wraps you, in herself, squeezing so hard you’re afraid she’ll undo the strings binding your heart together. 

“H-How have you been?” you ask. Tears sting your eyes.

She strokes the back of your head, through your hair. “I’ve been well. And you?”

You smush your face into her shoulder. You don’t know what to say to her. Instinctual honesty climbs up in your throat— you suppress it. 

“I’ve been better,” you say, softly. You hope only she can hear. “Excited to sleep in a real bed. Take a bath.”

Adelinde goes still, slack— then she almost crushes you. You feel her heartbeat and your lip wobbles.

“I’m glad you’re home, then. Let me fetch you a cup of tea. I’ll make sweet bread in the morning.”

“T-That sounds nice. Thank you.”

Diluc, who has been silent and watchful, clears his throat. “They can take whichever room they like.”

“I’ll prepare the west wing guest room.” (Far from your old bedroom.) She whispers to you. “There was a Fontainisian merchant we were hosting— she left all of her luxury skincare and bath supplies here.”

You pull away, narrowing your eyes, “Are you implying something?”

“Not at all.” She gives you a good-natured smile. “They’re yours. Let’s get you settled.”

You nod and she guides you with a hand on your lower back, up the stairs, to the west wing. Diluc has made himself scarce, seemingly disappearing into thin air to the northern wing of the manor. You only half notice.

Archons, you’re tired.

Adelinde helps you settle in. She sets your bag on a vanity stool, shows you a newly renovated bathroom with a tub that could easily fit you and a Rishboland tiger in it. The rest of the details of the room fade. Something stickier and older than fatigue works its way up through your bone marrow, leaving your body as a yawn.

Adelinde gives you a sympathetic smile when she brings you a cup of lavender and chamomile tea. 

The world is blurry when you crash into the pillows. They smell like the herbal detergent you suckered Crepus into buying during your teen years. Diluc liked it. Whatever potential revulsion you could have has wilted with your exhaustion. Instead, something warm brews in you. You shove your nose into the silken case. The feeling is good. You don’t mind it. 

(Fuck, maybe you even need it.)  

...

You sleep for three days. 

You don’t mean to, and it’s not continuous. You rise for your promised sweet bread, tea, and a much-need, thorough bath. You’ve spent the past few months using communal bath houses or washing in rivers and lakes, quick and rarely relaxing. You indulge in the massive, stone tub for a private soak that leaves you pruney and smelling like rose oil and Natlani bright grass. 

The position of the sun feels arbitrary. You just sleep. Like the fucking dead. No dreams, thank the gods. Thick curtains keep your room dark and you relish every moment. You hadn’t realized how deeply fatigue had woven itself into you. You’d become so acclimated to exhaustion, it only hit you when you finally had a (safe and) quiet place to sleep with no end date. 

Adelinde brings an armful of clothes at some point. (“We put these in storage, when you left. I’m sure some still fit.”) Some do, thankfully, and you’re grateful to have more than four garments, especially when they go together. It’s nostalgic to slip into skirts and trousers you haven’t worn in so long, and you decide they’ll suffice. Unideal, but comfortable. 

The tiredness is an odd blessing. You feel too blurry and foggy to really pick apart your feelings. All of them. You’re aware of the knot that’s formed somewhere between your ribs and gut (or rather, revealed itself), and you ignore it for as long as you are able to. No one comes to you except Adelinde, who never presses you. 

(You don’t know what you would do if she did. Adelinde knows discretion, she knows wounds and scrapes and bruises, and knew yours once. Well and thoroughly. You think she can see all of your ills now too.)

(You’re glad she doesn't pry at you. In your moments between wakefulness and sleep, you tend to dream more loosely. You imagine what you might say to Diluc, had you... the opportunity without damage. What would you say to him? The you that’s mostly a dream screams at him sometimes. Enraged. Sometimes you cry, asking questions that neither your sleeping or waking mind has answers for. They’re not... unfamiliar dreams, but they’re unwelcome. They’re more vivid now that you’re staying in the Winery.)

They feel more real. Diluc is only rooms away at any given time.

(He’s not a specter.)

On the third day, you awake midday to a frantic knock on your door. Adelinde, you assume. Stumbling from bed, and pull on a dressing gown and nothing more, and pull open the heavy oak door—

It’s Diluc. Of course it is. In working trousers and a loose, white top. Dirt stains his knees and the tips of his fingers. Pretty red hair spills from its loose tie, bouncy with a fresh wash. He tenses, when he sees you. Fists balling at his sides and shoulders going rigid.

Your jaw locks and the air in your lungs suddenly feels heavy and too hot. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you gather up the satin of your robe before it has a chance to slip down to the crook of your elbow. 

(Just seeing him sends you. Into a rage. Into a fit of grief. The visage of him forces you to reckon with something more awful and sticky and molten than you know what to do with.)

(You wish it was more avoidable.)

You freeze.

Your several days of rest afforded you the time to... ignore Diluc. Hide from him, and the knot that you desperately don’t want to unravel. Despite sleeping in one of his beds and eating his food, you need distance. It feels like you’ll explode if you don’t have it.

“The child of one of the vineyard workers is injured,” Diluc says, maybe a little out of breath. “Can you take a look?”

“Of course,” you reply without hesitation. A hurt child takes precedence over most things.

The child and his mother sit in Diluc’s foyer, you can hear them as you approach. The girl sniffles and clings to her mothers sleeve with one hand, the other limp in her lap. One of her legs splays the wrong way, equally limp. 

You approach easily, introducing yourself. The air has an edge of crisis to it, but you wade through it easily. If anything, it’s comfortingly familiar. To be calm and confident in the face of serious injury or illness is often medicine in and of itself. 

You set your large, leather-bound caboodle beside you and take to the floor. Your Tselostnyy insignia is pinned to the outside. The mother’s eyes dart to it as she pets over her daughter’s hair, and she relaxes at the sight of it. A qualified stranger, you are.

The mother is younger, someone before your time as the Winery’s temporary master which is a relief. Diluc lingers behind you, watching you work, probably.  You attempt not to care.

You scooch forward, on your knees, knitting your fingers together and hover them over your patient. You focus on the spiral of dendro through muscle and bone, reading the injury:

Two clean breaks. Closed fracture of the left ulna. Closed fracture of the left femur.

It’s a miracle that the child isn’t shrieking in her mother’s lap. 

“How did you get hurt?” you ask the child directly. 

She sniffles. “I f-fell outta’ the big tree by the water. I was trying to climb it.”

Her mother almost scolds her, but you beat her to speaking. “That’s a hard tree to climb. The oaks by the stables are much easier.”

It’s just a slip of the tongue, to be so familiar.

You turn to the child and school a smile on your lips. “I’ll be able to heal your injuries with my Vision. You’ll get some medicine as well, and it needs to be stirred into juice. Do you have a favorite kind?”

The child looks unsure, and her mother answers for her: “She likes apple best.”

“Apple, master of the house.” You wave a hand behind you. “Can you fetch some?”

“Of course,” Diluc answers without missing a beat and you hasten him away.

Knitting your fingers together once more, you begin to work on her injuries. The child is holding up quite well, despite the immense pain she must be in. You work quickly regardless, but keep in mind you do have the luxury of time. There’s no one more broken or more sick just beyond her who needs to be treated as well.

Dendro sews together her bones. Encourages new flesh and muscle to grow where it is needed. 

When Diluc returns, you instruct him further, gaze never straying from the knitting bones, “Take the third vial from the right on the top row of oils, will you? Stir half a dropper into the juice and stir for a minute. If you see oil on the top, keep going.”

“What’s the medicine for?” The girl asks. 

“Relaxation and sleep,” You reply softly. “This type of healing is very effective, but it takes a lot of energy out of the person who is being healed. You’ll be tired once I’m all done, but you may have trouble resting since your body is still reacting to the shock of your injuries.”

The mother lets out a sigh of relief. Perhaps too wordy of an explanation for a child, but her mother seems grateful for it. 

When the child’s healed into proper pieces again, you unknit your fingers and fall back on your heels. Diluc wordlessly passes the goblet of well-mixed apple juice to the child, who shakily gulps it town. The medicine doesn’t have much of a taste, more of an oily texture to it that requires it to be drunk quickly after being mixed. The juice must be from one of Diluc’s best stashes because the child beams after chugging it.

“... That’s it?” She asks. 

You nod and crack your knuckles, now stiff. “That’s it.”

“... Nothing else?” 

“Nope.” You crack your neck. “Other than the fatigue, but a few extra hours of sleep should remedy that. She’ll be back to normal after a nap.”

“Thank you,” The mother says and your chest feels sticky and warm. “I know that Barbara from the Church has similar skills with her Vision, but I’ve never seen healing like yours. Mondstadt could use a physician like you, you know.”

The feeling goes cold, but you keep your smile. Bear it.

“I’m sure they do.” Teacher’s shoes hadn’t been filled, apparently. And you’d departed to the Tselostnyy School and never returned. 

The mother and her child give more thanks before leaving and you keep your facade up until they’re out the door. The girl’s no doubt ruffled still, even with the light sedative. The mother frazzled. The last thing you’d want to do is burden them with your own misplaced ire. They can’t know. They wouldn’t know.

Diluc, however—

He’s been the silent spectator to this whole affair. He idles by the couches and the hearth, arms crossed, still-dirtied from whatever vineyard work he’d been doing prior to fetching you. You’re sure he was working in the fields, heard the child shriek, and rushed to their aid. Typical.

Diluc stares at you like he could immolate you alive.

“You’re incredible.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the sentence doesn’t implode something in you. 

Your fists shake at your sides. “Hardly. It’s just my profession.”

Diluc works his jaw and considers his words. You note the way he looks stumped and lost. It’s not intentional, if you’re being honest— so there’s no harm in enjoying the way he stumbles to speak around you, is there?

(It’s only fair. Diluc had always been so sure-footed and sturdy with his words. To see him flounder now reminds you that he’s changed too. Something in him has paled and been mutilated, just like you. Two wounded. His suffering isn’t what you revel in, but the knowledge that he’s affected. Neither of you came out unscathed and you’ve spent the last years refusing to imagine how Diluc might’ve coped.)

“Will you have tea with me?” Diluc asks, the words ringing off the glass chandelier in minor key. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“I will.” 

...

Adelinde kindly brings you both tea, by the hearth and its embers. It’s served with a few small cakes and rounds of steaming sweet bread. Diluc takes his tea just as he did when he was young— a heavy dash of cream and a spoon and a half of sugar (“the half is very important” he had always said). Adeline leaves you a carafe of coffee and shoots you a gentle smile before leaving the two of you be.

You rest on one of the couches, leg pulled up beneath you and blow over the rim of your mug.

Diluc sits adjacent from you, in a resplendent mid-morning sun beam. The chair is high-backed, upholstered with the red and gold pattern of the Ragnvindr clan. He looks regal, like a king from the stories you used to read together. Sunlight halos the frizz in his hair and the dust that shifts around him.

He sits with one heel propped up on the opposite knee, cupping the tea cup from the bottom, unbothered by its heat.

(He’s pretty, just as beautiful as you remember. Maybe more so.)

It makes something in you feel rotten. You pick at your nails and curl over your core. 

He glances at you and you look away into the hearth, into the small flames that eat at the last of a birch log. 

Having Diluc in front of you is uncomfortable. Maybe worse than uncomfortable, as discomfort is bearable and the sensation crawling up from the back of your throat isn’t. It makes your skin itch and feel too tight. Your palms sweat. Maybe you want to puke.

(It’s dread, or something like it. Like just seeing him put you on a precipice you had convinced yourself didn’t exist.)

“When did you start drinking coffee?” Diluc asks, breaking you from your spiral. “If I recall correctly, you hated it. Too bitter for your palate, or something like that.”

Ah—

“In your absence. In the year I stayed here, when you left.” It’s the truth. “ Lots of paperwork. I got used to the flavor after a while.”

(You used to prefer tea, favoring some black variety that Crepus painstakingly imported from Natlan’s volcanic cliffs. The first time you tried to drink it following his passing, you retched it back into your cup.)

You both shift uncomfortably. 

“I see.” 

You pretend not to notice the way Diluc’s grip goes white-knuckled for a moment. Your chest feels tight, too tight, and you squirm under your skin. 

“I don’t know how to face you,” you blurt out. 

(You never thought you would have to.) 

Diluc looks away from you, into the fire. “If you don’t wish to ‘face me’, then you don’t have to.”

“Are you suggesting I simply ignore you?”

“If that’s what you would wish to do.”

“That’s not what I asked.” You frown, something burning between your ribs. 

Diluc chews on his words for a moment. “Allow me to clarify. I have no expectations of you while you’re staying within the Winery.”

“So, if I simply ate your food and slept in one of your beds, ignoring you, you’d be alright with that?”

“If that’s what you wish, then yes.”

(The answer hurts to hear. You refuse to think about why.)

“Alright.” You take a long sip of your coffee. You’re not sure when your stomach began to ache.

“You’re unsatisfied with that answer,” Diluc guesses.

“Entirely,” you reply. “You’re basing your wants off of mine. It’s bothersome.”

“It’s the truth. As I said—“

“You ‘have no expectations of me’,” you parrot. “Would you truly be satisfied if I didn’t speak to you at all while I’m here?”

Diluc chews the inside of his cheek (a new habit you don’t recognize). “My satisfaction isn’t of consequence.”

“Idiot,” You snap— you don’t mean to. “Of course it is. I don’t want to make this any more unbearable than it already is.”

“Do you think this is unbearable for me?” 

“… Yes?” You feel yourself shaking. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

(It’s worse than unbearable. The feeling in your chest is blooming, radiating out into your arms and legs, down to your hands. There’s a buzzing in the base of your skull.)

“I understand that it’s difficult for you to be here,” Diluc grits out. “I do not want to make that any worse by some expectation or assumption you think that I carry. If you wish to enjoy the festival and ignore me, that’s more than fine. If it would be easier for you to stay here and think of me as only some type of… concierge, I wouldn’t resent you for it.”

(You hate it. You hate him. You hate Diluc Ragnvindr endlessly, perhaps. You want to burn Dawn Winery to the ground.)

“Do you really think I could ever think of you as anything other than yourself?” You spit, intending to. “It’s insulting— a fucking affront to think that I could view you in such a way.”

“I don’t know how you view me.” Diluc’s voice wavers with what you can only assume to be anger. “I’m trying to make this easier for you.”

“In what way?!” You stand. “Do you think ignoring you would be easier for me?”

“I am making a well-intended inference based on the fact that you haven’t returned to Mondstadt for years.” Diluc stares at you like he wants to— “I am assuming you’d like to continue to ignore me, given that you’ve never given any indication otherwise.”

“… You’re the one who left first.” You spit the words, like how a sword cuts through air. “You’re the one who left and gave no ‘ indication’ of returning.”

Diluc swallows, thick and hard with a bob of his throat and he rises to his feet. You instinctively take a step back. He opens his mouth, then closes it with a snap of his teeth. The fire cracks and a log loses its structure, tumbling in the hearth with a flurry of embers.

He looks lost for words. You let loose a laugh, something awful and torn that you wish you could stuff back down your throat.

“Nothing to say?”

“It was a long time ago—“

“Ah, it’s irrelevant to you. I see.” Archons, you don’t want this. You should’ve never come back. It can’t be worth it, can it? It feels like your ribs are being broken, one by one. 

(How wretched it is, for him to have such a power over you.)

“Don’t twist my words.” Diluc rises, taking a step toward you. “I only meant to say—“

“I am well-aware of what you meant to say.” You want to vomit, maybe. “It was so long ago, so it’s easier, right? If I view you as nothing more than a doorman with a familiar face, and if you view me as a guest to be treated with pleasantries.”

(Let’s forget all the history. Etch a lie onto a slate that’s already been shattered beyond repair.)

Diluc’s expression twists. Your hands shake and you cross them over yourself, wrapping your arms over your own shoulders and squeezing. He looks… hurt. Gutted. 

“Do you think me cruel enough to ever think of you in such a way?”

“Yes, actually.” You laugh with a shake of your head. “Not even a letter, Diluc? Couldn’t even spare me a thought, could you?”

(Meanwhile, you clung to the hope that he’d arrive home through the front door of the Winery for months. How many did you sit in front of this very same hearth, wrapped in his old blankets and left-behind clothes and pray to any God who’d listen that Diluc would return?)

The admission guts Diluc. You can see it in his face, the way his expression tears open and he balls his fist and he almost seems to shake with it.

(Despite everything, it hurts to see him hurt.)

You step away, almost toppling into the couch. Diluc catches you by the arm with a lurch and keeps you upright. The contact burns like you’re too close to a roaring fire. You feel singed. 

“I can’t forget, Diluc.” You laugh, shudder in his grip and you feel the bits of you fray even further. “I— I don’t know. I’m sorry. I resent you. I hate you. I look at you and I’m struck by the feeling that I’m looking at a ghost.”

You watch Diluc’s jaw lock. “Pot, kettle.”

“Pardon?”

“You left Mond as well, dear.” Diluc says the pet name and then flushes. An old habit, unearthed by sparring. You maybe would swoon if you weren’t feeling light-headed. “You’re a ghost to me as well. Maybe something worse.”

“... Am I? ” you spit, writhing in your skin. 

His expression tightens and you see the hurt. A crack. His lip twitches and he stands. He has to look down at you and you feel the height. 

“Do you think I haven’t been haunted by you?”

Oh, it’s like being punched in the gut. You’re being flayed, surely, on his great room floor. If you’re not careful, your entrails will spill and you’ll die here. You’re sure. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“You’re impossible,” Diluc says, grip almost bruising. “Do you truly think I’m lying?”

(You don’t.)

