Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At times, Diluc has thought about telling Jean and the Traveler the truth.

It has never been more than a fleeting thought. One budding unwillingly in some of his lowest moments, when the only thing that kept him from saying it was loosening the shackles of his self-restraint. Often, I don’t want to live is not something that takes long to be spoken. A few seconds— that’s all it would take for them to know.

Not all reasons for not going through with it were cowardly. Or at least, it didn’t always come down to Diluc being afraid of saying it. It’s more so that in these imaginary scenarios, the outcome playing out in Diluc’s head would never change.

He can see them. Looking at him with heartbreak written into the worry lines around their mouths. Their lips would be open around broken ohs and Dilucs. Their breaths hitched in disbelief.

Jean would probably worry herself sick. She’s selfless like that. She’d work herself to the ground trying to juggle her duties and search for more books for Diluc to read, because maybe this one, or the next one, or the one after that might finally heal him. She’d feel guilty about not having more time for Diluc. Or maybe she’d be scared Diluc would off himself one night, and she’d be too late.

The Traveler probably wouldn’t know what to do. Still, they’d want to help. Both of them would want to help. They’d reassure Diluc that he can get out of this, all the while looking at him like he’s a ticking bomb, and Diluc doesn’t think he could take it.

They’d look at Diluc afraid of what he could do, and Diluc couldn’t bear the ache of watching them change.

“Ah, I can already feel my legs protesting.” Wriothesley sighs, clasping one hand around the base of his neck, stretching his shoulder as the sand crunches beneath their feet.

They’re almost at the last line of the houses. Their own are a stone’s throw away.

Diluc hears the soft-spoken words.

It hasn’t been long since they decided to go back home. Wriothesley came out of the sea clad in a reluctance that Diluc could relate to, while Diluc tried to look anywhere but at the man— it felt like if he did, then he wouldn’t have been able to stop more tears from coming. So instead he looked at the horizon, trying to make out the line splitting it from the sea, blended onyx under the scatter of stars in the bare skies, while easing his breaths.

In their attempts at helping, Jean and the Traveler would create expectations. Subconsciously, unwillingly, they would.

Gods. They’d have Diluc struggling so hard, so hard to show them some progress.

That would be Diluc’s demise. Trying to not let them down when he knows he can’t get any better. Jean doesn’t know that Diluc can’t even enter his Father’s rooms. It’s been six years, and Diluc can’t set foot inside them.

He had Adelinde take out all the documents, and books, and clothes. She has dusted off his Father’s favorite trinkets and moved them to the most ornate vitrine in the Dining Hall. Diluc couldn’t close his hand around the doorknob and push the door open, too scared his Father would be standing right there, with a pale face and blue lips, because all his blood would be on the floor, gushing out of the wound shaped after the length of Diluc’s knife.

“On a scale of one to ten, how likely is Monglane to believe me if I call in sick later today?” Wriothesley asks.

I did it, Diluc thinks, letting his tear-burnt eyes fall to the side, his chest still full of disbelief.

His body still feeling like it’s not really whole.

He finally told someone.

Wriothesley’s flushed face is facing forward; even though everything is silver, there is nothing but peace in the soft furrow of his brows.

The first time… The first time Diluc had tried to move on, he’d had this idea to put on his Father’s coat. He remembers his fingers catching on the fabric of the sleeves, and how it hung on his body, sickly thin after his pursuit of revenge.

Diluc has no idea what he thought would happen, aside from the obvious. Maybe he thought that wearing something that had belonged to his Dad would’ve made him feel like he was growing into someone worth something.

The only thing it did was make Diluc empty the contents of his stomach into the nearest toilet— because it’d been four years, but the coat still smelled like his Dad.

All those traces Diluc knew so well were still buried deep within the scent of old.

Diluc hasn’t worn it since. The sheer memory of the sorrow still has Diluc’s stomach twisting with pain. But Diluc is another place now, and what’s happening is real even if it feels anything like it, and Wriothesley isn’t Jean or the Traveler.

Diluc forces his focus onto the feeling of sand, chafing against the bruised skin of his shins. He licks the salt off the roof of his mouth. Then, he tries to scrape off the fear that’s been latching onto his bones ever since the weight of what he did settled in.

It’s with little success. There are too many other things clashing against his ribcage, tangled with that fear of being known, especially when there’s nowhere for him to hide. Still, when Diluc speaks, his voice almost sounds like it belongs to him again. He can almost pretend that there are no dried tears all over his cheeks. “… One and a half.”

“And a half? Generous.” Wriothesley’s brows raise. His silver eyes are mirthful when they fall on Diluc.

He knows, now. But the softness of his gaze is the same as always. He’s not afraid for Diluc. He hasn’t set any expectations for Diluc to meet, and it’s almost strange.

Wriothesley knowing the truth doesn’t make Diluc’s hands any less bloody. But the relief is so big that it aches.

Diluc didn’t know something so big could even be felt.

He didn’t know something so kind could hurt so much. It pushes at the guilt and the grief, and the disgust at having broken down in front of another person. It grows over the fear. His heart curls around it.

His throat is so full it spills into his mouth.

“Vision wielders hardly catch any sickness,” Diluc says. Kaeya’s name is still fresh, at the seam of his lips. Diluc has called him his brother. Out loud.

His fingers are curled tight at his sides. There could be a future for him. One where he’s made peace with the past and can live. Where his existence could still amount to something other than killing. The proof is standing right in front of him, close enough to touch.

What do I do now? the question threatens to spill, for a split-second. Wriothesley has been generous with his answers, but the desperation keeps lingering. The hope Diluc is feeling isn’t making the way forward any clearer, but somehow, somehow Diluc stops the words from unfurling on his tongue.

Because it’s enough. He’s despaired enough. He hasn’t let so much weakness show since Jean found out about his attacks.

“However, there is a possibility that Monglane might believe you if you told her you lost your vision and then fallen ill,” he finishes. He thinks that if he were stronger, he wouldn’t even be wavering like this.

If he were nothing that he is, he wouldn’t be here at all, keeling over for help.

Beside him, Wriothesley passes his hands over his face with a small, defeated sigh. “Then I guess it’s a zero. I actually forgot the vision on my desk earlier. Monglane, the invaluable employee that she is, brought it to me right before I left.”

“You forgot your vision?” The surprise makes Diluc slow down. There’s not a single vision owner he knows that would misplace their vision somewhere.

Something in Wriothesley’s face changes. A flicker of softness settles in the corner of his mouth. “I was… distracted.”

It’s instinct, really. How the worry manages to push any other feeling away. “Did something happen?” Diluc asks.

He does a double take when he sees the look that Wriothesley gives him.

It’s—

It’s a strange one. One that— that makes Diluc feel like he should be able to tell what it means.

Diluc looks for an answer in Wriothesley’s face, yet Wriothesley stays silent. Which is strange too, since usually it’s the other way around.

Diluc gathers belatedly that they’ve come to a stop.

That there’s something weighted, in the silence.

After another second or two, Wriothesley replies, “I was worried about a friend.”

Oh.

That’s—

That really is not something Diluc should pry into.

“I hope they are fine now,” he replies, a bit self-conscious, the comfort misshapen, as always, because it’s him who speaks those words.

“You hope they’re—” Wriothesley repeats, his voice heavy with— with incredulity, Diluc thinks, his own confusion growing at Wriothesley’s disbelief.

For a moment, they just stand there. It’s Wriothesley’s turn to search for something in Diluc’s red-rimmed gaze— all the while Diluc tries, futilely, to understand what’s going on.

Perhaps it was his answer. Maybe he did pry too much—

At last, the lines of Wriothesley’s face mellow. His shoulders are falling too; his chest seems to cave in under a long exhale. He’s still looking at Diluc like Diluc should understand something. He’s looking, but there’s defeat, and Diluc doesn’t understand. “We’ll see.”

Wriothesley flicks his eyes over Diluc once last time. Then, he breathes in, turns around and resumes walking.

“I hope they can be,” he says, facing forward again. They’re just a few steps away. All that’s left is to cross the road.

Diluc’s breath is still. His lips fall open, but as Wriothesley gets further away from him, nothing comes out.

There’s a pull in his chest that tells him he’s missing something important. Something he really should be able to tell. The need to ask keeps burning when he falls into step behind Wriothesley.

“I’ve a meeting at the Institute at noon. Unfortunately for me,” Wriothesley says, reaching for his gate to push it open. “I shouldn’t be back too late, but definitely won’t make it to Meropide before evening. So. Dinner?”

And there it is; Wriothesley’s easy way of making everything seem normal, but Diluc can’t shake off the feeling that he’s let Wriothesley down somehow. But his throat is dry, and so is his mouth, and every little bit of him has been scraped raw, and Diluc—

Gods, Diluc is not strong enough to keep going.

He can ask Wriothesley at dinner. Or he… he can try to do better the next time. “Okay,” he replies, all too aware of the warmth tearing through his stomach at Wriothesley’s offer of company.

Diluc doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for Wriothesley’s hand, falling onto his shoulder. For the flash of a smile, framing a “Sleep well, Diluc,” while Wriothesley gives Diluc’s shoulder the usual squeeze.

Like it’s a habit.

Like Wriothesley doesn’t care he’s a murderer.

“You too,” Diluc pushes past the ball that rises to his throat. Somehow.

It’s heart-wrenching how quickly he could get used to this.

“See you at dinner, then?” Wriothesley asks, as if he’s making sure.

Diluc is really, barely holding it together.

He can feel his breaths scraping at jagged edges.

“Yes.”

He gets back another smile. He can only stand and watch, with his hands closed way too tightly for comfort, as Wriothesley walks away.

There hasn’t been a single scenario in Diluc’s imagination where his confession would gain him acceptance. He should do something. He should at least thank Wriothesley.

Wriothesley is almost at his doorstep when Diluc finally comes to his senses. “Thank you.”

Diluc watches him stop in his tracks. Watches him look over his shoulder, watches the corners of his lips lift.

He has a feeling that this one will hurt. Like that first have a lovely evening, Diluc, and the me too.

He braces himself.

It does hurt.

“You’re welcome, Diluc. Anytime”

-

The bedsheets aren’t as coarse on Diluc’s skin as before. The bruises are still painful, but Diluc doesn’t really feel them.

When he turns to look at the familiar patch of sky, just outside the window, the sore muscles between his ribs pull.

Diluc’s heart stutters wildly at the sole memory of tonight.

The truth is, nothing that Wriothesley has said has been earth-shattering.

Acceptance, moving on. Creating new memories. Focusing on doing enjoyable things— these are all words Diluc has read before, more times than he can count.

That’s what all the mind healers in Inazuma are preaching these days. Psychologists; that’s what they’re called. As if a human soul can be crammed into a few words on a piece of paper.

It never made Diluc feel anything. He’s never seen it as anything but empty advice, but it’s… different. When it comes from a place of understanding. Diluc would’ve never thought so, but it is. Wriothesley understands, making Diluc think that it could be true if only he tries hard enough.

The most difficult thing is accepting that it happened.

I didn’t.

Wriothesley didn’t in the beginning, that’s what he told Diluc.

Diluc can’t either.

It’s not just an excuse, he thinks, his stomach shut tight. To accept would mean to let himself think about the things he’s supposed to accept. Not just… not just his Father dying or Kaeya walking away. No. Diluc—

A shuddery breath shakes his frame.

Diluc would have to think about his Father pleading Diluc, his voice barely rising over the gut-wrenching wheeze of his shallow breathing, to… to make the suffering stop.

Or the grimace of pain turning into something not even resembling a smile when his own Father told him it’s okay, my son. I’d rather it were you. ‘I’d rather it were you to kill me than them’. That’s what he meant by that.

Diluc would have to think about his Father’s eyes, creased in pain and filled with fear, because his Dad didn’t want to die there. His Dad, who was supposed to be the strongest person, but Diluc can’t stop remembering him broken. Begging Diluc to kill him while clutching at Diluc’s hand, as if he wanted to be saved instead when Diluc couldn’t save him, could barely breathe, sat there frozen in panic. He would’ve ripped his own heart out and given it to his Father if only it meant he came out of it alive.