You swallow and step away from him. The moment you pull against him, Diluc lets you go, and you stumble back. 

(You’re too frayed for this. Burnt. Cinders at a masquerade.)

“I need some time,” you say, fire in your voice is gone. You burn down so easily. “I’m sorry.”

Diluc stays silent for a moment. You can’t be sure what he’s thinking.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, before striding past you to his office. You hear the door nearly slam. 

＃ TIGHNARI !! ♡

Curious Prince Tighnari who sends you love letters tied round the neck of stout pigeons; their beaks tip-tapping ever so gently against the sunlit window you sit beneath, a novel page tucked between your fingers. It’s been little more than a few days since you last saw him in the castle garden, your skin awash in comforting moonlight, but he writes to you nonetheless in delicate, melancholic cursive. He tells you of the longing you leave deep within his chest; —of the many times his mind has drifted far away to a place you reside alongside him as he flips through books in the castle library.

You imagine he sat down to pen this in the early hours of the morning light, rolling it gently, tying it ever so gracefully with a bright red ribbon that sealed his deepest desires inside. He tells you of the nights he’s spent tossing and turning atop his silken sheets, restless and fitful as he yearns for your sobering warmth. To have you in my arms, he writes, is the sweetest dream of all. And it’s one that he can’t often have, —one that goes by much too fast when it comes around under a blue moon.

Ah, —but those nights are none too average. The flowers in his personally-maintained garden seem to glimmer in the moonlight and sway like graceful dancers in the breeze. He holds you close amongst the flora, under a sky dusted with glittering stars; ones he swears shimmer just for you. The fur of his ears, a tall, proud symbol of his nobility, tickles your cheek when you rest your chin on the crown of his head. Sometimes, you find yourself wondering if you deserve a lover with such a lavish lifestyle; —if all the discontent you fear from both sides of the tracks have valid points laced within their venom.

Your lover soothes your worries down like a cat licking at the staticy fur of its kitten. His angelic touch alights your skin as he whispers words of love and devotion into your ear until the fire inside you has been stoked to heights once thought impossible for your demeanor. 

Tighnari slips a de-thorned, ruby red rose just beneath the scarlet ribbon, sending it off to find you.

I vow to you, my darling blossom, that we will meet again before the final petal of this rose has fallen from the stem.

＃ DILUC !! ♡

Pensive Prince Diluc who knows too much and is none too thrilled about stepping into the position of King in less than a year’s time. He was once the prize of his family, the gem of his nation, —a young man everyone thought would make the perfect ruler one day. However, now that the day is fast approaching, it seems like Diluc is in a constant battle with his thoughts and often daydreams about waking up a different person; someone simpler and much less renowned.

When he lies next to you like this, Diluc feels perfectly ordinary. He’s not the soon-to-be King, nor the preppy young Prince of his glory days; —he’s simply yours. And you don’t ask of him things he cannot provide. Your lips feel like sundrops sent from heaven against his neck, peppering along the column of his throat until you capture his mouth in an ardent kiss. He hums ever so softly, a sound that resonates like royal instruments from the back of his throat.

“Y/n,” he breathes when you slowly pull away, your forehead coming down to rest against his own.

Somehow, you know the next words falling from his tongue will be apologies for things you’ve seldom concerned yourself with. His propensity for shouldering the blame of generations that came long before him is much too great a burden to bear, even for a young man of his valiant strength. Thus, you’ve vowed (in silence, of course) to shoulder that burden with him, if only from the shadows.

You’re quite used to darkness, after all. . . It’s here that he meets with you under the humble moon, stealing kisses from your supple lips. 

“Don’t,” you say softly, in a voice just above a whisper, “—there’s nothing to say sorry for.”

Ah, but you’re so wrong. He knows he should apologize for the very state of affairs as they are, as he sneaks you around like you’re some sort of criminal who swept in from a nearby kingdom to swipe his heart away. He knows he should apologize for all the times he’s passed you by without a second glance, as if you were little more than a stranger when you’d woken up in his bed the very same morning.

Diluc swallows his apology, instead whispering to you something much more profound, something akin to miraculous for such a simple lifetime.

“I love you.” 

＃ AYATO !! ♡

Dutiful Prince Ayato who falls for you so deeply between lessons and hours-long studying sessions; seeking refuge in your embrace when his eyes go bleary from the stress. The weight of the kingdom rests heavy on his shoulders, but he braves the storm with a confident smile because he knows no other way. But when his head rests in your lap like this, you like to imagine that behind his sealed eyelids, he’s found some semblance of peace away from all the pressure.

He looks so ethereal, even when signs of exhaustion plague his handsome face. 

Your hand matches the curve of his cheek, his brilliant irises coming into view as his eyes peel open to stare up at you lazily. This is the first time in far too long that he’s felt so blissful and calm, as if sinking into you is all it takes to even him out and shelter him away from all the crushing responsibilities of royalty.

Here, with you, there are no expectations that he fears he can’t live up to. There’s nothing to plan for days in advance, careful thinking plaguing every little detail lest he make even the slightest of mistakes. Instead, there’s warmth and freedom, a chance to spread his wings and fly through the late evening sky.

“Love,” he says to you, voice dripping with milk and honey, “I’ll have to walk you to your quarters soon.”

You hum in acknowledgement having known the time for such was fast approaching, yet you make no move to hurry him along. Your fingers card through his hair, prodding softly at his sensitive scalp. It dawns on Ayato then that he much prefers the gentle brush of your fingertips to the frigid graze of any crown.

“You don’t have to come along,” you tell him. “It’s not like I’ll be getting lost.”

He appreciates the joke you make less so because it’s funny and more so because it makes you smile.

Ayato comes anyway, striding through the empty halls. They stretch on for what seems like miles in his lethargic state, suppressing yawns as his heels click against the glossy hardwood. Just inside your room, one of the small spaces offered to the help of the castle, the young prince matches the curve of your cheek to the plane of his hand. He brushes his lips past your own, diluting the urge to pull you in and kiss you with enough passion that it just might sync his heartbeat to your own. 

You’d do anything to have him stay the night, but the risk is much too great. It’s better if he returns to his room, —if he keeps his distance for now. You bite your tongue as he bids you goodnight, the taste of him lingering all the same.

When this journey began, you’d been expecting a lot of things, —mostly Kaeya and Diluc bickering back and forth, the younger instigating petty verbal spats only for the older to snap back after a while of disinterested replies. You’d even been anticipating a night or two of awkward sleeping arrangements, folding in on yourself in hopes of keeping your distance from each of them, as if you hadn’t sought their warmth as your protectors in your youth.

But you’re not a little kid anymore, and the two young men at your side are no longer your closest friends. Your nights aren’t spent telling silly ghost stories under cozy blankets in the bedrooms of Dawn Winery’s manor. Nowadays, Kaeya shows off on the battlefield, glints of bloodlust in his visible eye, rather than climbing trees in your backyard until slivers of fear began to prick at his feet and the best option was simply to climb back down. Diluc, on the other hand, doesn’t show off much at all. He works alone, his head held high and his walls higher, —keeping everyone out, because he’ll never be able to tell where the next betrayal is coming from.

You like to think you haven’t lost all of your childlike wonder and spark. At least, not to the extent of either of them; one who bears a Cryo Vision and yet burns with guilt and shame, and the other who wields a Pyro Vision, but has frozen himself to the bone just to keep others away.

As a so-called negotiator, employed by the Adventurers Guild to deal with a variety of issues that often stem from conflicts and misunderstandings, it feels disgraceful that you’d be incapable of playing peacekeeper between the two of them. But your skills feel years beyond rusted as you stand with them, seeking refuge from a ruthless storm in an old, abandoned hilichurl camp. It had rolled in from far away, taking all three of you by surprise. Abandoning your uncovered wagon with minimal supplies to manage through a few days' journey was the only viable option as the wind began to whip loose branches from trees and lightweight rocks and pebbles from the ground.

Even in such horrid weather, thieves offered no breaks from their crime. They snatched away your wagon’s contents, in spite of it having been hidden away in the trees. You can’t help but wonder how long they’d been tailing the three of you from the city. . .

Beyond that, you wonder why fate has decided to be so cruel to you. Diluc was a distant assistant of the Knights of Favonius these days, only offering help when it was completely necessary. Why he chose to take charge of this mission is beyond you, and why Kaeya decided to join at the last minute, you’ll never understand. Especially now that all they’ve done is largely overlook your existence in order to get petty digs in at one another.

They’d managed to complicate what was supposed to be a simple trip to Liyue Harbor to settle an even simpler dispute.

“Hey, Master Diluc,” Kaeya calls out, tone condescending, “mind giving us a hand over here?”

The redhead spares his brother an agitated glance, nearly throwing daggers with his tongue before his gaze came to rest on you. . . You’re just as sweet looking as he remembers. There’s always been something so innocent and warm swimming in your eyes, as if your full well of kindness has overflown and pooled right into your stare. For your sake, Diluc swallows his not-so-kind words and makes little show of lighting the fire between yourself and Kaeya, who offers no thanks.

“You should sit down,” you say to Diluc softly, moving off to the side to let him rest before the newly lit fire. “You’re dripping wet.”

“I’m fine—” he begins roughly, but stops himself immediately when you flinch at the harshness of his tone.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. A deep breath in, and he tries again, gentler this time.

“I’m alright,” he corrects, but offers no apology for startling you just before. “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

If both of you had been younger and these past few years had never happened, you’d have been quick to question his liberal usage of a little. It’s pouring, maybe more than you’ve ever seen it, and lightning slits the sky ruefully as thunder booms from the heavens.

“Don’t be so cold,” Kaeya chides, and takes pleasure in doing so, “I’m the one with the Cryo Vision.”

“You’re also the one who doesn’t know when to keep his crooked nose out of other people’s affairs,” Diluc answers bluntly, a sharp edge to his voice.

“Crooked?” The younger questions, ignoring Diluc’s blow to his character in lieu of the cosmetic insult.

“Enough,” you insert yourself tiredly, “now’s not the time to be arguing.”

Archons. How had this come to pass? It was bad enough that the two of them had found themselves on the same mission, —but for you to be here as well? Talk about bad luck. Maybe all those times of patching Bennett up after unfortunate circumstances got the better of him has made his fate rub off on you. . .

Neither of the brothers apologize for their actions, but you hadn’t been expecting it anyway. You’d have been more surprised if they did, actually.

“Fine,” Kaeya shrugs, “let’s change the subject then while the soup heats up.”

You take that as your cue to scrape some poorly sliced veggies into an old hilichurl pot that Diluc had placed for a crude wash in the rain. It’s set to be rudimentary at best, but your hope is that the mint leaves you managed to gather along the way will add enough of a flavor contrast to make it edible at the very least. Your choice of fancy ingredients was well beyond diluted, and whatever you managed to scrounge up from the wreckage of this hilichurl camp is as good as it’s going to get. Beggars truly cannot be choosers, especially in situations such as this.

“It’s been a while since I’ve spoken to you, y/n,” Kaeya notes. “How’ve you been fairing?”

“I’ve been well,” you answer, only paying him a fraction of your attention. “You’d know that if you ever bothered to read any of my letters.”

His face drops for a moment, confident facade staggering in the shadow of your newfound shortness. He knows you’re right, and Kaeya can’t blame you for being upset. It wasn’t his intention to lose sight of you, but somewhere along the line between that fateful stormy night, the dissolvement of his relationship with Diluc, and his subsequent promotion to Cavalry Captain. . . His fondness for you had been lost to the wind. He got your letters, would sit them aside for later, —and then later would never come. Eventually, he’d lose those letters too amongst the towers of paperwork on his cluttered desk. 

“You wrote to him?” Diluc pipes up, sounding all too casual for the ache that lingers in his heart.

He hadn’t received any letters from you. . . Not one. Not a single message, short or long, —just nothingness, like throwing flames into a limitless void. Why Kaeya, the one who hadn’t even bothered to answer? Why couldn’t Diluc even be your second choice?

“Just. . . Just a handful of times,” you say softly. “I never heard back, so I stopped writing.”

Kaeya opens his mouth, maybe to explain, maybe to make things infinitely worse for himself, but Diluc beats him to the punch.

“You know I would have answered you,” he tells you. “It’s been forever since the last time we spoke, —don’t you think it would have been nice to hear from you? Just to say hello?”

Now, you’ve found yourself in Kaeya’s shoes; stuck between a rock and a hard place. There’s no appropriate excuse as to why you never chose to reach out to Diluc, you just. . . Didn’t. In the same way Kaeya never wrote you back, you never wrote to Diluc at all. But Kaeya did.

“It’s not like you can shove all the blame off on other people,” Kaeya interjects, tone laced with a seriousness you don’t often hear from him. “You’re hardly easy to approach these days. You’ve practically holed yourself up and away, wallowing in your own self-pity.”

“Kaeya, that’s a little much, don’t you think—” you start, but Diluc is quick on the attack, speaking over you and then over the thunder that resounds through the atmosphere.

“As if you’re any better,” the redhead scoffs, “I don’t need to be patronized by someone like you. You talk to everyone, but you don’t have any real connections. Your secrecy forces everyone away eventually, and when you wind up alone again, I hope you remember that you’ve done it all to yourself, Kaeya.”

“You don’t mean that—” you say, eyes widening and heart dropping low into the pit of your stomach.

“Oh, and you’re wishing that on me so you feel less alone about living that way now?” The younger male retorts.

Of all the years you’ve known the both of them and of all the times you’ve seen them argue, none of it has ever amounted to something like this. Their voices are dangerously low, as if the misty grey indifference of passive aggression has clouded their judgements, leaving them void of everything except simmering rage for one another.

“What, so now I’m not even entitled to choose how I get to grieve?” Diluc accuses.

“Nobody even said that,” Kaeya bites back in return. “There you go, twisting people’s words again so you feel better about villainizing them.”

“I don’t need to villainize you, —you do a good enough job of that all by yourself.”

“Guys—”

“I could say the same to you,” Kaeya scoffs. “Pushing everyone away because you’re too scared to make connections, running off for so long just to come back a completely different person, abandoning everyone who ever cared enough about you to take your burdens for themselves.”

“Oh, and you think you fall under that category somehow?” Diluc demands. “As if you weren’t the one who’d been lying the entire time, keeping Celestia knows how many secrets from everyone? I know you’re the Cavalry Captain now Kaeya, but don’t be such an arrogant fool. Get off your high horse and come join the rest of us in reality.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Kaeya all but snarls. “All you’ve done since that night is run away, —from your duties, from your family, from the nation you claim to love so much. And you know what I think, Diluc?”

“I really couldn’t care less what you think, Kaeya—”

“I think you’re the one who needs to come down off your high horse. You weren’t the only one who got hurt that night, but you mope around like there’s nobody in the world who shares your burdens! You’re not special. You’re not the only one who lost someone!”

“He was my father!” Diluc says, right on the cusp of shouting over the pouring rain that pummels against the roof of the hilichurl hut.

“He was my father too, dammit!” Kaeya yells, the flat of his palm slamming against the dampened dirt. “But I didn't just lose him, —I lost you too.”

The elder male is visibly stunned by that assertion, unable to form words in reply. Kaeya doesn't wait for a response, good or bad. Ungracefully, he pulls himself to his feet and storms off into the rain, and despite your protests, he doesn't look back. You suppose he's back to pretending like you never existed.

Silence reigns between you and Diluc for a short while. When you make the first move, parting your lips to say his name softly, he's quick to cut you off in a small, sad voice.

"Why didn't you write to me?" He questions. "Why didn't you ever come see me? You knew I'd returned, and you still didn't come."

Though his words are accusatory, he doesn't sound particularly angry. If anything, Diluc just sounds hurt. 

"I. . ." you begin, knowing nothing you can possibly say will make this any better. "I just didn't think you'd want to hear from me."

His stare is blank, as if he isn’t sure what to make of your admission. He opens his mouth to speak, but just as quickly closes it again, swallowing the words down to dilute their harshness. Maybe Kaeya was right, he thinks to himself. Maybe I’ve pushed everyone so far away that I’ve alienated myself completely.

If that’s the case, he notes soon after, then I have no one to blame but myself. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize genuinely, interrupting his spiral of thought.

Diluc looks your way again, meeting your eyes diligently this go around, but still, he says nothing. 

“When I heard you’d returned, I walked by Dawn Winery every morning, thinking that I could work up the courage to see you face-to face,” you explain. “It sounds selfish of me now that I’m saying it out loud, but. . .”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head to offer a correction, “it was selfish of me. I was being selfish. I couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing you again because I knew you’d be so different, —I’d be meeting someone new in the place of the boy I grew up with, and I wasn’t ready to face it.”

Strangely enough, Diluc understands where it is that you’re coming from. He’s not dense enough to be blind to all the differences he exhibits in comparison to his slightly younger self. Once upon a time, he was vibrant and open, —he let people in because he assumed the best of them. Diluc sought trust and love from the people of Mondstadt, vowed to protect them with his very life. . . Even now, he feels that way. These days, he acts from the shadows instead, as if loving openly will somehow make him more vulnerable to injuries of the emotional kind.

“Do you hate it, then?” He inquires, “—the man I am right now. Do you hate me?”

“No, Diluc I—”

You stop again to take a sharp breath in. It’s now or never to say all the things you never chose to write down in a letter for him. At the very least, he deserves that much.

“I should have come to see you,” you admit. “I knew that from the start. And I wanted to see you, because it’d been so long, and I just needed to know that you were okay; that whoever you’d become while you were gone, you were healthy and hadn’t just given up on the world. But I got glimpses of you from afar, and it made me realize just how much of a distance had grown between us. It was like I could hardly recognize you, even when you looked the same. So I turned around, and eventually, I stopped going to Dawn Winery altogether. I hid when I saw you in public, just to avoid the conversation, —to avoid the “Hi, how’ve you been?” because I knew you’d just lie and say everything was fine.”

The bitter truth is that you’d been pushing Diluc away, just as he’d been doing to you. You yearned to be close to him again, to be able to pull him so close that you could feel his heart beating against you. . . But the space between you and he only grew wider with the passing days. He made a routine for himself, and you didn’t want to disrupt it. Not when he’d had to pull himself up from the depths of despair just to manage it in the first place.

You worried that you represented little more than the past to him, —that you’d be some ghost of a childhood friend coming back to haunt him, and heaven knows Diluc doesn’t need anymore demons wrapping around his pretty fingers. 

“Everything should be fine,” he answers softly. “Everyone has to move on eventually. We can’t live in days that have already passed us by.”

“That doesn’t mean doing it is easy,” you remind him, matching the gentle tone of his voice.

“It’s not easy,” he agrees. “It hurts like hell. I hate going home because the manor feels so empty, and I can’t find any trace of anyone there. Not my father, not Kaeya, not you, —not even myself. It’s like all the rooms just swallow everything whole until there’s nothing left to feed on, and all the good things have disappeared. All the memories, all the laughter, all the love is just. . . Gone.”

Another apology creeps up the back of your throat, but you know now isn’t the time to be saying sorry a  million and one times over. You can take any other time to feel guilty, to feel sorry for yourself in the wake of your own recklessness. . . But this is about Diluc.

“All the art my father hung up on the walls, —the chess board he taught me how to play on. I’ve run my fingers over every frame, every pawn, every knight, and I can’t feel him anywhere. It’s almost like he never existed, even though every part of the manor has remained unchanged since his passing. The maids and other staff don’t speak of him; at least not when I’m around. . . It’s like they’ve all signed some unspoken contract to guard my feelings by pretending nothing ever happened.” 

You’re left speechless by his show of openness, thinking to yourself (if only passively) that it’s been far too long since you’ve heard Diluc be true about his feelings.

“Kaeya comes around sometimes, but he never comes in,” the redhead continues. “The manor was his home too, but it seems that he can’t stand to be inside anymore, so he’s left me alone to pick up all the pieces, and I hate him for it. But I love him too, from the bottom of my heart. He’s my brother, —blood or not. I know he’s hurting too, and it kills me.”

“He knows that,” you insist. “Kaeya knows that you love him, and he loves you too. It’s just that all the animosity between you two reaches a boiling point when you stuff everything down and hide your pain away, and he wears it on his sleeve, letting it seep out the moment he gets set off. Both of you love to pretend that you’re fine alone, that everything will work itself out somehow if you ignore it for long enough, —but I think we’ve established that that’s not quite how this is gonna go.”

And then Diluc laughs. It’s low and deep, coming straight from his chest, lasting no more than a handful of seconds. The stars in his eyes burn alight again, flickering like a lost lantern in the wind. A softer breeze than the howling gusts just outside the hilichurl structure you’re sitting in that’s miraculously managed to stay intact thus far.

“That’s so like you,” he comments, amusement clinging to his words. “You’re so honest in a roundabout way; trying your best to protect my feelings, and Kaeya’s if he happens to be eavesdropping on us, all while essentially saying we should stop being idiots and just talk about our problems.”

Although that’s a very watered down version of your conviction, it works well enough, you suppose. A giggle bubbles up from the back of your throat, exploding into the chilly air.

“That’s one way to say it, I guess,” you laugh. “I know that’s a lot easier said than done, but I’m hoping you see where I’m coming from. It might not be my place to say it, —but it’s hard to watch you two ram heads like this. Even though none of us are kids anymore, it’d be nice to be like we used to sometimes.”

Diluc agrees. He thinks about that more than he’ll ever be willing to admit; about the days he spent running past the vineyards, you and Kaeya right on his heels, laughter soaring through the open air. He thinks about the sweet taste of freshly mixed juice drinks, foam clinging to his upper lip. . . He can make his own drinks these days, of course, but they never taste quite like his father’s.

When he smiles like this, you get a glimpse of the boy you grew up alongside. You get a glimpse of the young man you fell in love with, yet never made any mention of it so as not to upset the balance. It was easier if everyone remained friends; if you never chose to cross the line. You suppose that’s yet another reason why it was so hard to approach him after he arrived back in Mondstadt. It wouldn’t be fair to grieve the loss of who he used to be, but it was nothing short of inevitable.

I loved you then, and I love you now. 

“In any case, I. . . I should go look for Kaeya,” you say; but there’s no conviction in your words.

He’s an adult, and you know better than most that Kaeya can take care of himself; rain or shine. In fact, with that Vision of his, he might as well be better suited to stormy nights and rainy days. Though he seems like he wants to, Diluc says nothing to keep you from going. Maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want you to soak yourself to the bone, or maybe it’s that he just wants you to stay; nothing more, nothing less. Either way, he doesn’t say it.

Until he does.

“Y/n, please. . .”

You pause, turning to look at him the moment he says your name. Diluc swallows, hoping the words don’t go down with it.

“Don’t leave.”

Your heart stutters. As the sky grows darker somewhere off in the distance, as the rain slams roughly against the little hut you’re stuffed in, —as thunder resounds loud enough to shake the very ground beneath your knees, you find yourself pulled into his orbit again.

It’s all too easy to love him like the sun is dying.

Now’s not the right time, this isn’t the right place. . . Nothing about this is right, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away. He smells of rain, soil, and must; hair disheveled and falling out of the loose, low ponytail at the back of his head. The plain scent of bland vegetables boiling just a foot or two away would have thrown you off if you’d been lucid enough to care.

His kiss is fervent and desperate in a way you never expected, —something less than sweet, but far from bitter. Damp hands cup your cheeks like you’re made of brittle porcelain, so gentle that you can melt into his touch without having to question why. It’s hard to believe these lips are the same ones that threw insults Kaeya’s way just a bit ago, and when you rest your forehead against his, breathing through the haze, it’s even harder to imagine that his lovesick stare is only meant for you.

You could spend forever here, but that wouldn’t serve either of you.

“Go,” you whisper softly, pressing the flat of your hand to his chest. “He’s your brother.”

Diluc hesitates, but deep down, he knows you’re right. He’s angry, —he’s been angry for a long time now. It’s eaten at him for longer than he’ll ever care to admit, burning up his mind and scorching all the flowers. 

And maybe, he thinks to himself with your face cupped in his chilled hands, it’s time to start letting some of that anger go, washing it away with the rain.

PART iv: the thaw

Adelinde comes to your door the next day and takes your measurements. Circling you with a sewer’s tape here and there, she records numbers on a little notepad. 

“The Wind’s Breath dance is in a few days.” She tells you. Days have been blurring together. “Master Diluc has requested that an outfit be fetched for you for it.”

You should be upset, it seems like an overstep. It is. But, for ‘staying for Windblume’, you haven’t been back to Mond proper since you’ve settled down in the Winery. The Wind’s Breath dance, or rather night of fucking debauchery does have somewhat of a dress code. There’s a traditional style of Mondstadan clothing that most wear, aside from perhaps knights and some merchants. The colors align with Windblume’s yellow, soft teal and creamy ivory. 

Certainly clothing you don’t have now, and a night of drinking and dancing sounds absolutely lovely. You remember enjoying the ceremony of it, in your youth. 

“... Did you hear Diluc and I last night?” You ask Adelinde when she has the tape around your bust. 

Adelinde chooses her words carefully, more interested in the measurements than your question, “I heard shouting by the hearth, but nothing after. Should I have heard more after?”

You flush at her insinuation, “Adelinde—”

“Sorry, sorry,” She laughs without a bite, going to your inseam. “It’s a little too easy to tease you, dear. Forgive me.”

You narrow your eyes at her in jest, rolling them a moment later and let her prod you for the length of your wingspan. 

“I did shout at him though.” You admit. “I could’ve chewed him out more. He deserved more, maybe. I don’t know. It feels confusing.”

“Why confusing?”

“Because—” You rub a hand over your face and your balance wobbles. “It’s Diluc. There’s just so much there, good and bad. I don’t know how or if I should broach it.”

Adelinde thinks for a moment, gives a thoughtful hum, and rises, “That’s entirely up to you, whether you choose to examine or confront your history with Diluc, and I’d say the winery, as well. I know that he has caused you a great deal of suffering and grief.”

You laugh, “It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” She smiles. Smooths your collar down. “You also loved him, didn’t you?”

You stew for a moment.

Of course you loved him. Love, still. You’ve buried it so deep in you, but it won’t suffocate. You haven’t fed it in years, starved it from light and air, but it still knows yearning and want better than any other part of you.

You lie, “Once. Maybe.”

“And he loved you too, yes?”

(Oh, he did. He told you so, showed you so, over and over again. In the little gestures of childhood, to firsts that you shared, to the way his eyes shone so brightly for no one other than you. He had always been such a caring boy, and you were the subject of his greatest attentions.)

(Such knowledge has tormented you. To be loved in such a way, and have it ripped away in the way he did—)

“You know this already, Adelinde.” You side-step her question and go the vanity. Fidget with a bottle of perfume left by a previous guest. The glass bottle is small and amber, half-full. It smells floral with a hint of musk; you can tell even before you uncork it.

Adelinde watches you as you do. You can feel her gaze on you. When you dare to look— she keeps a soft expression. Wizened, and perhaps a bit sad. It aches to see her that way. She was there. She had taken care of Kaeya, Diluc and you in your youth. She’d been a fixture. Seen the lot of you through it all. 

You wonder how she has beared it.

“Such care does not go away easily.” She says gently. “Even if we would like it to. Even if living would be easier if they did. I think both you and the master of the house know this well.”

You pop the cork on the perfume. It’s oily, and sticks to the tips of your fingers. You grimace. “It is... difficult to imagine Diluc caring about me, even residually, after his departure.”

“I imagine so.” Adelinde says so kindly. “But, I know the Master well enough to say he wouldn’t have invited you back to the manor so openly if he didn’t care for you. He’s not the type of man to do things he doesn’t want to do.”

(She’s right.)

(You remember Diluc dragging his feet and bemoaning having to wash up after days on the riverbank, covered in sand and dirt. How his hair would snarl and get so knotted— he hated brushing it, his scalp too tender and Crepus was, respectfully, a bit clueless on how to manage Diluc’s hair. You wonder—)

You rub your forehead, then your cheeks. “Even still. It’s hard—”

(Because you simply cannot fathom Diluc loving you still. Such a reality cannot exist. If it did— if that’s true—)

Adelinde must see your panic and redirects. “I think it would serve you well to try and remember where you are. Stay grounded in the good things you can find in the present, here, rather than a past that hasn’t been kind to you.”

“... I don’t have to forgive him, do I?”

“No. Not unless you want to.” Adelinde grabs your shoulders and squeezes. “Enjoy the fields. Visit your friends. Catch up with Elzer, if you can too. Maybe Kaeya—”

“Not Kaeya.” You don’t mean to snap, but you do.

“No Kaeya, then.” Adelinde seems unaffected. She smooths your collar and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Lisa, then. I’m sure there are folks who will continue to need your healing, too. Not to mention I do think Diluc will give you as much wine as you’d like.”

“Please, I’d rather he didn’t think of me as a drunk.” You paw at your cheeks as Adelinde pulls your ear with a cheeky smile.

“Does that mean we can’t share a bottle by the hearth? That’s a shame.”

“Oh, I never said that. We’ll just have to wait until Diluc goes to bed.”

“That’s not necessary.” Your statement gives Adelinde pause. You catch it, how Adelinde schools her expression and straightens herself. “I’ll be sure the master doesn’t give us any grief.” 

You could pry. There’s something there. You know how to smell out a secret— half of being a physician traveling from citadels to isolated villages is picking out people’s hidden aches and pains. Ones they come accustomed to hiding or have become used to. It’s a learned skill, one you did not have in your naivete and youth, but you’ve honed it now. You see Adelinde falter. 

Diluc has always been dawn— the insinuation of Diluc and the night causes her to stumble.

You do not pry. You school yourself. Because you are here for Windblume. And to find this damn healer. And if Diluc hadn’t invited you to his (not your) home, you’d be happily sleeping in your tent just outside of Mondstadt proper. 

You do not need to entangle yourself more than necessary.

(You’ve already stepped too close to a chasm that you’ve avoided for far too long. You do not realize how steep its edges are or how fragile its cliffs.) 

You laugh to yourself, “As if I’d let him.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Adelinde softens once more. You can see the wrinkles around her eyes and in the center of her forehead. Thick patches of freckles on her nose. “ You, though. Take your time. Rest. Be good to yourself. I’m always here to talk, if you would need or like... and if I may?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve given the Master similar advice. He’s more affected than he lets on.” Adelinde reveals and presses her lips to your forehead. “You are both dear to me, and I don’t wish to watch either of you suffer in the ways you have. Though, I won’t mettle more than this.”

You sit with the knowledge she’s presented.

“Thank you, Adelinde.” And you hug her hard like you’re trying to suck the wisdom from her body into your own. “May I ask you one other thing?”

“Of course, dear.”

(You feel unsteady. You don’t want to think about this. But, perhaps, it’ll provide you some stability. Assuredness.)

“Did you ever end up telling Diluc about what happened while he was gone?” You can’t look at her. Even if you were, your gaze would be elsewhere. Even acknowledging ‘it’ (forget, forget, forget) has you feeling untethered. 

Adelinde grabs your hands in hers and intertwines your fingers. They’re worn, calloused from washing and carrying burdens she shouldn’t have to.

“No, I didn’t,” Adelinde says, softly. “Both Elzer and I have kept true to what we promised you when you left for Snezhnaya. Though Diluc has... asked, we’ve been vague about it over the years.”

You’re grateful. Endlessly. 

(It means that something is still sealed, well-bottled and shoved away, and hidden. It was the only request you made of them upon your departure.)

“Thank you.” You hug her, but Adelinde is already moving to pull you close. She strokes the back of your head like a mother would.

“Always, dear.” Adelinde assures you. You scrunch the fabric of her dress in your fists and bite your tongue.

(Lest you reveal too much, or break something that should stay fractured but whole.)

...

The Winery gets pleasantly warm during the spring afternoons. The sun slants just right, and the light that spills in heats the manor better than any of its many hearths could. You leave your window open, soaking in the bird songs and petrichor from the morning drizzles. You’re half-tempted to wander in the vining fields, but abstain. 

You’ve spent the afternoon mulling over Adelinde’s advice. You trust her and her sagely wisdom. Without her guidance, you surely would’ve crumbled during your tenure as the winery’s unofficial master. You had no reason to doubt her, or think that she was leading you astray with her words—

And yet.

(How could Diluc care about you? How, how, how—)

You fist into your own skull, as if you could quiet your thoughts with nothing more than brute force. 

The day lazily slinks by, and you meander to the kitchens for a meal as the sun goes gold with the evening.

You’re surprised to find Diluc there.

The kitchen is an organized mess, notably. Bowls and latched boxes of dry ingredients lay out on the countertops, and the center prep station is dusted in flour with several round balls of dough at the ready. You see a bottle of milk and bright yellow dust in a jar.

Diluc’s jacket has been discarded, hung on a hook near the back door entry to shield it from any potential mess. He’s left in his trousers and waistcoat, any of the more ornamental gold bits have had their sheen dulled by baking dust. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He kneads a ball of dough with a motion that looks far too practiced for someone who was once a knight, and now a businessman. Strong, worn hands, ducking into the dough, then out, smearing it on the butcherblock. His forearms bulge. It’s obscene. 

He must notice you, but he doesn’t stop. You side-step him to the icebox, fish out a handful of berries and a wedge of cheese. You perch on one of the counters and fold your legs under you, stretching to grab a knife from a block.

“... Are you going to spectate?” Diluc asks, pausing, only to look at you for a brief moment before continuing his kneading.

You hum, combining a bite of berry and cheese and speaking through it, “I suppose. What are you making?”

“Sweetbread.”

“When did you learn to make bread?” You ask, a bit baffled. He’d always been a rather poor cook, and an even worse baker. 

“Sometime back. I was forced to, while I was away.” 

“... Oh?”

Diluc doesn’t look at you, “A comrade’s wife taught me how to. She said it was an important life skill.”

“That sounds about right.” You’d never mastered sweetbreads, but you feel quite adept at making flatbreads on round stones.

“These were supposed to be a bit of a surprise,” He grumbles under his breath. Almost pouting. “A gift... And perhaps, an apology— for you. For yesterday.”

“... Oh?”

“... ‘Oh’?”

You trip over your words, shoving a berry into your mouth to try and disguise your stumbling, “I didn’t expect you to apologize.”

“I’m not yet, the bread isn’t done.” Diluc sets the finished ball into another bowl, greased with oil and butter. 

“I see.” You raise an eyebrow and take another bite. The berries stain your fingertips wine red. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I overstepped,” Diluc says simply, adjusting his sleeves and going to work the next dough ball. 

“No— I. That’s not—” You groan, and throw your face in your hands. It feels warm. “It’s fine, Diluc.”

“Denying it won’t stop me from apologizing.” He shoots back. “You have every reason to be angry with me. Besides, this bread will go to waste otherwise.”

You shoot him a half-baked smile. A distraction, for both you and him. Hopefully, it’s enough to disguise the way your shoulders go rigid and the way you white-knuckle the lip of the corner of the counter. His words bounce around in your skull, like a mocking echo that just won’t shut up—

(How long had you waited for that admission from Diluc? How many star-filled nights have you toiled, once, craving that validation from him? You wanted him to balm the wound that he left, even if you knew it was impossible.)