Diluc would have to think about Kaeya looking at him with genuine fear when he realised that Diluc was about to use his vision against him— about the hurt, daunting in the sole eye not flooded with blood, when Diluc threw the first hit. At his little brother. How Kaeya never used his own vision to hurt Diluc. Only to defend himself.

Diluc’s Dad taught him to be kind and polite, and to think twice before speaking, and to respect everyone regardless of their birth status. But Diluc is quick to anger and even quicker to act on it, and has grown to mask hurt and fear with violence and ruin every single good thing that comes his way, so what kind of son does that make him?

He knows the feeling of a thread of a pulse stuttering wildly under his fingertips, and how it quiets down when he takes a life. How the Gravestone cuts into the palms of his hands, his vision not quick enough to heal the open flesh before the next swing, and how it feels when his muscles snap, raw, after one too many blows. It’s not something he can get over so easily. It’s something that’s taken root years and years ago. Maybe that night, on Diluc’s first ever mission, in the terror of realizing that he’s been left alone. When all the big older Knights fled to save themselves— when Diluc was only ten and everything was blurry because he must’ve started crying at some point, but he couldn’t stop killing the monsters or else he would’ve died there. But he didn’t want to die because he wanted to see his Dad and Kaeya, and so he had to keep swinging even if it made him heave from pain, and—

— and it’s never easy. It’s never easy. Not for him, not— not for him. It’s so much easier to just take the blame. An eye for an eye. Ten years of his adulthood for a kill; everything he has left for all those things Diluc had no right to take.

And yet— he’s doing it. Diluc is remembering right now. And it hurts just as much as it always does, but there’s something different about the pain when there might be an end to it.

There is nothing you can’t do if you put your mind to it, Diluc, his Father has always said. It’s been sounding like a cruel mockery since Diluc returned. It’s been a long time since Diluc wanted it to be true this badly. Maybe with a broken mind, he can still do a bit. He doesn’t want everything. There is no everything when his Dad isn’t alive anymore.

Diluc would be happy with anything.

He doesn’t need much. Just whatever it takes to knock at the door of Kaeya’s flat and say sorry.

Whatever it takes to take Jean out for a coffee once in a while, and sleep through the night. It doesn’t even need it to be every night.

It could be just a couple nights a week— so that he can rest sometimes without dreaming of death that never comes for him.

Whatever it takes to maybe invite Wriothesley over to Mondstadt when Diluc inevitably goes back. So that Wriothesley could see some of Teyvat.

Mondstadt is beautiful, in its simplicity.

Diluc thinks that Wriothesley could like it.

Wriothesley didn’t leave him behind when Diluc took that knife to the shoulder.

No one has ever looked back for Diluc after hearing that Diluc didn’t need help.

No one has ever taken care of him on a job. Wriothesley was the first person to do both, and so Diluc did it.

He told Wriothesley the truth.

Diluc takes a deep breath, passing a hand over his eyes. He thinks his tears might’ve finally run out.

His chest doesn’t hurt as much anymore.

Diluc never really looks forward to what a new day will bring. He can’t say that that’s changed, but he won’t be dining alone later. The warmth that the thought of it brings is still drowned in guilt, but he is looking forward to it. It’s too out in the open to keep denying it. Maybe he could rewrite the letters while he waits for Wriothesley to come back.

One step at a time.

Diluc is used to failing. The worst that could happen is that nothing will change, and his head is barely making any sense anymore, and maybe he’s sleeping already, because there is no night sky and no window anymore. His eyes feel like they’ve been closed for a while.

Now that he thinks about it, he can’t really feel any of the aches either. Everything is quiet and dark and warm.

Maybe it’s... okay, to rest.

-

The morning is starting to settle into noon when Diluc leaves the bed.

Nectarine is already waiting for him— not at the bottom of the stairs, but a few steps up. Like she was trying to come all the way up to the first floor.

She doesn’t seem appeased by the food Diluc sets out for her, and climbs up the leg of Diluc’s trousers as soon as he sits down to eat. She’s worrying. Diluc knows that.

A week ago, he would never have thought he’d be reassuring a crab with promises of coming back soon. “There’s something I need to take care of,” he finds himself explaining, trying to be as gentle as possible when he pulls her off his clothes.

Unfortunately for him, it only makes Nectarine clutch harder.

Diluc feels a tinge of exasperation when she discovers one of his pockets and immediately tries to squeeze herself inside it.

“You won’t fit there,” he says, but it’s to no avail. “You’ll hurt yourself. Nectarine, please—”

With one hard firmly holding her by the conch, Diluc looks up at the clock.

It’s getting late.

He tries to wedge his finger between the fabric and Nectarine’s claw, but Nectarine doesn’t budge. She doesn’t seem to be in the slightest preoccupied that Diluc’s pockets are nowhere near spacious enough for her either. Diluc breathes in deeply.

He wanted… he wanted to go to the Court.

He woke up feeling calm instead of horrified by yesterday. It’s some kind of miracle, really, that his head seems okay after that kind of breakdown, but for once Diluc wasn’t going to question it. He thought instead that maybe he could do something useful; before his mind fully wraps around what he’s done.

He knows he doesn’t have much time.

“I can’t take you with me. I’m sorry,” he explains as calmly as he can, which is a feat in itself.

It takes a while. Nectarine is stubborn, but she tires out pretty quickly. She still makes sure to leave a mark around Diluc’s finger when he finally puts her down.

The absurdity of it all?

Diluc actually feels guilty when he locks the door behind him and the last thing he sees is Nectarine glaring at him from her cabinet. Only it’s a different type of guilt. One that doesn’t weigh him down.

It’s one he hasn’t felt in a long time; one that… that makes Diluc want to come back sooner.

-

“Mister Ragnvindr. Though your visit was unexpected, it is warmly welcomed. How may I be of service to you?”

Neuvillette’s cane echoes around his marble office when the Iudex lets Diluc inside.

Diluc wasn’t very lucky when he arrived at the Palais; Sedene informed him that Neuvillette was presiding over a trial and wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon.

When Neuvillette did return, he seemed… not distraught, really, because Diluc cannot imagine the Iudex being so expressive, but he looked like something was weighing on his mind. Any trace of that pensiveness is gone now that he’s inviting Diluc to take a seat, but Diluc’s gaze lingers on the man for a bit longer.

“The transcripts you’ve mentioned the other day. Would it be possible to examine them?” He asks, accepting an offer of a cup of tea out of politeness.

“Certainly, Mister Ragnvindr. Grant me but a moment and I shall retrieve them for your perusal.”

Diluc expects Neuvillette to pull the documents out of one the thousands of folders filling the tall library spreading wide across the room. However, Neuvillette disappears behind a door at the back that seems to open only with his vision signature.

“I hope these might be of use to you,” Neuvillette says when he comes back, placing a disappointingly thin dossier in front of Diluc. “That trial was not a complicated one, I’m afraid. The defendant had called for no witnesses to support the case, which resulted in a unanimous agreement on his culpability. He requested a duel rather hastingly once the sentence was pronounced. This decision proved unfavorable for him.”

Diluc opens the case file. There’s a picture, attached to the front page, of a man in his mid-thirties— as confirmed further down in the report— but there are no peculiarities about him. Blond, unkempt hair, brown eyes, thin lips pulled into an angry grimace, no visible marks or moles on his face or neck. The only thing the file reports is a burn scar across his forearm, but no photo of it has been taken.

“Thank you,” he says, glancing back up at Neuvillette, who sits down across from him with a grace that never fails to impress Diluc.

“Take all the time you need. There are no more trials that require my attention this evening. Should you have any questions, please speak them without hesitation.”

Diluc nods.

-

Diluc was right all along.

He was right about the Court of Fontaine.

He’s burning with fury when he leaves Neuvillette’s office. He just barely keeps his voice in check and his manners in place.

They use a machine. A machine that pronounces a sentence based on the— on the opinion of the public.

A machine decides if a defendant is guilty or not based on what the public believes is true, and it’s so absurd that at first Diluc was sure he was reading something wrong, right until Neuvillette confirmed everything. Like to him, there’s nothing more natural under the sun.

The Iudex of Fontaine condemns people because an object tells him to do it, and suddenly all Diluc can think about is Jean, cuffed in one of the stands, pained as one of the perpetrators of the kidnappings while the crowd chants to lock her in Meropide.

It’s enough to make his blood boil, but at the same time it’s frighteningly sobering.

Diluc can’t— he can’t force the change out of his foolish heart. His senseless desires won’t let him do so, but he can do better here. He can do so much more for Jean while he—

… while he learns how to live. It can’t be just one thing or another, no matter how much he’d just like to have a chance to rest, because he has this feeling that he’s getting very close to a limit he shouldn’t cross. But it doesn’t matter. It can’t. He has to do more, or else Jean might really have to go through this sick, dehumanizing act.

Diluc can push himself further, today.

It’s going to be okay.

He looks up at the countless signboards and searches for Hotel Debord. He can’t go home just yet.

With the evening slowly nearing, the city is starting to fill up to the point that it’s difficult to walk the streets. It's the weekend again, Diluc gathers with a sinking feeling. A full week, and his trip has amounted to nothing but useless clues.

Eyes turn to him as he walks, but Diluc knows to ignore the looks; he keeps his own gaze locked in front of him and keeps pushing his way through the crowds. Only, he has no knowledge of where Hotel Debord is. There’s nothing indicating whether he’s even going in the right direction.

Diluc wouldn’t ask, normally— all he ever needs to find any location is time, but he recognizes the stifling heat building up in his chest all too well.

There are too many people.

He looks down, ready to look for someone who is not already staring at him, but then he hears his own name called out in a small, almost drowned-out voice.

“Mister Diluc!”

Diluc turns around.

“Freminet?” He asks. He searches around for the boy, because he’s certain that that voice belonged to him.

Soon enough, he spots a blond fringe and that unmistakable little beret. A small smile blooms on Freminet’s face when Diluc notices him. He’s making his way over with a big bag slung over his thin shoulders, clutching at the straps, pulling it close in an attempt to prevent it from snagging behind him.

Freminet is almost by Diluc when a man walks straight into him, exiting a store.

Diluc’s mouth half-freezes in greeting. There was this feeling of warmth, rising up almost shyly at the memory of Freminet hugging him goodbye yesterday, but it turns into ice the moment Diluc sees that man’s face twist with bare, open disgust.

Freminet is already apologising. He’s already bowing down, his little hands shaking while he stumbles over his words, when the man opens his mouth.

He says something to Freminet. Something about how brats like him should not be allowed to litter the streets.

That’s all he manages to spew. Diluc’s hand curls around the man’s shoulder before he can finish that thought. Before Diluc himself realises he has moved, blood deafening as it rushes to his head.

“What the—” the man spats, turning around. “And who the fuck are you?” He asks.

His face goes from disgust to annoyance, but his voice wavers when he gets a good look at Diluc. And that’s really all it takes— those few words, spat with venom, laced with fake confidence. Because Diluc might’ve acted brashly, but he was ready to force himself into calming down.

It would’ve taken more than what Diluc can give at the moment, for everything inside him is still so painfully bare, but Diluc would’ve done it had he been mistaken. However, he knows this type of person— too small of a man to rise towards someone equal to him in strength, so he bleeds his bitterness onto those who can’t fight back.

“The boy bears no fault,” Diluc says, well aware of how clearly his own contempt is showing, but he doesn’t bother to hide it. The man should be grateful Diluc didn’t break a bone, with how thin his restraint hangs. “Rather, it’s you who walked over him. You should apologise.” His hand doesn’t waver; there is not a single ounce of fear in his voice, because there is no threat in insignificance.

The man wouldn’t last a second if Diluc willed it.

“Me?!” the man sputters with indignation, his nostrils flaring. His face goes splotchy red with anger. “This— this is ridiculous. I will do no such thing.” He points a finger at Freminet, who’s now looking at Diluc with big, still scared eyes. “The child should’ve been looking where he was going.”