(At some point you asphyxiated the want. Crushed it down into something that could be swallowed but never digested. Hope can’t be killed, but archons, did you try.)

Diluc’s words unearth the dormant thing. You don't think Diluc understands the gravity of what he’s said to you, and you hope he doesn’t put it together. 

(It feels raw. He’s cut you and bared your insides without regard.)

“… Fine.” You concede to him (hopefully he doesn’t prod you further. Bear your neck to him and perhaps the action will be enough to keep him interested and tempted but not to bite down.)

You refuse to look at him. You smash the last bits of a raspberry between your forefinger and thumb and watch the juices drip down your skin. It’s a pretty red that you suck off when it reaches the knuckle.

Diluc sighs, and perhaps scoffs, before the sound and motion of dough kneading resumes in your periphery.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, breaking the fragile reverie. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Diluc speaks quickly. He’s not wrong, but you feel inclined to anyway.

(Your rage is more than justified. The thing bubbling under your skin— guilt, regret, topped with dread— is as well.)

You hop off the counter and teeter to bear your weight on your good foot. A hiss of pain gets caught behind your teeth and you chew the inside of your teeth. Diluc regards you, expectantly, hair spilling over his shoulders, half-hunched over his last ball of dough.

“I should give you the benefit of the doubt, at least a little.” You sigh. “I jumped for your throat, and that perhaps, wasn’t fair. You had a point, it was a long time ago—“

“Stop diminishing yourself. It’s painful.” Diluc interrupts you for once. “I deserve your ire. My reaction to your anger wasn’t justified or appropriate.”

“You stop being self-deprecating.” Guilt-ridden bastard. “Regardless of what you deserve, which I won’t be debating with you, I still care about you.”

(Love, probably. Most certainly.)

It’s an admission you don’t mean to give him. You instantly feel too vulnerable with the feelings; you wish you had kept it close to your chest and hidden. You watch your words cut him, and Diluc freezes. He’s so plain with his reaction that it’s almost comical. His eyes go wide and he goes stiff as a board. You don’t fare any better. You feel as though you’ve revealed a card in your hand that you shouldn’t have. 

(You trade blows. One for one, flayed flesh for a split spine.)

You chew the inside of your cheek. You taste blood. Diluc clears his throat and collects himself. You leer away, laughing under your breath. 

(A younger Diluc would’ve jumped at your words. Shown so brightly he could rival any hearth, become a human sun, if only for a moment. He would’ve gleamed. It’s difficult to admit that he’s darkened.)

He doesn’t return the sentiment— not directly. Not the same way. 

Diluc finishes his dough and leaves it to rest before exiting the room without a word. You don’t get a chance to protest, he’s back so quickly, with a —staff— cane in his hand. A metal-caste owl sits at the top while the wood is stained a rich burgundy.

Diluc hands it to you.

“I don’t know if it’s sized correctly. I based it on the measurements Adelinde provided me.”

“… Thank you.” 

You swallow and accept the gift. It is sized correctly, perfectly even, and it takes some adjusting to re-remember how to bear your weight on it. The ache in your foot lessens almost instantly, quelled. 

“It surprised me, when you didn’t have a cane with a limp that severe,” Diluc says, watching you take a few test steps.

“I did have one— several. Previously.” You examine the metal owl with a frown. “Where did you get this?”

“My father’s study.”

“Diluc.” You freeze. “I can’t possibly accept a Ragnvindr family heirloom.”

“Nonsense.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s been collecting dust for decades. Make good use of it.”

“Diluc—”

“Take it. Don’t be so stubborn. You can hardly walk.” Diluc huffs, though the blush on his cheeks hasn’t waned. “What happened to your previous canes? 

“Uhhh—” You drawl, clicking your tongue and examining the floor. “One was surely stolen. At least two broke? I definitely lost one at a pub— in Fontaine? I never got a chance to go back for it.” There was a village victim to a particularly bad flood that needed tending to. Canes can be replaced.

It takes you a moment to place the look on his face. His brows pinch. Mouth set in a line. Creases under his eyes—

Disapproving? 

It snaps to something more neutral, a moment later. Unreadable and guarded, entirely expected and perhaps welcome. He returns to his baking, tidying up the kitchen with his back to you. You open your mouth, then close it a moment later. 

(Later, there’s a knock on your door accompanied by a tray of steaming sweetbread, the rounds decorated with edible flowers and dusted with sweet flower pollen. Diluc apologizes, barely able to meet your eye. It should be insulting, but it’s cute, in a boyish way. You let it be cute. It doesn’t silence the pangs and pains in your chest, but it makes them easier to bear.)

(The sweetbread is delicious, and you half-wonder about the star map that led him to learn a skill so foreign to a lord like him.)

…

You aren’t sleeping well. Maybe it’s penance, for how well you slept your first days at the winery. Your body is, overall, less fatigued than before. The sleep debt you’d run up was somewhat satiated, which apparently meant not fucking sleeping—

(You could fall asleep, mind you. You just couldn’t stay that way. Dreams woke you each night, of memories and flashes, rib-breaking sensations, and the crunching of bone. Rain-soaked silk clinging to your arms and legs. A bloody nose. A hangover so bad you vomit red and black. A garnet red stone, set in black leather, round as low-set sun.)

(Fragments, really. Twisted and mangled together.)

You shoot up in bed, again, sweat dripping down your sternum, sticky on your forehead. The throb in your chest hardly wanes as you struggle to catch your breath. You clutch at the fabric over your collarbones, breathing through your mouth in light pants.

Your thoughts spin and tumble. It takes you a moment to distinguish moment from moment. Where you are. What you are. When you are. 

Shifting for a sip of water, a shot of pain tangles around your foot and ankle. The muscle is drawn too tight with your fear, panic tugging the tendons wrong. You muffle your own pained wince, keeping it just a wince, and bite down on your lip.

You try to settle, after a while, praying that a few deep breaths release enough tension for a proper sleep. The electric zing that eats at your ankle keeps you awake, uncomfortable to the point of being unbearable. Your heart won’t stop racing with it.

You give up trying to sleep, instead wandering from your room with your new cane, and situate yourself in front of the great room’s dim hearth. You fuss with it, tossing another log and a bit of Pyro starter on the spitting embers. It catches, lights the room soft amber and you collapse on the lounge closest to it. You face your right foot toward the heat of the fire, hoping the heat loosens some of the bound-up muscle.

You splay out. Veg. Keep your eyes half-lidded and watch the fire lazily. Fixate on the licking flames and let the heat burn away your dream and hope it chases the physical pains too.

There’s a slam, when you’re beginning to nod off. Wood on wood— a door near the back of the manor. There are a few more bumps and thuds, ones you can’t place or recognize. You straighten up and listen to the heavy steps that follow. No one would be stupid enough to just break into Dawn Winery, not when Diluc’s fighting prowess is somewhat legendary in Mondstadt. 

You don’t see Diluc enter, only hear him. His stride is wrong. 

“You smell like blood.” You say with the tempo of the crackling flame. “Is it yours?”

Diluc freezes, just behind the lounge. Caught.

“Why are you awake?” He asks, unmoving.

You crane your neck and assess his condition as quickly as you can, “Couldn’t sleep. Are you injured?”

He sighs, “Not severely, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Oh no, nuh-uh, let me see.” You reach for him around the lounge. “You can’t board a physician and then expect them to ignore you when you come back in the early hours of the morning blood-soaked. Besides, I’d be breaking oath.”

Diluc grumbles something under his breath but regardless comes around to you.

He’s not really bloodsoaked. Not entirely. He’s missing a glove and there’s a slice through the sleeve of his jacket, burnt at the edges. Dried blood coats his palm. You ask him to move his jacket, and you see a red stain blooming over his abdomen.

“Can you take off your jacket?”

“That’s not necessary.” He straightens his lapels and takes a step back. “My injuries are minor. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Diluc.” You narrow your eyes. “Let. Me. Help. This is literally my job.”

“You’re sleep-deprived.”

“Healing a flesh wound takes as much effort for me as it would take you to lift your sword.” You scoot forward on the couch, resisting tugging him closer. “It’s really no trouble. Please, Diluc.”

It must be your begging, maybe. You’re too engrossed in Diluc’s condition to notice how his cheeks pink. He shrugs off his overcoat, and you cajole him into peeling off his waistcoat as well. It sticks to his undershirt and you wince.

It’s easy to slip into your role as a healer. It’s a clinical way of thought, you’re presented with a problem and the way to fix it is apparent and well within your abilities. Seeing Diluc as a patient rather than… Diluc is a cheap trick, and perhaps if you were well-rested and less dissociative, you’d feel guilty. 

“Were you burned?” 

“Only singed.”

You hum thoughtfully, “I need to touch you to heal you. Is that alright?”

He nods, slowly, deliberately, “That’s fine.”

He’s not fully bare, so you need to do some exploratory touching. You’re not sure which is more vulnerable— for Diluc to be shirtless in front of you in the firelight or the way you lay your hands gently over his sides (ticklish, you recall. You watch him suppress a jump.) Your fingertips skim over his ribs, flares of Dendro wiggling into his skin. It bounces around, then back to you.

Three bruised ribs on his left side. Four-inch laceration on his right side.

“This will only take a moment.” You send a strong thread of Dendro through him. Liquid and lengthy, and carefully stitch the wound closed. The skin knits back together easily, clean and free of infection. 

You move on to his next wound and Diluc moves a step closer.

“Your hand, please?” You ask, soft. The heat of the room has lulled you.

(The contact is weakening you.)

Diluc offers it to you, and you take it, as gently as you can. This wound has more burning, but nothing too severe. 

Second-degree burns affecting seven inches of cumulative skin. 

“Who the hell were you fighting?” You ask, brows furrowing as you cleansed and balmed the wound. You wince as your Dendro eats away the burn. “ What were you fighting?”

“Unimportant.”

“I hardly think so.”

“Drop it.”

“ Diluc—”

“Something that deserved it.”

You huff. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

We all have them.

The wound has healed, but you find it... hard let go of Diluc’s hand. It hits you how close he is. You sit with your legs spread and splayed, and he stands between them. He’s inches away, and you’re level to his navel. 

You look up at him, swallowing the heat in your cheeks.

Diluc has always been pretty. Since he was little, just a cherubian boy running about the prairie grasses. He grew into it well, though he has gotten a bit more rugged over the time you were apart. You recognized scars littering his forearms, and felt scar tissue buried in new flesh. His hair has grown obscenely long, tied back with a ribbon into a bow. It's only half-up, now, spilling over his shoulder as he looks down at you. 

Your breath catches in your throat. He swallows and you fixate on the bob of his throat.

(You haven’t been close to him like this in so long. Since you were young, having so many firsts together in his too-big bed. His hands look bigger, warmer. How many times did you crave him, the comfort and heat of him? How many times did you wish the stars were twisted and angled just a little differently, so that you never lost him in such a way?)

(To be so close— it’s an unavoidable thought.)

You squeeze his hand, “Do you want to be farther away?”

“No.” He squeezes yours back— harder. Longer. Like he’s afraid. It makes a fragile thing buried in your shake and fracture. “Do you?”

“No.” You swallow, but it’s late. And you’re weak. All crushed bones and scar tissue. “This might even be nice.”

‘This’ is loaded. Bigger than the word, bigger than the distance your traveled while crisscrossing Teyvat. Maybe bigger than the distance between the stars you scorn.

Diluc rubs a thumb over the back of your hand. It shakes. The heat of the fire and Diluc are making something warm and tender rise up from the base of your spine to the back of your skull. You shake with it.

“It is,” Diluc admits, voice thick and sticky. “Thank you.”

“Of course. It’s my job.”

“Not just that.” Diluc squeezes your hand again. Harder. Searing. “For allowing me this. You shouldn’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” You frown. “You’re being silly. And self-loathing. Lord Ragnvindr, I wouldn’t ever expect such a thing from you.”

Diluc sputters a half-laugh, and for a moment, he sounds like the knight you first held hands with when you were young. 

“I only mean to say that you have every reason to be upset and keep me at arm's length. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did.” 

“It’s not like I’m not upset with you.” You worry the fraying skin around his cuticle. “I’m indulging myself too, you know.”

(You dance around what this means so well. When did you both learn the steps, as aptly as you twirl now?)

“That’s comforting.” Diluc pulls his hand from yours and it flexes into a fist. He surprises you then— kneels, lowering onto his knees between your legs. You’re at eye level. You feel pleasantly faint. “You must tell me if I misstep.”

“Oh, you know I will.” You give a warbling laugh and your stomach flips.

So much of Diluc is unfamiliar, but proximity with him isn’t. The heat he radiates is the same as you remember, even if he’s a bit rougher and far more wilted. He hovers close, tentative, but not in the boyish, inexperienced way you once knew. He’s not expectant, he’s not taking and tugging and searching— he lingers but only comes so close, giving you the ability to make the first move. 

He sets up the pieces but doesn’t force your hand to play. It’s wretched. It’s thoughtful, or it’s cowardice— either way, it's to your benefit. 

Diluc licks his lips, throat bobbing. You can’t meet his eyes for too long— there, you see searching. He’s lost his way with words, and you can see the way he grapples for the right ones now.

“I missed you.”

(‘Right ones’. Subjective. The ones he gives you are objectively the wrong ones. Only because they force another fissure into you.)

(You’ve spent so long swallowing your own desires and convincing yourself that there was no possible way for Diluc to feel that way about you. You created any number of mental theses as to why Diluc discarded you. Anything to make it bearable.)

(Anything to make the past palatable and controllable.)

(Forget, forget, forget—)

You tense with the thought. Your wound pulls wrong and you yip. Shooting away from Diluc, you double over to your right side. You wrap your hand around your foot (wishing praying cursing that your Vision doesn’t allow you to touch your own wounds) and slap a hand over your mouth. The pain brings nausea and the last thing you want to do is vomit on Diluc.

Diluc immediately fusses, hands hovering over your shoulders and neck, but never touching. His Vision must be alight— you swear you can feel the lick of imaginary flames off his skin. 

“You’re unwell.” Diluc kneels lower, hands apparently alright to touch, and he tries to shoo yours away from your ankle.

You hold fast, “It’s just a temperamental wound.” Your voice wavers and you rest your forehead on your knee. “I’m sorry for ruining the moment.”

“Hush, nothing’s ruined.” He idles his hand over your own. Your vision blurs and you really think you might throw up. “Let me see.”

“No.”

He says your name, like a cut.

“It’s already healed, Diluc. Just wrong. This happens. There’s no use poking at it.”

“Satiate my curiosity, then.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking honestly.” 

You hesitate. Think if this is going to unearth something that you’d rather have stayed buried. Perhaps it was the distance, the heat from the hearth and Diluc in tandem making you melt into the couch—

“Fine. Only because of those sweetbreads the other day.” 

You attempt to peel off your stocking, trembling, but Diluc stops you. His palm (so, so warm. Like the kindest flame) wrap around your wrist and places it back on your lap.

“Let me.”

Your mouth dries, tongue going heavy and useless. Tentatively, you scoot back on the couch and adjust so your right leg is fully extended. Your belly feels exposed, the softest parts of you bared in a way that feels foreign and uncomfortable. 

Diluc waits until you situate yourself, resting patiently on folded knees. Palms on his thighs. 

(He looks like he’s praying, like you’re the altar. This is both an indulgence and a rite.)

One of his wide hands hooks under your knees and lifts your injured foot from the ground. Diluc pushes your night clothes aside, finding the top edge of your stocking and slips his fingertips just below its edge. You jolt with the contact (what’s beyond touch starvation?) and hiss under your breath.

He pauses, flame licking in the reflection of his eyes, “Is this alright?”

You nod, his touch sears you. 

He peels your stocking away. His touch drifts to the arch of your foot, wrapping his fingers around with enough force to be comfortable, secure. It almost burns— but in the good way. Open flame on nearly-frost-bitten fingers. The hot springs in Inazuma or the hot stone massages they favor in Natlan. It seeps into you.

The heat goes cold when Diluc stills, eyes widening and shoulders drawing up. You watch his jaw lock and you nearly rip your foot from his grip. Gruesome—

“How did this happen?” There are visible ridges of shattered bone, prominent enough to catch the shadows the fire throws. Two toes with mutilated nails, still. A scar or two.

“I fell.”

“Don’t lie.” snaps Diluc. “This is not the kind of injury you obtain from a ‘fall’.”

You start to sigh his name, but he cuts you off—

“How.”

“I. Fell.” You grit out. Your chest hurts again. 

Diluc traces the worst of it— a diagonal scar on the bottom of your foot, from the ball of it to your big toe. (You don’t remember the moment, only the sensations. The feeling of the knife slicing, hitting things it shouldn’t—)

You jolt, squirm, protest under your breath but Diluc tightens his grip, firm and unyielding.

“P-Please—” Your voice breaks and you lurch and grab his shoulders without thinking. Steadying yourself, grounding yourself on the bulk of him. “Please, don’t pry on this one, Diluc. Not tonight.”

(Perhaps you’ll muddle through the memory of it to give to Diluc. One day. Not now, when you feel like the gooey center of you shifts a little too close to seeping out of the spaces between your ribs. If you fall apart, will you ever collect yourself back up again?)

Diluc stills and stares at you. Into you. A little wrinkle appears between his brows, a half-scowl formed in the curve of his pretty lips. It makes your heart pound. You nearly backpedal, tell him the whole truth, the one you’ve shoved down your throat like chrysanthemum petals. The garden you’d throw up—

He relents. Allows you respite. You take it greedily.

Diluc coaxes you to lie back down on the couch, touch hovering most of the time. His contact ginger, “You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to.”

The assurance hits you in the chest. Like a crack that bludgeons your sternum in three.  

“‘Kay. Thanks.” You say. Two words is all you can get out around the threads that bind you upright and together.

Diluc sits back on his haunches, going back to your foot. The pads of his thumbs massage at your ankle, slow and light at first as he gauges your reaction. You swallow thick, watching him with darkening pupils. His touch moves higher, up your calf, shifting your bed clothes aside.

He’s more worn. Calluses make the skin of his thumbs just a bit rougher than you expect. The vision on his waist thrums and throws light as he touches you. Pressing his heat into you. His touch makes you goopy. You slouch into the couch. 

He never ventures higher than your knee, but it’s enough. Maybe it’s too much. The lack of sleep and the fucking heat put you in a state just above sleep. He’s horribly gentle with you, pausing and noting every twitch and jolt you shake out. Asks low and quiet if a certain touch is too much. It’s all overwhelming— decadent. You glut yourself on it, just a bit. The pain of the injury dissolves and all that you’re left with is Diluc. Dutifully petting you and soaking you in something rich and spiced. 

You only feel warm. It spreads up your body— cows the shaking little thing between your ribs. Diluc relaxes you into a slump that has you sleepily blinking, perhaps keening once or twice— you can’t recall. Perhaps Diluc slides back on your stocking and helps you up. Perhaps he guides you up the stairs and back to your guest room. 

(You think about inviting him in. You think about dragging him down and in to bring him closer to that thing in your chest that festers, balm it.)

(You think better of it.)

(You’re too tired to notice the way he lingers on you. His hands, holding you a moment too long. The squeezes to your sides and arms as he walks with you up the stairs. Even when your own breath stutters, you’re unaware. Blissfully ignorant to the effect you have on Diluc.)

You dream of it, maybe. Warmth and heat and familiarity that isn’t wretched. You dream of favorable stars and a warm bed.

...

Something shifts between the two of you after that. Even if the moment of vulnerability was brief, it's like a rift has opened up in your chest. Split. Cleaved. Archons. 

You feel the inexplicable urge to be near Diluc, despite all of the unsettled anger that burns in your belly. The memory of the heat of him is an intoxicant in and of itself. The way Diluc touched you like you were something fragile— cherished. 

(Archons, you’re fucked, aren’t you?)

You avoid Diluc, somewhat. You take to watching him instead. Perching in your bay window, you watch him work in the fields during the mornings and evenings, and listen to him thump around in his office during the midday when the sun is high. He receives a guest or two, maybe, there’s always activity in the main foyer of the winery. You suppose, given that the manor functions as both a home and a business, and it’s the busiest season for Dawn Winery, it makes sense. 

Elzer, actually, is the one who gives you a bit of grief for it.

“He doesn’t bite, you know,” Elzer tells you when you perch on his desk, early one morning while Diluc is out. “You may even enjoy talking to him.”

“We have talked.” You clear your throat, pounding your chest. “Just. It’s complicated.”

“I’m aware.”

Elzer was around, during your tenure as ‘master’ of Dawn Winery. Though Adelinde grew closer to you, Elzer was still a reliable and kind confidant. More-versed in the business end of things than either of you were, and from him you learned a great deal. He, in turn, learned a great deal about you. Adelinde too. Gods, how many nights did you sit at this same desk, organizing mislabeled paperwork over goblets of wine and teacakes? 

“Does your wrist still bother you?” you ask.

“You’re deflecting,” deadpans Elzer.

“You’re not answering my question, either.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. It does. I take a tincture for it sometimes.”

“... Can I see it— your wrist? Let me have a look.”

He holds out his arm and you shift around the desk to prop yourself up on the same side he sits on. Your cane lays idle against the matching mahogany. There’s a reluctant pull at his brow, but he still scoots forward on his seat, rolling up his sleeve. 

Taking his arm in a gentle, practiced grip, you send sparks of Dendro through him. Elzer’s brow scrunches with the feeling— you’ve been told it can be jarring if you’ve never experienced Vision healing before. You tighten your grip. 

You smooth a finger over the meat of his thumb. “Tendonitis, still?” 

“You always said that’s what it was, but never gave me anything conclusive back then.”

“Well, it certainly is,” you huff. Inflammation crawls around the tendons of his hand and wrist, stretching into his shoulder.

You sink a balm of Dendro into him, rather than sparks, more like a sheet. Elzer visibly relaxes, hand going a bit more slack and loose in your grip. Sagging forward, like a ragdoll with half-cut string. Your other hand rises to steady him, firm and solid against his shoulder. 

“Does Diluc work you too hard?” You send another wave of it through. “I’ll chew him out, if you want. I have nothing to lose.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Oh, so it’s just the bad posture?”

Elzer snorts and you can’t help but laugh with him. It’s easy to rib him, like a little brother. He was practically your same age, but he always kept the aura of someone your junior. As adept as he was at everything he did, there’s a boyish charm to him that hasn’t faded with time.

You barely see him out of the corner of your eye— Diluc. Rounding a corner with an armful of papers. His grip goes tight and his steps stutter as he enters the little atrium. Elzer tenses behind you. The Dendro lingering in him bounces back to you.

Diluc clears his throat, fist over his mouth. He looks at Elzer, then you, and clears his throat again—

“Ah, I suppose I’m interrupting working hours. Apologies.” You shrug and hop off the desk. Wobbling past Diluc, you disappear into the shadows of the house.

It’s intentional, really. You don’t want to give Diluc any more of an opening than he already had and fuck— you saw him, didn’t you? The way he drew up, the fire that ignited in his eyes at the closeness—

Archons, Diluc, jealous?

The thought is too sticky to cope with. You retire for a nap early in the afternoon.

...

Nightmares come for you again, and you busy yourself wandering the halls of Dawn Winery.  It’s a moonless night, and far too dark to be wandering without a lantern or candle, but you do so anyway. Adelinde and Elzer are surely asleep, as with the rest of the staff. You assume that Diluc is out, as he tends to be late at night. The tap of your cane against the wooden floors echoes against the silence of the rest of the winery.

Your latest nightmare felt repetitive. The same images, the same feeling of being untethered against an unstoppable swell. Drowning but without water. Asphyxiating on something that crawls up from your lungs. 

(Red, rotten memories. Rotten.)

(Forget, Forget, Forget.)

You pause in front of a particular door in the south wing. Ambient light from the manor bounces off its brass handle, polished by clearly tarnished with time. Its design is different from the crystal doorknobs Diluc has replaced around the rest of Dawn Winery. Its original, untouched— a relic.

You pause in front of a particular door in the south wing. You know this door. The wood, unlike most of the rest of the manor, hasn’t been re-stained or replaced. It’s the same dark tone you remember from your youth, and the knob shines the same brassy gold. It appears unchanged.

You wonder if you’re still dreaming.

Clearly, you aren’t, as you enter the room. Your nose burns as you do. A layer of dust covers everything— the table that cuts the room in two, the stacks of discarded books, and old, dry quill. An untouched pile of blankets and pillows in the corner appears to be lightened, sun-bleached.

You kick the pile and laugh, something low and a little defeated.

The Small Study hasn’t been touched. Never redone, not even cleaned. It’s entirely preserved and more painful to see because of it.

(So much tied up in a simple room. You had avoided it at first, didn’t you? You knew everything that happened here. A love that bloomed, a betrayal, your own decay.)

All that’s left is the skeleton of the room. Flesh eaten by time and memory, consumed to this point where there’s nothing further to rot. Just a vague shape to mourn.

Based on the absolute state of neglect and disuse, you assume that Diluc hasn’t poked around this room much, or at all, in the time since he returned. You’re grateful that— you hid a secret or two here that now feel too dangerous to have in the open.

(Despite the fact that it’s clear this place is too painful for Diluc to touch, too. He’d never find the bits of you that you buried here.)

You tug down a leather-bound book from a shelf, eye-level (still), and rub dust off the spine. Over the cover is embossed some type of Fontainisian design, swirls of gold concentric circles and feathering blots of blue and purple over the leather. It was a gift, back then. Something artisanal that a craftsperson brought to Mond’s market—  One of the many gifts Crepus gave to you in the months before his passing. 

You curse under your breath, pressing your fingertips in the cover. There’s a ring of teeth marks on one corner— your teeth. Had you really bitten the cover in a fit of frustration?

(Probably. Your memory feels fuzzy and fragmented. Broken glass— you can’t pick them up without risking slicing your hand wide and bloody.)

A door shuts, a heavy one, somewhere else in the manor. Diluc has returned. Part of you itches to seek him out, survey him for injuries and help where you can. It takes you nothing to stitch and sew him up. Healing a wound for Diluc feels like a twisted debt paid, maybe. He isn’t aware of it. 

Being in the Small Study makes you horribly aware of it.

The pages of your old journal feel brittle and dry against your fingers. Some stick together, even now, with dried ink that you spilled over the pages. Some of the script is illegible, your pen having muddled into something beyond understanding. What you are able to read, you try not to absorb. It’s only morbid curiosity that has you peeking at it, at all. 

(You should probably burn the thing. It has far too many secrets written in it.)

Diluc calls your name from the door, and you freeze. The journal is easily tucked back in place.

“Yes?” You don’t look at him, but twirl on your heel to the middle of the room. As if you should be there.

(Maybe you should be, for him. All you are is a relic to him, maybe. Something from the past that should stay that way. Aren’t you just a skeletal remain?)

(The thought persists.) 

“What are you doing in here?” Diluc asks, lacking any edge. He rests his hip on the long table.

You consider the question, mull over it and roll your answer around on your tongue. 

“Reminiscing, I guess,” you say, it’s too late to be dishonest. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“That seems to be a pattern.”

“Reminiscing?”

“I meant your inability to sleep through the night.” Diluc sees through your diversion. You let him, cow your barely there instinct to fight him. 

You sigh and laugh, weak, “I suppose.”

Diluc’s gaze is on you— you can feel it. You kick at the floorboards, counting the swirls and irregular notches. It’s easy to imagine the look he must be wearing. Pity, maybe. You feel like a stray cat, cornered and hungry, but ever-wary. 

“May I ask why?”

You click your tongue, “Guess, and if you’re right, I’ll tell you.”

“Isn’t it a bit late for a game like this?”

“Call me a night owl.” You clamor on top of the table and sit semi-cross-legged, with your injured ankle extended.

“... Your injury?” Diluc asks.

You shake your head.

“... You always ran cooler. Are you cold?”

“Maybe a bit, but not really.”

Diluc stalls, and you can see him sort out the correct answer. He’s known it since the beginning of this conversation, but you’re both so fluent in denial, you might as well dance together in it for a while.

“Dreams?”

You nod.

Diluc opens his pretty, petal lips to speak, then thinks better of it. Instead, he removes his jacket and lays it over his arm. You expect him to prod you. 

“Would you like some tea?” Diluc asks. “It may settle you, allow you a proper rest.”

Tea sounds nice, you think. Something warm and someone warm. You know better than to walk so close to him when you’re so shredded at the ribs and tummy. Vulnerable. You know better.

(Then why is the idea of closeness with him so intoxicating? You don’t care about the potential consequences, not really. Your tangle of emotions feels superseded by desire, and you’re barely holding onto self-control.)

(Archons, you want to let go, just a little.)

The threads loosen, just a fraction.

“I’ll take tea,” you admit. “I think there’s some of the sweet bread rounds left too.”

When you look up, Diluc has a simple smile painting the edges of his lips. It’s small, nearly uncatchable, but you recognize it immediately. You resist the urge to go to him and press into the dimple that carves his right cheek. 

It’s awful, the way your heart seizes in your chest, nearly breaking you down your center. You twin him with your own smile, a small one— lest you burst in the middle of the Small Study. 

(Where everything began to fall apart.)

(Forget, forget, forget.)

...

You both sip cups of tea and pass a packed, cherrywood pipe back and forth on Diluc’s balcony. It’s sizable, enough room for you to curl up against the railing, far enough from Diluc to not feel crowded, but still accept the pipe each time he passes it to you. The tobacco smoke feels thick and rich in your mouth, and you resist the urge to draw it too far back into your throat. You instead distract yourself with the smoke that lazily curls from your lips with each exhale.

(You catch Diluc entranced by it as well, the way your lips fall open.)

The sky feels starless; heavy clouds cover the cosmos low. You imagine it’ll rain again in the next few days, especially with the ache in your injury. The air bears down on you, just like the clouds do. You crave a moon or single star to fixate on, rather than proximity or the inevitability of an interaction. 

You’ve become truly versed in avoidance.

Diluc looks... perplexed. Perhaps lighter than he did in the study. His shoulders sag more than they did before, and he almost looks to be melting into the chair he sits in. His heavy coat had been left behind in his room as you passed through, leaving him more bare. You can see blood seep up from flesh wounds, staining the white of his shirt, but he’d already brushed off your concern that evening. You didn’t have it in you to fight him on it— you vow to patch him up in the morning if you can catch him before he starts his daily business.

You must, really.

The quirk between his brows bothers you. The draw of his lips and the way he’s purely staring at you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You frown. Prodding seems like a bad idea, given your exhaustion and the maw that’s cracked open between your ribs.

Diluc seems to stare harder. If that is possible. He sits before, elbows on his knees, and folds his hands. Covers his mouth with them. They’re thick and worn, unfamiliar to you. You can’t stop looking at them. You recall him having beautiful pianist’s hands, slender and sure-fingered. It’s easier to fixate on some trivial, physical difference rather than his expression. It’s verging on vulnerable. He withdraws to take a drag.

“I don’t know how to put you together,” Diluc admits. He snaps his teeth around the smoke. 

You tilt your head quizzically.

Diluc chews on his words, looks at you, and then away. He takes another draw from the pipe and sighs. “You confuse me. You never used to confuse me.”

There’s a pressure behind your eyes that wasn’t there before. “How do I confuse you now?” 

Diluc exhales. He smells like fresh smoke, ash, and the heat from a flame. And he looks at you and his gaze is soft. The pull of his lip and brow, the shine to his eyes— he looks hopelessly fond and sad. Heartbroken, even. There’s a smear of soot under his eye and you resist the buried impulse to wipe it away as something in your cracks. Threads snap.

“I’m not sure I know you anymore.” 

(It hurts, it hurts, it hurts to hear— no one knew you better than Diluc. You’ve made yourself a stranger, and you must now reap what you’ve sewn. You’re just a vagrant in his home, fit for healing and burden and nothing more—)

Your eyes burn and you tear your gaze to the fields, “What a surprise. It’s not as if I’ve been around for your to be familiar with.”

“I understand why you left Mondstadt,” Diluc tells you, hushed like he is speaking to a frightened cat. Maybe that’s what you are. “I know it must’ve been very lonely.”

You almost snap at him. You almost scream—

(“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you for knowing me and knowing how I felt and being gone and leaving me here to ache all alone. I hate that you know me so well and forgot.”)

You don’t. 

“I had Elzer and Adelinde,” you say. “Dawn Winery was hardly empty. I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” Diluc doesn’t sound offended. “Never pity.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not entirely.” You wish the stars were out. You’d have something tangible to direct your ire toward. “What else would it be?”

Diluc sighs, not resigned, but you can hear the exhaustion in it. He’s wounded, he needs rest. You both do.

(You both need so much rest.)

Your nose burns and you sniffle.

“I still care for you, even if you are unfamiliar to me.” He says quietly, low, sweet, and gentle because it's only meant for the two of you to hear. 

You meet his gaze violently. Your neck nearly snaps turning to him, and you have to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying. You feel fragile, so close to crumbling.

“Don’t toy with me.” Your voice wobbles, your conviction does not.

“I’m not.” He assures you. “I wouldn’t.” 

“You’re a wretched man.” You tell him. There’s no bite to your words. 

“For you, I’d be better.”

“No— that’s—” You rub your eyes. “ Stop it.” 

“Stop what? I’m not sure I can.”

(You don’t say: “Please stop being so kind. If you keep being kind to me, I’ll never leave. I’ll take every scrap you feed me and pretend it makes me a king. I’ll open myself up for heartbreak to be by your side. If you keep being kind to me—”)

(You don’t say: “I’ll think that you love me still.”)

Diluc cups your jaw and says your name, soft and slow and easy. 

You’re sedated, because Diluc looks just as frightened as you feel, and speaks as earnestly as he did when he was young. When you used to lay over his chest and count the summer freckles he was blessed with. When he used to hold your cheeks, pressing your lips together, overzealous and honest, like how young lovers do. Like the young lovers you were.

Would this be easier, if you really were two strangers, sharing a pipe and tea? If there really was an ocean and deep sea more than changes of appearance or the way you hold yourself. You know it’s you— that you’ve changed since Diluc saw you. Last saw you— the day of his eighteenth birthday—

The feeling in your chest is violent. Shreds you. Tears you open. You ball the fabric of your sleep clothes in your fist, over your heart, and almost wince. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing you think to say. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

“Don’t apologize, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He rubs a thumb over your cheek, and his touch and voice tremble.

“What if I have?” you half-admit, flashing him a withered smile.

(Forget, forget, forget.)

(A red stone like the garnet they tug out of the Chasm’s walls. Rounded. Pulsing. In the left palm of a man who could’ve been your father.)

“Then, I’ll help you fix it if you like.” He can’t. Diluc lets go of you, only to stand and fix a hold on your wrist. 

“It’s not that simple.” You’re already saying too much. Forget, forget, forget. Shove it down into your chest, to the back of your mind.

You remain sitting on the cold ground of the balcony. Your leg remains splayed on the cobblestones, splinted and aching. You can’t bear to look up at him. You want to cry. Maybe, in the daylight, past dawn— you’d be better at facing this. You want tea. You want to sleep. You want to weep—

(into Diluc’s lap. To beg him for things that feel unfair to ask.)