“You were the one exiting an establishment. It was your responsibility to make sure that the street was clear.” Diluc stays patient. He stays patient, because Freminet is looking; because he isn’t scared of Diluc, but he would be if Diluc gave in to the desire of showing the man just how weak he can make him feel.

So Diluc just breathes.

Annoyingly, the man’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s ready to lash out once more. Diluc breathes, but he allows himself this: a single press of his thumb to the man’s collarbone. A bit more weight behind his grip. A sliver of heat across the palm of his hand, for upsetting Freminet.

He swallows the disgust at himself; for feeling satisfaction when the man pales in fear, but he can’t help it. Not when the man’s breath hitches, not when sweat beads at his forehead when he sees how many people are watching them, and realises that Diluc is not going to let him go. Not when, just as small as he truly is, he utters, “… sorry.”

“To him,” Diluc says coolly, forcing the man to turn to Freminet. “Not to me.”

The man gulps. Diluc doesn’t loosen his grip.

“Sorry,” he says, eyes dropped low, perspiration starting to stain his collar.

When Diluc lets go of him, the man almost stumbles while putting some distance between them. Diluc can hear him breathing fast, but he can also see the glimpse of viciousness that lights up his glare.

He crosses his arms and meets it head-on.

The viciousness vanishes as fast as it appeared. So does, at last, the stranger.

Diluc is already pushing the anger and the disgust aside; what matters is Freminet, but— something’s… not right, Diluc thinks as his body tenses.

The crowd. No one’s murmuring anymore.

They’re… smiling at him.

Someone says “Good job!”, while others heartily concur.

“Nicely done, lad,” a big man booms beside him, his eyes crinkling when Diluc looks to the side. “That bounder was being proper nasty to the children. ‘Bout time someone put him in his place.”

Diluc’s eyes dart around. The smiles don’t fade. If anything, they widen, many curious but all approving. None twisting into the familiar edge of judgement.

Diluc shifts, instinctively placing himself between Freminet and the people, feeling like he’s bracing for a blow.

Only the blow never lands.

No one looks afraid he might hurt them too.

“Come on,” that same man says to all the people. “Best be gettin’ on with it. Children are safe, and I can’t have a knot of folk blockin’ the entrance all day. I’ve customers to mind.”

A few people laugh; others apologise amicably, but to Diluc’s quiet astonishment, the conversations do slowly break off. The footsteps resume, and at last, even the lingering gazes fade away.

“Free to go, the two of you,” the man says, lighter still. He winks at Diluc from above a very thick, grey beard. Diluc only now notices an oil-stained apron adorning his large frame. “And you, little Scamp, how’s that bird of yours? Gears fit alright?”

Freminet’s still shaken when he replies, “Y-yes. Mister Arkwright.”

The man’s mustache moves as he smiles. A few of his teeth glint gold. “Aye, right. See to them regular and they’ll last well.”

He gives Diluc another glance before retreating back to his workshop.

“Mister,” Freminet’s voice trembles. “I’m very sorry for inconveniencing you. I’m so sorry.”

When Diluc turns to him, his stomach sinks.

The anger isn’t important. Neither is the stir of something more visceral at the reaction of the crowd, because Freminet is bowing to him now, too.

“Freminet—” Diluc says, a bit choked. “It’s okay.”

“I’m very sorry, Mister Diluc.” Diluc thinks that Freminet might not be hearing him. “Please don’t tell Madame—”

Diluc’s hand hovers above Freminet’s shoulder.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“It’s okay” he tries to soothe the boy. “You didn’t inconvenience me at all. I won’t tell.”

Thank Archons, that gets Freminet to stop apologising.

“N… no?”

Diluc has to find that orphanage. He has to find it and— and do something about the fact that these kids are terrorized by whoever directs it.

“No,” he says, the reassurance rushed as it comes through. “I promise. You didn’t tell on me, right?” He forces his lips into a smile when Freminet shakes his head instantly. “I won’t either. So, we’re even.”

Freminet takes a bit to believe Diluc, but at last, he nods minutely, eyes still glued to Diluc. “Even…?”

“Yes.”

A weight drops off Diluc’s chest when the corners of Freminet’s lips lift, just the slightest bit.

“Were you going back home?” Diluc asks, the word home foul in his mouth, because maybe he could finally see that wretched place.

He stifles the disappointment when Freminet shakes his head again. He lifts his battered bag with some difficulty. “I have four more deliveries to make, Mister.”

“Would you like me to help you?” Diluc asks, seeing how heavy it looks.

He’s surprised by the firmness of Freminet’s no.

“No one can do my work with me,” the boy explains to Diluc, or rather, it sounds more like he’s repeating something he’s been told.

Diluc wonders if he should insist— almost does, but it dawns on him that this could cause problems for Freminet.

He could put the boy in trouble with that… woman.

“You, Mister? Are you going home? How is Nectarine doing?” Freminet asks, more chatty, his hands not clutching at the bag so nervously anymore.

Diluc will have to relent, he thinks, his jaw clenching.

“Nectarine is doing well,” he tells Freminet. “She had apples again for breakfast. Mixed with fish.”

Freminet’s nose curls in distaste adorably.

“She has quite a peculiar taste,” Diluc agrees, but the remaining bits of anger disappear at the sight.

He will help Freminet. He will help Jean, even if it’s the last thing he manages to do.

“I’m going to Hotel Debord—” he says, and then, “would you mind telling me where I can find it?”

“Of course, Mister Diluc!” Freminet lights up. “It’s in Quartier Narbonnais, so you have to walk straight, then go past the fountain and take the road that goes up on the right.” He points somewhere at the upper level of the Court. “It takes me six minutes from here! But you’re taller, more than my brother and sister, and it only takes them five.”

“It’s up, then?” Diluc asks.

“Yes. Once you take the curved road, then you go right, beside Monsieur Hubel’s newspaper shop and take the stairs, and then Hotel Debord is up there.”

Diluc is glad he asked.

“Thank you,” he smiles at Freminet.

“You’re welcome,” the boy replies, as politely as ever. Then, his eyes glimmer. “Tomorrow could I say hello to Nectarine again, Mister? After our lesson?”

Diluc will cook them something again, tomorrow.

“Certainly. She’ll be happy to see you.”