“Why did you ask me to have tea with you?” you ask. “If it was to share smoke and try to have this conversation or two when we’re both clearly”— you gesture to yourself, balled up, and Diluc, bloodied— “not our best, I will retire to my room. I don’t want to... I can’t broach this.”

(“Yet.”)

(It’s inevitable, isn’t it? One you feel in the stars, rushing toward you.)

“It was never my intention to push you.” Diluc rushes to assure you. You look out the pitch-black vineyard, and Diluc kneels in front of you. “I didn’t—”

You snap, voice wobbling, “What do you want—?”

“I want to know you again,” Diluc tells you, confesses, breathlessly. He sounds like a (your) lover again. “I want nothing more. Just let me, please.”

(You haven’t heard Diluc beg in so long. You remember how he’d beg you for the extra candies that Teacher would give you after lessons. Diluc would beg you to trace shapes on his arm and the nape of his neck when you’d stay up whispering to each other during Mond’s cruelest winter nights. He’d plead for you to ride on his horse, with him, rather than your own.)

You squirm under your skin and refuse to look at him. If you do, you’ll shatter. You have to hold it together, just a little longer— until the end of Windblume, then you’ll leave, you’ll fucking run—

And Diluc says your name, begs you, “Look at me, please.”

“If I do, I’ll cry.” Your voice wobbles far more than you thought it would. 

“That’s okay.”

“It’s not—” You laugh, and barely look at him out of the corner of your eyes. “I can’t start crying, Diluc. I’ll never stop.”

“That’s alright.” Diluc sounds like he might cry. “I’ll take you, however you are.”

He sounds romantic. 

You look at him.

He looks soggy— wilted, like the way two-day-old cut flowers do. Still beautiful, because Diluc Ragnvindr is nothing if not attractive. Hair spilling down his shoulders, a fresh scrape over his cheek, eyes that crinkle in between because he looks as gutted as you feel.

And you laugh, something weak and small and feeble. A barely there noise you only let out to distract from the tears that wet your bottom lashes. 

“... What do you want to know?” you ask him. Forcing yourself to settle, bear it, and look at him. 

Diluc’s eyes go wide. The barest hints of joy squeeze the skin around his eyes and you see a boyish smile on his lips you’d forgotten he knew how to wear. You want to kiss it, him, because the feeling in your chest is bursting. The craving, need— to kiss him stupid and share it with him is overwhelming. 

“Everything.”

You’re damned, surely.

“I don’t think I can give you that yet,” you tell him, honestly. “I’m still mad at you.”

“That’s alright,” he placates you. “I want to know about that, too. Anything you’ll give me.”

It’s an awful admission, really. That he cares to know you.

(Some part of you, festered for so long. Convinced yourself of untrue things because it was easier than facing an uncertain reality. The mere idea of Diluc caring for you breaks a small delusion that you wouldn’t be welcomed. That the boy you’d love and linked pinkies with was dead and gone far from you.)

(He’s here, right in front of you.)

You shift forward without thinking. Onto your knees, with your injured side limp, and you press your forehead into Diluc’s shoulder. It’s stiff, with your arms still tucked to your center, protecting your most soft and vulnerable bits. It’s all you can give him. 

Diluc turns tense, then slack, so slack, like he’s been doused in warm water and left to dry in midday sun. You feel the muscle against your cheek go limp and you press your eyes into the smokey fabric. It dampens beneath you and you’re too tired to care. 

(You’re being chipped down— It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Returning to Mond meant this. Part of you always knew that.)

His hand cups the back of your skull and you shiver with it. Warm and big, just like he has become with the years. He presses his thumb and ring finger into your scalp, scratching, and something between a sob and a wince gets caught in your throat.

“Is this alright?” Diluc asks.

“More than.” You keep yourself from weeping on him, barely. Instead, you grip the loose fabric against his chest and smother yourself in him.

...

There’s a part of you that you can’t quiet— the fragment that whispers and thrashes “this is an awful idea” and “stop it, before you get sucked so deep into him that you can’t climb out.” It’s the part of you that keeps your arms wrapped around your middle and only lets you drag your lips over Diluc’s throat without rhyme or reason. It’s mindless, never a kiss, because that would cross an invisible gulf you dare not to breach.

Diluc leads you inside, hand in hand. You wonder if he can feel how you’re shaking, beginning to fracture from the inside out. You already have been. You’re pouring out from your seams.

“I’m going to fetch more tea, I’ll be back in a moment.” Diluc steps toward the door and a bolt of panic shoots through you. It hurts, physical, dread-filled pain that has you stumble up, toward him, reaching out desperately for him.

(“Please don’t go, please don’t go, please don’t go. Not again.”)

You grab his sleeve and ball your fist in the fabric. 

Diluc attempts to placate you. “Rest, it’s alright. I’m just going to the kitchens.”

You say nothing and tug him tighter. Closer. 

(Part of you wants to kick Diluc away and lock the door behind him. There’s another that wants you to fall to your knees, and beg him to stay close. He’s given you a morsel and you should know better than to roll over for scraps but—)

(You’re so scared. So scared you’ll lose his heat all over again.

You listen to the latter part as you drop to your knees in front of Diluc, just steps into his bedroom. 

You’re not sure what possesses you—

(You do. You’re distracting Diluc from whatever sticky, honeyed thoughts he is having by replacing them with something more carnal. Physicality is just that— physical. Tangible and touchable and far easier to fixate on the immaterial.)

(... Right?)

Diluc breathes your name, wide-eyed as you brace your palms on his thighs. You can feel how tense he is. The thick rug against the floor cushions your knees. 

“What are you doing?” His voice is small. 

“I want to make you feel good.” You ask, running your hands up to his waistband and begin to untuck his dirtied shirt, “May I?”

Diluc gives you a look. It’s all apprehension and worry, creasing the lines of his pretty face. He works his jaw as you toy with the leather of his belt.

(You understand it, really.)

(You don’t like the look he gives you, but you don’t know which one you’d rather see him wear. Hatred would perhaps be better. Desire would be the worst.)

(Diluc had always been the sure-footed one. Confident, but never cocky or boisterous. Even in the ways you’ve seen him now, he’s been firm and familiarly stubborn. But, at the sight of you below him, offering, he’s creased over in apprehension.)

Diluc gives you an almost imperceptible nod and tucks his bottom lip between his teeth. You smother your smile into the fabric of his trousers before palming him. He’s soft, though hardening under the layers of fabric. Your hands tremble as you undo his belt— maybe they’re going numb at your fingertips. It’s hard to tell. 

It’s easier to pull Diluc’s cock free and stroke idly. You flash him a smile, you don’t know how real it looks. 

(You love him.)

He is pretty. It’s not the first time you’ve seen his cock— hardly, but it’s been so long and his body is in so many ways unrecognizable. Even from the sliver of skin visible at his waistline, he has scars. Thick and thin, burns— he’s decorated in them. 

(You wonder how many you could’ve prevented.)

The thought rots something in you and your hands tremble. 

His cock though— his dick, that’s what you’re focused on. You fixate on the head of him, half-hard, pitching forward to press a kiss to him. Diluc makes an unholy, high noise, and you latch on to the sound of it. You lap at his slit and savor any pearls of precum that you taste. 

Pulling away, you spit into your hand, and stroke the length of him. Your ears are ringing.

You look up at him, neck aching, and push the bottom of his shirt up. “You should hold this between your teeth, hm?”

Diluc’s almost trembling, shaking as he nods and puts the hem of the shirt between his teeth. It’s compromising, surely. He’s suddenly so bare, and you’re on his floor, clothed. Mostly. Your robe is slipping, revealing bare shoulders and an unblemished collar. You’re sure it’s doing something to him. It has to, you hope it does.

You stall as he bares his chest to you. 

(So many wounds, healed and sealed. Most of these are new. Even with his battle prowess— what has he been doing to himself? To be so battered must mean that he put himself in harm’s way, above his abilities. Or face a foe he hadn’t expected.)

You tremble. 

You purse your lips and flatten your tongue. The taste of him is distracting, pleasantly. It’s more musk than smoke, all him in a way that makes you swallow him down more. One of his hands hesitantly rests against the side of your head. He doesn’t push or shove you. The contact is so light, it almost feels like he’s hovering rather than making contact. 

(Is he in pain? Does he have old wounds, like yours, that he’s just better at hiding? He was always the type to suffer in silence. Diluc wouldn’t tell you if he was hurting, would he? You’d only been able to goad him into letting you heal him when he was clearly returning home from a brawl, blood-stained, or both.)

You hum around his length and dig your fingertips into his thighs. Corded muscle covered by a layer of fat. Your mouth waters at the thought of taking a bite of him. 

(You know he bruises easily.)

It’s hard to breathe— you hadn’t realized Diluc’s size when you endeavored to suck his cock, but you’re feeling it now. You bully him further down, forcing yourself to relax until the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat.

Diluc says your name so breathlessly, pinched around the edges. Your eyes stay shut and you anchor yourself on sensation. The heat of Diluc, radiating into you from the inside, the desperate way he breathes through his teeth and the shirt tucked between them. You hum around him and relish the choked sound that he can’t hold back. 

(Like this, whatever is simmering under your skin and behind your eyes feels duller. You can chase sensation, grip it so hard it hurts, and bring pleasure at the same time. Isn’t this—)

You begin to bob your head, shallow, once, twice, and then a third time— And with a broken-sounding groan, Diluc comes down your throat.

It’s fast. It’s unexpected. The only warning you had was the way Diluc’s hand tightened around your skull, not pushing, but firm. Your eyes stretch wide as you try to swallow his release. It’s— a lot, more than you expect, and it spills from the corners of your mouth. Diluc jerks his hips, clearly involuntary, and you properly choke on him.

And then he pulls out of your mouth, dripping and sticky and softening, and you hang your head, swallowing thickly and coughing. The ringing in your ears is worse, and the world feels far away. Even Diluc’s heat feels lukewarm. It’s not peace, nor unsettling, something in the middle that is more unpleasant than pleasant. It’s hard to focus.

It’s easier, when Diluc goes to his knees next to you. He’s hastily tucked his cock away, belt still unbuckled. There’s dirt and singed fabric on his knees— you still haven’t checked his injuries. Foolish.

You reach out a hand (are you really shaking that hard?), Dendro curling around your fingers. Diluc catches your wrist and holds it steady. 

The ringing in your ears clears enough to hear him say your name. It’s hard to register. You send the Dendro through his wrist instead— how many fractures has he had on that bone? The scar tissue—

Diluc says your name once more, more sharply, more worried— and he cups your jaw and tilts your face up to his.

“Oh,” you reply softly. Your voice is wrecked. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Diluc’s brow is creased, relief bleeding in his voice. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.” You pat his hand that’s on your jaw. “Peachy. You taste good.”

It’s fun to watch Diluc flush even more— he always has always blushed easily. It spreads down his neck and up to his ears. You mindlessly lay the back of your free hand over the cheek to feel how warm he is. Burning. You swear he’ll scorch you alive.

“I don’t—” Diluc shakes his head, rubbing at your cheeks. It’s intimate. If your ears weren’t ringing, you’d be on the other side of the room by now. Maybe Mond. Maybe Teyvat. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask him. You feel breakable beneath your haze. “Is something wrong?”

Diluc looks at you. Really looks at you. Though you look back at him, the world is too fuzzy to take account of details. 

(If you could, you’d see concern. Wretched, awful concern and care that he has kept tucked so far away from you since you’ve returned. You closed the distance so swiftly between the two of you, violently, and Diluc is split wide with it.)

“You’re—” Diluc presses a finger down to your pulse point. “Your heart’s beating so fast.”

“Uh-huh.” You nod. “I couldn’t breathe for a moment there.”

“That’s not it.” Diluc counters you, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he strokes over your cheeks, conflicted. 

You reach out without thinking and tug the black ribbon from his hair. It spills over his shoulders— the waves are a mess. You see snarls and soot. Maybe even chunks burned together.

“Can I brush your hair?” You ask, running a hand through it and grimacing as your fingers get caught. “No, I should wash it first.”

“No,” Diluc says sharply. It startles you enough that you jump. It makes him wilt even more. “You won’t.”

“But I can—?”

“That doesn’t mean you should,” Diluc says softly, squeezing your shoulder.

Diluc has been so incredibly tentative, almost unsure, about any sort of physical contact with you prior. But, in this moment, he’s so sure.

He presses his lips to your forehead, firm and unyielding. It’s so warm— like a hearth that’s always been lit and rolling. High enough to cook a pot over but not enough to burn you down. You’d forgotten this part of his heat.

(How could you?)

“Indulge me?” he asks, lips soft against your skin. 

“... In what way?”

“Sleep in my bed,” he says softly. “With me.”

You frown. “You don’t need to return the gesture.”

“That’s not why I’m asking.” Diluc pulls away and presses his lips to your wrist instead. He must be able to feel your pulse. 

You consider. 

(You’re not within yourself. You’re floating; it’s not his fault. Circumstance and sleeplessness and the horror of intimacy do such things, you know. It’s a tempting offer when Diluc’s heat is so comforting.)

(When he is so comforting.)

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Diluc nods. “More than.”

(Is it really greed, if he invites you?)

“Okay.”

Diluc makes you tea. Scenes seem to skip before your eyes. One moment, Diluc is gone, then in the en suite bathroom, then beside you with a warm cup. The order of these events changes the longer you think about it. 

The tea grows colder in your hands and Diluc coaxes you to drink it.

He’s thrown on some soft linen sleep clothes. You get distracted by the obscenely deep-v of the cut, and it takes Diluc repeating your name a few more times to bring you back, closer to the present moment.

Exhaustion catches you quickly once you’re horizontal. It’s easier to fall into and accept when you’re surrounded by the smell of Diluc and his heat. Him. It’s too daunting to touch him fully like this, but you face him when you lie down. You both grab the other’s hand, and squeeze in tandem. 

“Is this alright?” he asks.

You nod, burying your nose in the sheets. “Yeah. Was earlier bad?”

“No,” Diluc says quickly. It’s too dark with the candles blown out, but you imagine him blushing. “Strange, maybe, but not bad. I didn’t expect it. I would prefer some notice, if you’re going to proposition me again.”

There’s something left unsaid after, but you can’t make yourself pry. 

You’re so whittled down, really. You’re just bones and cracking flesh and tears burgeoning before falling. The idea of sharing a big, warm bed with Diluc, despite everything unresolved and open and festering, breaks something in you. 

(You’ve been so hungry. Starved. Emaciated and just fucking dealing with it. And now you’re offered a feast on a platter and you’re horribly loyal, at your core.)

“I don’t share beds often.” A memory bubbles up to the surface. 

Diluc plays with your hair, scratching at your scalp, motions nearly scalding and circular. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve kept much company on your travels.”

“Only a few times.” A melancholy smile twists your lips. A memory drags you down from floating. “I was engaged, once, you know.”

Maybe it’s cruel to say, and part of you revels in the way Diluc squeezes your hand so tightly it almost hurts. “... You were?”

“Yes.”

“Betrothed?”

“Yeah.” You smother a laugh into the buttery sheets. “She was a healer in Fontaine. We met when I stayed in her village to tend to victims of a fungal plague. She asked me to marry her after I’d stayed with her for a while.”

“But, you didn’t go through with it?” Diluc's voice sounds tight. Or, you’re imagining it. 

“No.” You bring your legs up, curling around yourself. “I couldn’t. I called things off a few weeks before the wedding.”

“Why?” 

You think, think— because it’s been a long time, and the memory has become scattered. The face of the woman who was almost your wife is nearly gone in your memory. You remember the sound of her laugh, the color of her hair, and the way her home smelled when she burned her favorite candles. But— but—

“I couldn’t do it.” You feel withered. “She treated me so well. I could have lived well. The village cared for me and it would’ve been a kind life.”

You choke on the sound of your own laughter. Morose. You wrap your arms around Diluc’s one, burying your face in his bicep like it’ll take the burning away from your chest. 

“... Why couldn’t you?” he asks.

(Because it wasn’t here. It wasn’t him.)

“You know, at the Akademiya, there’s a whole Darshan dedicated to studying stars and the alignment of the cosmos.” You tangle a leg with Diluc’s. You’ll give him this much, another admission. “They say that fate’s written up there— for all of us.”

Diluc pulls you closer, under your thighs, slotting you together. It’s like you were made to be that way.

“I guess Celestia didn’t deign for me to stay in that village forever and get married.” You ache, all over. 

(But the stars did bring you back here. To Mond. To him.)

Diluc’s breath catches. He holds you tighter.

“They took you away too, though.” You curl the fabric of his shirt in your chest, over his heart. Like you could rip it out— (just like how he ripped out yours.) “ You left. Chasing something, right?”

And you throw your head back and laugh. You turn away from Diluc, something rotten bringing you back into yourself. Not memories, but dread and panic (forget, forget, forget.) You hate the feeling. You shove your face into the sheets and savor the feeling of it. The smell and the heat that you’re sure will be ripped away from you. It’s Diluc’s scent. Cecilia and oat soap and stale cologne. You indulge.

“You said you hate me.” Diluc’s voice is close. You lay on your stomach, twisted at the hips, and Diluc looms over you. His hands bunch in the sheets on either side of your shoulders. 

“I do, at least a little,” you admit, awful, wretched— “Maybe a lot.”

(As much as you love him.)

“You have every reason to.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

“I don’t regret it.”

It burns to hear. “I wouldn’t expect you to. A chance to play knight— hero?” 

“Did you expect me to not do anything?” 

“I expected you to at least say goodbye—!” You turn, sharp, and spit the words in his face even as your voice breaks. He’s closer than you thought, hovering so that you’re nose to nose.

A few tears slip, dripping down to your hairline. It takes every last shred and thread holding you together to keep from shattering. Diluc looks like he’s been slapped, shiny ruby eyes polished. Candlelight flickers in them, flame on flame.