-

Diluc’s heartbeat is still too quick when he enters the hotel, but he pays it no mind. He faced Wriothesley yesterday. He sought help for the first time last night, gambling everything for a sliver of hope.

He can do this much.

Sanguinetti hasn’t changed much since the last time Diluc saw him. He’s been a client for over five years now— one very dedicated to his craft.

Diluc knows no other clients who would personally travel to Mondstadt every single year to renew contacts. Not from this far away at least, and yet the man visits at the end of each Autumn, when the Winery releases its first barrels of the year.

Albeit a bit snobbish and cold, Sanguinetti holds Diluc in an exceptionally high regard. By extension, he respects Jean equally.

“Your products remain largely unrivaled, Monsieur Ragnvindr. Truly magnificent,” he praises solemnly, firmly shaking Diluc’s hand.

He’s the exact opposite of the owner of Hotel Debord, Vaneigem, who arrives in a flurry of expensive fabric and extravagant colors, with a big smile and an ever bigger voice.

“Monsieur Diluc!” He clasps Diluc’s hand between both of his. “What an honor to have such an esteemed guest at our establishment! Here, let me accompany you to our private lounge. The bar area is too loud, as per usual on a Saturday. Certainly not suitable for important conversations.”

Diluc acquiesces, dropping his hand with a twitch of fingers.

It’s fine. He can bear the stifling praise, and the insistent pleasing.

Vaneigem turns to Sanguinetti. “Vittorio here didn’t mention you’d arrive early. Otherwise, we would’ve had a table waiting for you. I hope you can pardon this terrible oversight.”

“My early arrival was a last-moment decision. You couldn’t have known. There is no need to apologise,” Diluc replies.

“Truly magnanimous, Monsieur Diluc. But it comes as no surprise! After all, your father was none other than Master Crepus,” Vaneigem praises him.

Diluc breathes through the stab of pain.

This is nothing. He’s heard things like these a thousand times.

Vaneigem keeps talking as he guides Diluc through the reception to the first floor, where crystal chandeliers hang from an equally grandiose glass ceiling.

“… and these, Monsieur Diluc, are art pieces sourced from the very finest painters of our region. I myself am particularly fond of the Sunsettias over there. Such a simple fruit, and yet under the right brush it holds so much vibrancy!”

When Vaneigem looks at him, expectantly excited, Diluc replies, “Very fine.”

“Art is the key ingredient in fine dining, Monsieur Diluc!” The man booms, delighted at Diluc’s reply. “I had no doubt someone with such a refined taste as yourself would appreciate it.”

-

The meeting drags out for longer than Diluc had hoped. Vaneigem seems to rarely not have anything to say, whilst Sanguinetti is adamant about knowing more about a new variety of grape Diluc has taken forward for seeding. Still, Diluc clenches his teeth, orders the first dish on the menu at Vaneigem’s insistence and endures the ordeal, because he is determined to see his plan through.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer for his patience to be rewarded.

“And these youths, Monsieur Diluc! I swear, no one appreciates the probity of hard work anymore.” Vaneigem complains, shaking his head with resignation. “It’s been two months, and yet we haven’t found anyone to aid Vittorio man the bar.”

Diluc doesn’t hope for luck. But he isn’t one to shun it when it stands right in front of him.

“I was planning on extending my stay,” he says, reposing a linen napkin beside his half-full plate. “I do not mind lending a hand if needed.”

“Monsieur Ragnivindr, we could never ask you to perform such a lowly task—”

“Oh Archons above, you’d be coming to our rescue, Monsieur Diluc!”

Diluc looks from Sanguinetti, who appears horrified at the sole thought of letting Diluc dirty his hands, to Vaneigem.

Only one of the two is saying what he wants to hear.

He replies, “It is simply a token of appreciation for your loyal patronage.”

At the other side of the table, Sanguinetti seems to pale. Vaneigem, on the contrary, reaches across to grab Diluc’s hand once more. Reverence lights up his eyes while says, “We would be forever indebted to you, oh esteemed Young Master!”

“When would I start?” Diluc asks, barely listening to the stream of Vanegeim’s thanks.

“Vaneigem—” Sanguinetti calls the other man with an edge of plea.

“Tomorrow afternoon would be most ideal, Monsieur Diluc, if you are not otherwise occupied. Sundays are the busiest, but we wouldn’t dare keep you longer than just the second round of dinner. Ten o'clock, at the longest—”

“That is fine by me,” Diluc cuts him off, wishing the man would stop taking the liberty of touching him.

“Oh, that is excellent,” Vaneigem’s eyes glisten. “To have such an addition to our staff, even just for a few evenings—“

Diluc breathes through his nose.

Just a little longer.

A little longer, and he’ll have what he wants.

The price is laughably low, considering it grants access to most information in Fontaine.

-

Diluc can’t say he remembers the feeling of comfort that comes with returning home. And yet when he finally sees the house that is not really his, lit in the colors of the sunset at the very end of the road, the weariness of the day fades away.

All the plans and the pretending, and the shallow conversations— all blend into the background when Diluc looks at the door, where he can already hear Nectarine scratch against the wood.

Diluc has done okay today.

He’s done okay, he thinks as something frighteningly raw swells in his throat. He’s put all those things that pull him apart aside and managed to do something. He doesn’t even know where he found the strength to do any of it, but it’s like this big weight is now being lifted off his shoulders, and Diluc—

Gods, he can’t.

He can’t cry as he comes home.

A stuttered breath pushes past Diluc’s lips. The paper bag filled with food rustles in his hand. There’s this emotion, filling his chest to the brim, that he has no idea where it’s coming from.

Coming back to Dawn Winery never feels like this— and yet, standing on his porch with groceries in one hand, turning the key to push the door open, Diluc feels like it’s time to rest, and it’s so overwhelming that his lashes clump with tears.

His breaths are wet when he gets inside. Everything is just as he left it. The Gravestone rests by the library, his bag by the couch. The cup he didn’t wash is still on the countertop, and the book is laying on the table. The house is just as empty as it was, and it doesn’t make any sense that Diluc can suddenly barely breathe.

He doesn’t even get to put down the groceries. Nectarine climbs up his leg, and then tries to go higher. Diluc has to catch her before she falls down.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he tells her, but his voice is cracking.

His hands are clumsy when he puts Nectarine down, beside the empty cup stained brown with coffee, but he just tries to pull through.

She helps him unpack the food by tearing the bag, dropping tiny pieces of paper all around her.

Diluc doesn’t know what’s happening to him. It’s as if being here has broken something in him. Everything he’s been holding down for the past ten years is coming up all at once, and Diluc doesn’t know what to do. When he kneels down to put the food away, a couple of things fall from his shaking hands.

Beside them, drops of salt stain the floor.

Diluc dries his eyes with the back of his hand, and picks them up once more.

More tears fall onto the boards.

“I’m fine,” Diluc says, choked, but the thing is, he is not.

This thing that he’s feeling, that’s tearing him apart, is peace.

In this rudeness of an existence, Diluc can still feel peace.

It hits him square in the chest. Cuts through muscle and bone, and then deeper, deeper, until there’s nothing left.

He thought he was too far gone.

He thought he was too far gone to feel anything good.

So what if his body is mistaking the absence of pain for danger? He can still—

He can still feel.

And Diluc doesn’t think he can do this. He’s too tired. Too thinly spread, too worn out, unable to breathe the moment his mind is granted the most miserable amount of solace. Gods, he’s barely there, with all those pieces laid waste, split asunder, and even so these last bits of him refuse to die. Because how can a place like this already feel like home?

Diluc’s back hits the cabinets. At this point, counting breaths is like slipping into a habit.

Because it’s right there— the reason why, glaring, making the voice in his head that sounds like his Father say How dare you.

If Diluc lets himself think about it for more than a second, then all this really makes all the sense in the world. The tears, and the stuttered breaths.

Coming back to Dawn Winery hasn’t felt like coming home for a long time. The only things waiting for Diluc there are ghosts, and people who remember him from before falling apart. There are memories hanging onto every corner, old, like cobwebs, keeping Diluc chained in every choice. It doesn’t matter which direction he takes— nothing ahead of him isn’t already shaped by what he lost. Nothing remains that is untainted by grief.

But his Dad didn’t die here. Diluc’s guilt hasn’t yet shaped anything. There are no ghosts haunting him in empty rooms, because there are no rooms for them to hide in. Just the one Diluc sleeps in, and Wriothesley’s own house behind the wall, full of books and tea and carefully framed paintings, and everything a home should be.

The only thing still belonging to his Father, even in death, is him.

“I’m okay,” he repeats, holding out his hand for Nectarine to jump onto.

His chest rises with an uneven breath.

He needs to put those thoughts aside for a moment. “Just a little longer,” he says, voice breaking still, when Nectarine pulls at the hem of his shirt.

Just a little longer, so he can get his breathing in check. A little longer, so he can stop breaking open at every turn. Because it’s not just him here, tonight. Wriothesley could be back soon. Diluc can’t let Wriothesley see him in this state again.

He can’t spend another evening losing time.

See you at dinner, then?

Diluc wonders if looking forward to Wriothesley’s company will ever make him feel less ashamed. Wonders if he’s too bold in assuming Wriothesley will even knock at his door.

He wonders how he can keep feeling new things when everything else is already so overwhelmingly big.

How a dinner has his adrenaline running higher than facing wild beasts or fighting a group of ruin guards.

Diluc wonders, but he knows why. It’s because he doesn’t know if Wriothesley will want to talk about last night. And if he will, will he ask Diluc if he’s thought about what Wriothesley had said? Will he ask Diluc if he wants to talk about dying once more? Because the answer to all these questions is still no.

Diluc has barely scraped the tip of the mountain that are the memories he keeps hidden; he hasn’t even decided which one of them he should try to accept first.

How will talking to a person who knows one of Diluc’s deepest truths be?

Diluc recognises the familiar taste of regret, but this time his teeth clench with how hard he pushes it away.

He’s made his choice. He made the choice when he went to Wriothesley’s house last night, after hours and hours of suffering, and it can’t— it can’t amount to nothing.

He won't let it amount to nothing.

He makes the space in his chest tiny; small enough that the regret has nowhere to crawl into. Making that choice took too much from him. If Wriothesley turns his back on Diluc, or tells on him, then Diluc will face the consequences, but right now Diluc needs this. He needs one victory. One thing he didn’t fuck up.

If a thing costing so much that it ripped him to shreds turns out to be a mistake, Diluc needs to at least know that he tried his hardest. That’s the only thing that might hold him together if none of this works out. So, he will not regret this.

His head will not take this away from him too.

-

It takes a little longer, but Diluc’s hands stop shaking, eventually. The peace mellows down to a veil over his heart.

It’s not fully gone, but it’s small enough that Diluc can maybe try to force his body to stop seeing it as something wrong.

Last night, he said he’d rewrite the letters.

He takes another breath, and stands up. He dries his eyes again; a bit harsh. A bit stubbornly.

He starts with the reply to Kaeya, and keeps it as it was before, even though he aches with how badly he wants to apologise. When he gets to Jean’s, he doesn’t change much either.

He still doesn’t mention Wriothesley,

His pocket watch shows ten thirty when he checks the time. It’s already night, but Diluc hasn’t heard Wriothesley coming back home.

When Diluc looks out of the window, almost all the lights in the distance are dimmed. For the first time since coming to Fontaine, the skies are clouded over. Diluc is not hungry.

But Wriothesley might be, even if they might not dine together, seeing how late it’s getting.

Diluc glances at the kitchen, and wonders what sort of food Wriothesley might enjoy. The choice isn’t big— but then, Diluc couldn’t make anything half as nice as what Wriothesley’s cooked for them even if he’d bought more things.

But Diluc said to himself earlier that he’d do better next time. So he holds his hands and his heart steady; his restlessness small, even though it’s still brewing under his skin.

Then, he tucks the letters away in signed envelopes and gets up, leaving the lights on, lest Wriothesley think he’s already asleep.

-

Diluc is lowering the flames under the pan when footsteps echo on the gravel. His nerves are a tangle in his stomach when he hears the weight of Wriothesley’s hand settling against the door, and then the sound of knocking.