You bite your tongue until you taste blood. Because, Archons, if you say anything else, you’ll regret it. 

“I’m sor—”

“Tell me in the morning,” you cut him off with a smile, one that makes him frown. “Please?”

And Diluc is nothing, if not weak for you.

It’s an easy shift, for him to drag you to the center of the bed, close to his chest, and pull the duvet over the two of you.

When Diluc presses you, front to front, with your head wedged under his chin, he says soft and breaking, “You worry me.”

You nearly laugh again. “Don’t.”

He just squeezes you, hard enough that you might break.

The pain comes in waves.

Sometimes, it laps at Diluc's shores like a comforting kiss, —the kind you used to pepper thoughtfully down the line of his jaw after a day’s work. The kind he'd all but melt under, reducing himself to putty in your hands. Other times, it crashes and roars like the howling wolves of the forests, pulling him in and under, washing him out to sea until he's lost, confused, and losing his will to move forward.

Tonight, he's hurting.

He stumbles in through the door after a night at the tavern serving drinks to cheerful drunks and rowdy lightweights. Kaeya wasn’t there. He hasn’t been since he heard the news, though Diluc isn’t sure why. Or maybe he does know, somewhere deep inside, and yet feigning ignorance is easier than facing things head on. All Diluc really knows for certain is that Kaeya wasn’t there. . . But he’s starting to wish he’d show up again. He’s starting to wish he’d come waltzing in through the door, no need for pity or anything of the sort. Just that cocky smirk and arrogant aura, making snide comments on little things just because he can. Yeah. . . Diluc could use that normalcy.

His heart is heavy with the thought of you. It's been a while, but the wound is fresh. It bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until Diluc lets it consume him, lets it strip him down to a mess on the floor. It bleeds until he falls apart, knowing that come morning he'll have to piece himself back together with reckless abandon and hope for the best. It'll never last long, but he has to admit that sometimes it's nice to pretend that he's learned how to live with the loss. It might even be easier to pretend that it doesn't always poke at his heart, reminding him of the hole you left behind that he doesn't know how to fix or fill.

Tonight, he's drowning again.

Diluc looks around at his bedroom and exhales, shakily so, listening for the sound of his mask of security shattering away into nothingness at his feet. He can't bring himself to throw away the dead flowers on the nightstand, —the ones he got for you in celebration of nothing in particular. Once a beautiful bouquet of cecilias, the petals are long past the point of being shriveled. They've blackened and fallen away from their rotting stems, curling into pathetic shells of what they once were. If Diluc were to pick them up, they'd crumble into dust in the palm of his hands. The vase is void of water now after quite a bit of neglect, but he'll make up for that in the morning. He'll water those long-dead stems and gently sweep the corpses of those lifeless petals into a little pile. 

Not that it'll make him feel any better.

In fact, it might as well be making things worse. But he'll do it in spite of that, because you once held those now-dead flowers close to your chest with a beaming smile on your face. You were happy in that moment, and he can’t bear the thought of getting rid of them when you were the one who carefully filled that little vase with water, the one who placed it on the nightstand next to your bed. His bed. The bed you once shared with him each night, wrapped up in each other, thinking maybe if he loved you hard enough it would shield you from the world itself.

Some days, he wakes up and has to fight the urge to slam that vase to the ground, watching as it shatters against the floor. And then Diluc is sure that he’d cry, fall to his knees atop all the shards with no regard for the pain it’ll cause him once he’s wrung himself dry again.

He’s good at making himself miserable.

That’s why he hasn’t washed the sheets in months, —because he’s tricked himself into believing that your side of the bed still smells like you, even after all this time. Acknowledging that it’s faded is far more hurtful than the alternative of clutching onto the pillow you always used, closing his eyes, and pretending that you’re still there with him, snuggling into his chest and mumbling something about how he made you feel safe.

His heart throbs.

All you ever wanted was for him to keep you safe, and yet here he is having completely failed you. And the worst part of all is that he knows you’d be the first person to tell him that he did the best he could, —that he tried, and that it was enough, even though he knows it wasn’t. Diluc knows you wouldn’t blame him. . . So he’s blaming himself enough for the both of you and then some.

Not because it’s what you’d want, but because it’s what he thinks he deserves.

He sits by the window now in that same spot you used to watch the sun set, slinking its way out of the sky as your eyes reflected the dimming rays. Diluc can hear you now as he gazes from the same window you once did, —gushing over the beautiful blend of colors awash in the sky. . . You’d always invite him to share the moment with you. Now, he regrets having said no so many times. If he could go back in time and do it all again, he’d never turn down a single offer. He’d hold you close, wrap you up in his arms, kiss the sweet spot just below your ear to hear you hum ever so lightly in bliss.

He really wishes he could do it all again.

The thought of it often keeps him awake at night.

Diluc feels that same wave of dread wash over him that he’s felt at every sunset since that fateful day. He might have grown to hate them by now if it weren’t for your love of them, —if it weren’t for the lingering shreds of your presence that he swears he feels when he gazes off toward the horizon as the sun lowers itself out of the sky to make room for the moon’s humble glow.

Maybe it’s just another way he’s deluding himself, watering down the agony that reaches for his heart every chance it gets, but it’s better than the emptiness that awaits him as an alternative. It’s better than the nothingness that Diluc knows would swallow him whole if he were to accept things as they are. Bleak. Completely desolate. . . Colder than even the windiest strips of mountainside atop Dragonspine’s all but infinite summit. 

At least here he can trick himself into believing that your fingertips are trailing along the back of his hand the way they always did, like little nimble spider legs just dancing along his flesh. Though Diluc has long been a man who prefers his space, you were one of the few people he would thoughtlessly allow close, —closer than anyone else could ever dream of being. So close that it might have been suffocating.

For the millionth time, Diluc is forced to come to the sobering realization that this room no longer feels like his own. This manor, the one his father took such care of when he was alive and well, has been reduced to nothingness. It feels utterly forsaken.

There’s nothing left here, and yet this room of things, dead flowers, little trinkets, and all the memories he can’t seem to part with, is all he has left of you. If he doesn’t come here, where else is there to go? He doesn’t feel you this strongly anywhere else, —not along Mondstadt’s cobble streets, not in the tavern where you’d swing by every now and again to entice him upstairs and onto the balcony, stealing kisses just to leave him breathless under the stars. He doesn’t feel you next to Starfell Lake where you used to feed the ducks and call them by names, —one’s you’d given them. Diluc still isn’t sure how you managed to tell them apart, or even if you ever truly did at all.

He doesn’t feel you like this at the top of Starsnatch Cliff where he took you on a first date, one that was sloppily planned and poorly executed on his part, but you said nothing of it and held his hand below an inky black sky anyway.

Try as he might, he only feels you so stirringly here in the room you tended to when Diluc himself chose not to. When work would pile up for him, you’d take care of all the smaller things just to give him a soft place to land at the end of each day.

Needless to say, the room has divulged into calamity without you.

Diluc wishes he could pull himself together, keep up with the tasks you always took care of with ease. He wishes he could fill your place, but it’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t have the will nor the strength to do so. He’s drained himself of every last drop. There’s nothing left to find inside him. He’s running on empty, and try as he might, there’s seemingly nothing he can do to fix it.

And above all else, Diluc just wishes that everything were different.

He wishes that his dad was still here to talk him down, to give him advice, to point him in the right direction. He wishes Kaeya were here, even if he’s still angry with him. He’d give the world to have a shoulder to cry on, —to have his brother here for the first time in forever. It’s selfish, he knows, considering Diluc drove the wedge between them himself and has since adamantly denied every last one of Kaeya’s attempts to mend things. . . But right now, selfishness is one of the few things Diluc can manage to conjure up.

And selfishly, he’d let the entirety of Teyvat burn to a crisp around him if it meant he could have your lips pressed against his again, even if only for a moment.

Diluc reaches out to open the window. The sunset is gone and the stars don’t glimmer as brightly as they once did. He feels nothing but bitterness well up inside as he listens to the song of the wind and trees. He’s sure you’d want to dance to the tender melody of the breeze stirring the branches up above. Maybe, he ponders, if I send a message off with the wind, it just might reach the right place. . .

With a heavy, aching heart, Diluc traces the window sill, fingertips easily sliding over the smooth material. A sob creeps up the back of his throat as he closes his eyes, feeling that same breeze caress his skin under the moonlight. It’s nowhere near as comforting as he wishes it was, but it’s all that remains. It’s all he’s got left.

Though the words nearly die on his tongue, Diluc forces himself to speak; sending that message off with the wind in hopes that you might hear it wherever you are now.

“I love you.”

How? How could your father have done something so completely, utterly, all-encompassingly foolish? It was bad enough that he’d been colluding with agents of the Fatui, —but to also be hiding his poor health atop it all? The news of it came like a raging typhoon, snuffing out so much in a single instance. You had so many questions, so many things to say, but you sat in utter silence, unsure of how to unravel the harrowing mess of tangled threads festering in your mind. In the end, you stood from your place on the living room sofa, the one your father used to carry you from late at night when you’d doze off and he was keen on tucking you into bed.

The door clinked shut behind you, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you set off. If word of this were to spread, your family’s long-beloved bakery would undoubtedly fail. Even the loyalest of customers wouldn’t be caught dead spending their Mora at an establishment working with the Fatui. They’ve done nothing but create unrest amongst the citizens of Mondstadt for far too long, —lingering about the public with their mask-adorned faces and threatening the blissful lives of city-goers with their underhanded deals.

Working with them was like working for the devil, and even those who’ve long chosen to forgo the will of the Archons wouldn’t dare test their luck in such a manner.

You’re angry, but even more than that, you’re hurt. It’s painful to know that even your own father didn’t see you as being worthy of his honesty. If he’d just been truthful when his health began to decline, so much of this would be different. Sure, maybe Mora would have been tight during the course of his treatment, but struggling for a while or picking up some odd jobs here and there would have been miles better than this. He was playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes.

Atop it all, so much more had been put at risk than would have been necessary under normal circumstances.

And. . . He was sick. Your loving, doting father was ill, and there was nothing you could do about it at present. His health was failing, and you were powerless to stop the flow of nature in that direction. None of this was fair. A part of you even held onto lingering hopes that this was just a dream —a nightmare— that you’d be able to wake up from. 

But you had to plan for the worst in spite of that. So you swallowed your pride and slipped a poorly-scrawled note into the hand of a dispatched agent in passing, afraid that having even a quick conversation in public would raise far too many red flags amongst your fellow Mondstadters. You felt like a lowly criminal in the time that followed, sitting beneath a wide tree just past the edge of Wolvendom. When you were younger, you often came here. Back then, it was an innocent gesture of youth, —playful giggles spilling from open-mouthed smiles as you dashed and jumped about with your friends.

It dawns on you then, albeit rather inopportunely, that you haven’t spoken to most of them in quite a while. Not even Diluc, who you’d have ventured to call your best friend at one point in time. As you let your mind wander a bit, you wonder how he’s doing now. . . How all of your past friends have gotten about since you last saw them and were privy to the ins and outs of their lives.

“You,” a gruff, agitated voice calls out to you, shattering the peaceful silence, “—what’s this about?”

The note you’d slipped into his hand dangles from his pinched fingertips, a wiry scowl etched into his lips. It’s the only feature of his face you’re able to catch sight of, the rest hidden behind his Fatui mask. You pull yourself to your feet upon his arrival.

He seems like a generally unpleasant fellow, —the kind of guy most would assume to be working for such a twisted organization. You’d picked him out of the crowd because he had a slighter frame than the others you’d passed, and mistakenly assumed because he seemed less physically formidable that perhaps he wouldn’t be quite as difficult to deal with as the rest.

You were pretty off base, in all actuality.

“Tell me how to pay off a debt to your group,” you request, though it sounds more like a demand.

It can’t really be helped when you’re aggravated to this degree, but a part of you cringes at the bossy tone you’ve taken. It’s unlike you.

“A debt?” He sneers, and you can just imagine the way his judgemental eyes have slit themselves into mocking lines behind the mask he dons. “What kind?” 

“I don’t know,” you snap, “—the kind you trick desperate people into taking on, I guess.”

“If you were stupid enough to take it on, I don’t see how it’s any of my concern as to whether you pay it off or not,” he shrugs. “Go find the one you made the deal with in the first place. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“I wasn’t stupid enough to do anything,” you retort.

“Then stop playing hero for whoever you care about that was,” he answers bluntly. “They’ll either figure it out themselves, —or they won’t. We’re both just bystanders in this one, so my suggestion is that you sit back and watch. You might even have some fun.” 

“Maybe you get off on watching innocent people suffer, but that’s really not my cup of tea,” you reply.

“What, so we’re the evil creatures lurking in the shadows and everyone who chooses to work with us of their own free will is just a hapless little rabbit getting pounced on by some big, bad wolves?” He challenges. “Get real for a second. It takes two to tango, and your friend, family member, —whoever it is, they did this to themself. I think it’s high time you stop meddling in other people’s affairs.”

It annoys you that he’s being so sanctimonious about this, —but it’s worse that he’s right. Your father, as much as you love and care about him, is far from innocent in this matter. In fact, he may just be the one holding the most blame for it all, even above the Fatui themselves.

“Whatever,” you try to brush him off, though his words sting in spite of your attempt at indifference. “Just tell me how to fix this.”

“Sorry,” he answers, —and you know he isn’t in the slightest because of the way he snickers right after.

“Haven't got a clue.”

With that, he turns away, likely to return to his place in Mondstadt City. Your hands clench into fists at your sides, squeezing so tightly that your nails dig into the flesh of your palms.

“Even if I did though,” he calls out, never looking back your way, “it’s not like I’d tell you.”

“Thank you!” Amber says happily, taking a fresh loaf of bread from your hands with a grateful smile.

“Of course,” you answer, “it was nice seeing you!”

She’s always a treat to have around, so unabashedly kind and considerate. Despite her busy job as Mondstadt’s highly renowned Outrider, she often makes time to support the local businesses around the city, and your family’s bakery is no exception.

“You too, y/n! Let’s find some time to catch up sometime soon!”

You nod your head in confirmation, offering her the best smile you can muster up in your tired state. The sun is quickly setting behind the rolling hills of Teyvat, and you’re readying yourself to close the shop up for the night. With your father laid up in bed for the time being and your mother taking time away from the bakery to care for him, you’ve been left to handle things here alone.

It’s not a particularly difficult job, really. You’re used to the motions of it by now, having grown up around it and all, —but the responsibility weighs heavy on your shoulders since finding out about your father’s more illicit affairs. Your mother doesn’t know the extent of it, and in spite of your better judgment, you promised your father you wouldn’t be the one to tell her of the situation. He swore he’d do it when the right time presented itself, but if that doesn’t come to pass soon, you’re prepared to drop the bomb yourself; even if it means betraying his trust.

For now though, you wipe the counter down with a wet cloth, collecting crumbs and flour typical of a day’s work.

Just when it sparked your mind to flip the sign outside the door to closed, it swings open, and with it comes a familiar face. Long, fiery red hair tied back behind his head, gloves fitted over his hands, Diluc meets your gaze and strides toward you in long, deliberate steps. It’s been a while since you last saw him, —even longer since you last had any kind of meaningful conversation. Though you’d been quite close to him in your youth, the test of time had not been kind to your friendship, and after his father’s passing, he stopped coming around to the bakery altogether. It was rare to see him out and about, and you eventually stopped going to the Angel’s Share, if only out of fear you might cross his path and be left with nothing to say.

You can’t help the way you gawk a bit, taking him in. . . He doesn't look too dissimilar to the boy he once was, —just taller, more muscular, and sharper all around. Still, there’s an air about him that feels much more intimidating, and the blank expression he wears is much the opposite of the happy child you knew him to be when he was younger. 

“Diluc,” you utter for the first time in Celestia knows how long.

Even his name feels foreign on your tongue.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He hums in acknowledgement.

“It has been quite some time since we last spoke, hasn’t it?”

You nod, noting the contrasting feelings bubbling up inside you. On one hand, there’s a sense of comfortable familiarity with him that seeks to quell your nerves, —but on the other, you’re forced to acknowledge that he isn’t the boy you once knew him to be. He’s a man now, and you’re none too acquainted with him as he stands before you.

“What can I get you?” You smile, assuming he’d stopped by for something like old time’s sake, maybe for one of your mother’s famous bread rolls that he used to gobble down in a matter of seconds.

“Actually, I’m not here to purchase anything,” he notes, dismissing your pleasantries. “I’m here to speak with you about your father’s affiliation with the Fatui.” 

Your eyes widen as your blood runs cold. Even if you were to lie, your reaction gave you away completely.

“I’m. . . Not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about,” you reply after taking a few seconds to collect yourself.

He notes the way you fail to meet his eyes when you speak now, as if you’re ashamed on your father’s behalf. Diluc doesn’t seem angry or disappointed, but you know the baggage such an accusation comes with, and you’re certain that if he really does happen to know the truth that it’s greatly impacted his opinion of you. If the roles were reversed, you can’t say you wouldn’t feel similarly.

“You don’t have to lie,” he tells you. “I’ve known for quite some time. . . About his illness, the expense of the treatment, and his collusion with the Fatui as a result of it.”

“You. . . You knew?” The question spills from your lips laced with venom, —because if he’d known all along, why hadn’t you?

It wasn’t as if your father had anything to do with Diluc as far as you were aware. Moreover, he’d been so far removed from your family for so long now that it came as a slap in the face for him to have been so informed and yet you, the child of the man at the center, had been left completely out of the loop as if your feelings and right to know were just playthings to disregard at will.

“You knew for so long and yet you never came to me?”

Diluc purses his lips for a moment, thinking before he speaks. He understands why you’re angry, understands that you’re scared, worried, and stressed beyond belief. And that’s why he’s here now, even if it’s a little late.

“I didn’t think it was my place,” he answers. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause more damage where it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Why is it suddenly your place now then?” You question. “What changed?”

“I know that you’ve personally been in contact with a dispatched agent here in Mondstadt.”

The way your face drops is subtler now, something you could likely play off if you put on a convincing enough performance going forward. This really isn’t the way you expected this reunion with Diluc to play out, full of twisted secrets and deceit, —but in this moment, he is not your friend. He’s a complete and utter stranger, and you’ve no obligations to him above that of your own family (no matter how stupid their decisions may be.)

“You can’t prove that,” you say with a shrug, hoping you sound more nonchalant than you feel. (You don’t.)

“I can’t,” he agrees, digging one of his gloved hands into his pocket.

From it he pulls a familiar slip of parchment. You don’t need to see the writing on it to know it was the same one you’d stuffed into the hands of a Fatui agent just a week prior.

“But I think we’d both agree I have enough evidence to make a reasonable assumption about it.”

As if to emphasize his point, he places the note on the counter before you. If it had eyes, you just know it would be staring up at you mockingly right about now.

“How did you get that?” You inquire, taking it into your hands in order to tear it in two. 

Diluc doesn’t even flinch when you do so.

“Does it matter?” He answers your question with one of his own.

“It does,” you nod. “Because at this point, I think you really owe me some answers. Otherwise, this conversation is over.”

He isn’t fond of your hostility, but isn’t naive enough to question why you aren’t choosing to be trusting of him right off the bat. Knowing what he does, Diluc thinks it’s only natural for you to be reacting this way, —unable to take him at his word, and beyond that, unable to see him as an ally given the circumstances.

Nodding, his voice lowers to a cautious tone, as if he’s scared someone is lingering outside the door.

“Get rid of that,” he points to the fist where the torn note resides, “and meet me at the manor for Dawn Winery. We’ll talk there.”

You stare for a bit, as if searching his face for any signs of nefarious intent.

“. . . Fine,” you agree, albeit begrudgingly so. “But you’d better not be wasting my time with this, Diluc.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You took your anger out on that note before trudging your way to Dawn Winery. It was left in small, crumpled pieces, the message to meet you at the edge of Wolvendom unrecognizable by the time you were done with it. Once it was disposed of, you did a lot of thinking on the walk over. It wasn’t necessarily Diluc you were mad at. . . Maybe it was just the world at that point, every little thing striking all the wrong chords inside you. He was right, you suppose, that none of it was really any of his concern; at least not enough to have approached you about it before then.

It’s not like the two of you were best buddies. You couldn’t even recall the last time you’d spoken to him. But really, that only proved to make you feel worse. He’d known so much while you’d known so little, —absolutely nothing at all, in fact. Your father had chosen to leave you in the dark, and for someone like Diluc to have been sat in the light, no matter how he came to be there. . . It just wasn’t right.

Upon your arrival, you were greeted warmly by the Dawn Winery staff. You guessed Diluc must have informed them in advance that you’d be showing up, as a sweet, bubbly maid quickly showed you to a room upstairs where Diluc and a man you’d never seen before sat and stood respectively around a round wooden table. A duo of teacups was placed on either side, and Diluc’s eyes seemed to follow you across the room as the young maid quickly shut the door behind you with a soft click.

“Have a seat,” he gestured. “The tea is freshly brewed, if you’re interested.”

You had no reason to deny it, so you took the warm cup into your hands and gingerly took a small drink of the fragrant liquid. It was quite flavorful, —if a little bitter in the aftertaste.

“Thanks,” you say, “but I’m not exactly here to sip tea with you.”

“I’m aware of that,” he replies, offering you the ghost of a smile.

It’s likely not the right time to be noticing such things, but he’s quite. . . Handsome. You’ve always known him to be cute, but there’s something endearing about the air of mystery that lingers over him now, though it’s just as equally annoying for the time being.

“I’ll start by introducing you to someone,” Diluc begins, glancing up at the man standing just beside the table.

He’d been so still and silent that you’d almost forgotten he was even there in the first place.

“This is Henley. He’s one of many individuals employed by myself working undercover with low-ranking Fatui agents across Teyvat.”

You let your gaze travel to his face. His features are sharp and he seems like a dignified young man, just a bit older than Diluc from the looks of it. Mousy hair falls in loose waves, barely touching the edge of his jaw on either side. Now that you’ve gotten a better look at him, he seems. . . Familiar. Your eyes squint up, and he lets out a soft tuft of breath, a smile finally cracking across his face.

“I take it you’ve noticed?” He asks.

Though his voice is much less growly than before, you’d recognize it anywhere. It’s been playing in your mind for days, spinning the same cycle out of control.

He’s the Fatui agent you spoke with not long ago, —the one who snapped at you and told you to sit back and watch your father be swallowed up by his debts. 

You offer a sarcastic laugh, setting your stare on Diluc once more.

“That’s how you got the note?”

“Precisely,” he answers. “Henley’s also the reason I came to know about your father, —his illness, the deal he made with members of the Fatui, and now, the debt he’s drowning in.” 

“Then maybe he can also give me some answers that my father wouldn’t,” you quip, looking up at Henley again. “How much debt has he racked up?”

When he came clean, your father sought to avoid specifics even then. In many ways, his honesty left you with more questions than answers, —which is why you solicited a Fatui agent to begin with, thinking one of them could give you the information you craved.

“I couldn’t say for certain,” Henley replies. “It wasn’t my deal, and even when agents brag, they keep the specifics to themselves.”

“Give me your best guess, then,” you request, fiddling with the handle of your teacup.

The man pauses before giving you a response.

“At present, probably a couple hundred thousand Mora,” he estimates. “But the Fatui don’t take kindly to those who borrow Mora they can’t pay back, so it could be more depending on how generous they’ve decided to be with him.”

A shaky breath passes your lips.

“I. . . I can’t afford that,” you say softly. “Even with all of my family’s savings put together, I don’t even think I’d be able to make a dent.”

Your stomach twists with anxiety. If you couldn’t manage to pay it back, there’s no telling what would happen. The family bakery would be long-gone, all the hard work leading up to such a dismal end. Worst of all, your father’s illness would be left untreated, and he’d be stuck withering away until there's nothing left.

“Lend me your ear for a bit,” Diluc chimes back in.

“What I’m about to tell you has to stay between us. If word gets out, there’s no telling what all could go wrong. Do you understand?”

Though you’re not sure you can really handle any more large-scale secrets right now, you give him an affirmative nod nonetheless. It can’t hurt to listen when you’ve already come this far.

“I understand.”

“Good,” he notes, not missing a beat. “I’ll be summing months of investigative work up as best I can, but if you have any questions, feel free to interrupt. And besides that, —the point I’m making is that working with me for a bit might just be a saving grace for you and your family.”

He’s got your full, undivided attention now, and you’re just praying he won’t misuse it.

“Henley, the map, please,” Diluc requests, holding a single gloved hand open.

The other man moves like some sort of machinery, pulling a rolled piece of paper from the inside of his coat. You catch a glimpse of the Fatui attire he wore not long ago just underneath the dark fabric. With refined precision, Diluc unravels the paper, revealing a map of Mondstadt. It’s a typical map of the nation, —nothing much out of the ordinary at first glance. But upon closer inspection, there’s a series of markings on the surface that don’t seem to pinpoint any important locations that you’re personally aware of. Now, you’re no scholar of Mondstadt’s geography, and you’re certainly no cartographer, but as many times as you’ve seen a map of your home nation over your lifetime, you’re sure you would have noticed at least one of those before. 

With the map in hand, Diluc rises from his seat, tea untouched. It’s only then that you take notice of the empty board just to your left as he makes haste of pinning the parchment down to it. You follow in his footsteps without being prompted, your own cup of tea long forgotten.

“What do you see?” He asks.

“These marked points,” you mutter, reaching out to ghost the tip of your index finger over the one stationed just past the fringe of Wolvendom, “—what are they?”

“Wonderful question,” he praises. “With no added information, this map is basically useless. It pinpoints locations that, if you go to them on any regular day, hold nothing more than what you’d expect from the nature that surrounds them.”

He places the flat of his palm against the map now, gaze catching yours and holding it hostage as he continues.

“But these locations are far more than what meets the eye. They’re utilized by the Fatui at random, —likely to cut down on suspicion, and the more remote nature of these points lowers the likelihood of being spotted considerably. If not for my network of agents, I’m not sure I would have ever caught on what with how sneaky they tend to be.”

“Okay, I get why they’d choose places like that, but what exactly are they doing there?” You question.

“That’s where things get a little. . . Outlandish,” Diluc prefaces.

“These more secluded, often open areas are replicated in little pockets of a slower moving reality. They call these mimicked spaces abyssal zones, and inside, there’s an underworld of sorts where they throw Mora around like candy for some pretty. . . Barbaric entertainment.”

Your brows furrow in confusion, attempting to wrap your mind around it all. It’s a lot to take in at once, that’s for sure.

“How does that even work?” You question finally. “They just slice open reality and stuff themselves inside?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Diluc notes. “The exact details are still pretty fuzzy as far as I’m aware, but the harnessing of abyssal energy from the Void Realm allows for the creation of these temporary abyssal zones that look just like the area they’re formed in. After it’s been created, it can just as easily be hidden away, —like closing some kind of illusionary curtain over the entrance.”

“The flow of time inside an abyssal zone is completely different to the flow of time in Teyvat,” Henley pipes up. “I’ve only been inside one a single time, but I stayed for over a day. When I returned, it was like nothing had changed at all. Like Teyvat had frozen itself over.”

“By my calculations from the information my informants have provided me with, a full day in an abyssal zone is roughly equivalent to the passing of one hour in Teyvat,” Diluc adds.

“Okay, well that definitely sounds trippy and all, —but what happens inside the zones or whatever? And how does this connect to my father’s situation?” You inquire.

“I was just getting there,” Diluc pulls his palm away now, pointing to the unfamiliar markings on the map again.

“From what I know, there’s a common thread of using abyssal zones to hide a vast amount of criminal activity. Because they’re forged in collaboration with members of the Fatui, that should hardly come as a shock within itself, —but the real flesh of the issue comes down to the fights that take place there.”

“Fights? Like, physical ones?” You question for clarity’s sake.

“Yes,” Henley confirms, “but they’re likely a lot worse than what you’re imagining. I’m not sensitive to violence after being undercover with Fatui agents for so long, —but what I saw there really struck a nerve. It gets unbelievably gruesome at times.”

“There’s a system in place for it all,” Diluc adds. “Lots of wealthy individuals around Teyvat gather in these zones to place bets on fighters, and some even enter competitors of their own. The catch is that each fighter has to be backed and represented by a business or a company, —some kind of corporation that verifiably has enough Mora to pay up if their fighter loses a match.”

“There has to be an entire business involved to even enter a competitor?” You gape. “Just how much Mora are they betting on these fights?”

“I’ve heard that some have tipped over the million mark for a single match,” Diluc replies.

Your eyes flicker between him, Henley, and the map.

“Well. . . All of that is definitely really intense and all, —but I’m not seeing what it has to do with me or my father’s debt.”

Moreover, you weren’t sure why Diluc was choosing to share any of it with you of all people. It’s not as if he had enough of a grasp on your current character to really know that you’d stay silent about it all, even if you did assure him that you would prior. You’re sure someone out there would be itching for information like this, and it could likely be sold for a hard price if you played your cards right. . .

“If we enter these matches and create a winning streak, the hype around it all will rake in plenty of Mora, —probably more than either of us will even know what to do with. Beyond that, doing so will help steer the funds in a more positive direction, allowing us to take a vast source of income away from the Fatui and redirect it to people in need. People like your father who’ve found themselves in over their heads.”

That idea is good in theory, but in practice? You’re not sold under any stretch of the imagination. In fact, a part of you feels like it’s way outside the scope of your capabilities to even stomach an environment like that in the first place, nonetheless get deep enough in it to rake in large sums of currency.

“Diluc, have you even thought this through?” You ask. “I’m sure that kind of organized violence is illegal in one way or another no matter what nation you’re in, —but besides that, I’m not exactly in any position to be fighting anyone.”

“And I wouldn’t ask that of you,” he assures quickly. “When it comes to competing, I mentioned that every fighter is required to have a backing organization to support them financially. However, a competitor can’t even set foot in the abyssal zones to fight without an ‘executive director,’ —a formal representative of the company who can call for the end of any match at any point in time if they fear for the safety of their fighter or have another reason for withdrawing.”

Diluc continues: “Executive directors are also in charge of placing bids on fighters, even those who don’t represent them or their organization. They receive all the monetary benefits of competing and placing bets, and they choose how they allocate those funds.”

“But don’t they also have to have enough Mora to sponsor their own fighter with their backing corporation in the first place?” You question. “My family’s bakery doesn’t bring in anywhere enough to manage that.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you either,” he replies. “Putting your family’s business on the line like that, especially with your father’s situation as it is, isn’t something I’d even dream of pushing you to agree to. Instead, I’m asking that you become the executive director and official representative for Dawn Winery.”

You stare at him for a moment, blinking slowly in surprise.

“Sir,” Henley interjects, “—I don’t mean to overstep here, but are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Diluc’s expression drops into a scowl for a moment, but the answer he gives is nothing harsher than before.

“We won’t know for certain unless we try,” he concedes.

Henley’s expression seems to imply that he wants to say more, but he resigns himself to silence in the wake of Diluc’s curt response.

“I admit, there’s a lot that I don’t know, and there’s likely even more that could go wrong. I don’t have all the details about any of this, and for most of it, we’ll just have to play it by ear. I shared all of this information with you because. . . I thought you’d understand where I was coming from, I guess. But if you don’t, or if you do and still want nothing to do with any of it, —I get it, and I won’t try to convince you of anything that you’re not already sold on.”

You’re not sold. Not in the slightest. Still though. . . Perhaps the more naive side of you that grew up around Diluc and remembers all the times he’d go along with your games as children, even when they weren’t perfectly planned nor executed, feels that it’s your time to repay the favor. It’s a poor comparison, certainly, but something about him is comfortable in spite of how different he is to the young boy he used to be.

Now’s definitely not the time to be agreeing to things based on nostalgia, —but when he looks at you like that, you’re not sure how to say no.

“Hypothetically,” you begin, “say I agree to all of this and I represent Dawn Winery as an executive director. How can I do all of that and still manage to care for my family’s shop? My father is laid up in bed, and my mother is stuck taking care of him as best she can because the treatment he needs is so far out of our price range that it’ll take us weeks of business to save up enough for a single dose of proper medicine. Working at the bakery is the only sure-fire source of income we have right now, and I can’t forgo that for a little flicker of hope that I might score big with what’s basically just glorified gambling with some live action combat to go along with it.” 

“Remember, time flows much faster in abyssal zones,” Diluc reminds you. “As far as I know, these events don’t begin until after sundown on specific dates. Most of the attendees are also running their own businesses: things like shops, guilds, service providers, and even those in positions of power. That gives you days’ worth of time to spare, —and I can make arrangements for you to have extra staff with no cost to you or your family.”

“And what about the time that I actually spend in the abyssal zones? A place that reveres violence to such an extent doesn’t seem like the kind of environment that would do its best to temper it out. Isn’t it dangerous just to go there in the first place?” You inquire.

“Typically not for the attendees,” Henley answers. “The fighters are definitely another story altogether, —but violence amongst members of the audience is strictly forbidden, and though I’m sure it still happens, I doubt most of them would even risk it. Violence between competitors outside matches is also prohibited, but again, I’m sure not everyone abides by that rule either.”

Honestly, you’re just surprised a scene like that would have actual rules for anything. It sounded more like a free-for-all of blood and knuckles than anything else.

“I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you,” Diluc chimes in. “As your representative fighter, I’ll be with you at all times unless I’m actively in combat, and I—”

“Wait, wait,” you interrupt, “you? You’re going to be the representative fighter?”

Somehow, you’d been expecting him to shove another operative off on you, or maybe to pull some insanely talented warrior from out of nowhere. You’re sure Diluc isn’t completely incompetent in that sense, but. . .

“Yeah,” he nods, “is there something wrong with that?”

“No, I mean, not really, I just. . . I don’t exactly wanna stand around and see you get hurt is all. . .”

Diluc looks at you like he’s shocked you even care, and you briefly wonder just how crass you’d been with him before for that to come as a surprise. You’re not the biggest fan of senseless violence one way or the other, but when your childhood friend is involved, no matter how long it’s been since you were close to him, it automatically feels a bit more personal. A lot more personal, actually. 

Eventually, his look of brief bewilderment turns into a soft smile. It’s the kindest expression you’ve seen from him all evening.

“I can take care of myself,” he says, hoping it will reassure you. “Everything will be fine, and I’ll leave it in your hands to call the shots. If you ever think it’s too much and you want to call the match off on my behalf, I’ll leave that decision completely up to you.”

Ah. . . That’s a lot of responsibility that you never planned on signing up for. But Diluc locks your eyes in an ardent stare, —the kind that it’s impossible to pull away from, even when your mind itches for you to let your gaze flitter about.

“What do you say, y/n?” He presses softly. “Are you in?”

You really should turn him away. This plan is nothing short of inconceivable, and it’s dangerous for the both of you (albeit one much more so than the other.) Plus, there’s no guarantee that saying yes will even go the way you’re both desperately hoping it will from the bottom of your hearts.

Above the nagging voice in the back of your mind that tells you to just say no and walk away from this, you let out a soft sigh.

“Yeah,” you nod finally, “—I’m in.”