He does that. Wriothesley. Rests his knuckles on the door with the softest tap before knocking.

Diluc heard it last night.

“Diluc?”

His own name flows through the window left open.

Wriothesley came.

Diluc’s heart is stuttering when he wipes his hands on a cloth, breathing in. But when he sees Wriothesley standing there, still dressed in his work clothes, his eyes finding Diluc’s as soon as he opens the door, his nervousness dies down to just a tickle under his skin.

There’s no trace of distance, anywhere in Wriothesley’s expression. No quiet coldness, grown in the hours of today. Nothing even remotely close to what Diluc has always imagined Jean and the Traveler would look like after getting to know the truth.

“I’m sorry,” is the very first thing Wriothesley says, before Diluc can even step aside to make room. “I’m really sorry, Diluc. It’s truly unbecoming of me to be so late.”

He looks tired.

Very much so.

“We were stranded on the coast. A summer storm. The first one of the season, too, so the coast guards were caught unprepared.”

Diluc can see that something must’ve happened. Wriothesley’s clothes are damp, and his hair is mussed, just a bit. The smell of rain and seawater is sharp.

In the face of Wriothesley’s apology, Diluc says, “It’s okay.”

It’s okay is safer that I’m glad you’re here, burning hot on the back of Diluc’s tongue, that he can’t say out loud.

Because Wriothesley still came.

Diluc steps to the side, making more room for Wriothesley to enter, but Wriothesley doesn’t move. “I hope you already ate,” he says instead, making something cold drop in Diluc’s stomach.

The “No” feels dry in his mouth when he tells Wriothesley so.

Wriothesley stills. His eyes widen, then his shoulders fall. “Gods, Diluc, I am—” he drags a breath. He rubs a hand over his face, fingers lingering briefly at the bridge of his nose. A gesture Diluc has seen already. “Could you give me some time? I can make us something quick. I just have to change—”

“I cooked,” Diluc cuts Wriothesley short, because Wriothesley seems exhausted, while Diluc has finally done something useful.

He watches Wriothesley’s gaze travel to the kitchen behind him, then still for a moment as something sinks in beneath all the blue.

Wriothesley’s lips part when he looks back at Diluc. He looks at Diluc with big eyes and with something that Diluc has no name for. Not until it changes; not until the line of his brows softens and his shoulders drop with a quiet exhale, and then all that’s left is respite.

“Oh,” Wriothesley says, quietly.

His chest rises with a soft inhale.

“If you’re not too tired,” Diluc says. He doesn’t think that Wriothesley has ever looked at him like this.

The shadows under Wriothesley’s eyes are darker than yesterday.

“No,” Wriothesley replies, still looking at Diluc. Still quiet, a little like his mind is caught somewhere else. “No, Diluc. I’m not.”

“It could not be that good,” Diluc warns. He doesn’t really know why Wriothesley seems so pensive. Why his name sounds a bit different than usual, but he holds Wriothesley’s gaze all the same.

It takes a moment, but it warms up. Right under Diluc’s own eyes. Wriothesley lips curl up. “After a day like this, it’s going to be the best meal I’ve ever had.”

The peace Diluc felt earlier must’ve made some space for mirth.

“The bad weather must’ve affected your standards.”

The answer makes a full smile bloom on Wriothesley’s face. Still, that strangely soft edge to it remains. “Quite the opposite, actually. My standards seem to have reached new heights lately.”

“All the more reason for me to warn you that the food may be disappointingly mediocre.”

“Thank you, Diluc,” Wriothesley says in reply. “For doing this.”

Diluc can feel his own mouth almost mirror Wriothesley’s smile. Like his muscles would like to, but don’t really remember how to.

“It only took twice the average required time.”

Honesty comes easily, for things like these.

Wriothesley laughs.

“Then it ought to be good.”

“Would you like to eat outside?” Diluc asks, looking at the sky behind Wriothesley’s shoulders.

“It’s best not,” Wriothesley shuts down the idea. “It’s a matter of an hour or so before the rain hits this coast. It’s already over the sea.”

“I’ll set the table inside,” Diluc agrees. He might know how to predict the weather in Mondstadt, because clouds always latch onto Dragonspine before spreading over the city, but it’s different in each region. Diluc believes Wriothesley.

“Would you mind giving me a few minutes? I’ll help, I just need to wash all this salt off first. I don’t want you to have to do everything on your own.”

That’s when Diluc notices them: the droplet-shaped specks of salt on the scars around his neck and on his forearms. A few, dried high on his cheekbones.

After a beat of silence, Diluc replies, “You can wash the dishes afterwards.”

It seems to be the right thing to say.

“That’s more like it,” Wriothesley smiles once more— the familiar kind of smile this time. “I’ll be right back.”

“I will wait,” Diluc retorts.

Wriothesley’s brows do that thing again.

That thing where the tension eases, and his eyes get softer. That thing that Diluc cannot recognise.

“Thanks.”

-

“Today was endless,” Wriothesley complains with a deep, deep sigh as he stands beside Diluc.

He’s not wearing one of those sleeveless shirts; rather, a loose long sleeve made of linen, similar to what Diluc buys for the peaks of summers. His hair is dripping dark spots onto the light fabric, the skin of his cheeks is flushed from the bath.

He has tanned a bit more, Diluc sees. Across the bridge of his nose and lower, at the top of his chest, peeking above the unbuttoned collar.

His scars are not bandaged.

Wriothesley leans against the counter. “Let me help you.”

Diluc looks from Wriothesley’s face to his outstretched hand. The marks that Nectarine gave him have faded to almost nothing.

He was about to plate the food— with a chest full of anticipation, tinged with dread, that grew while Wriothesley was away. Because Diluc was readying himself for the questions that he hopes will not come.

“Here,” he passes Wriothesley the first plate. It’s just a steak with a side of potatoes and a few vegetables, and an attempt at gravy, which Diluc cannot really call that, given its final consistency.

Subconsciously, Diluc has set the table the way they would do in Mondstadt; with their seats beside each other rather than at opposite ends.

It occurs to Diluc belatedly that it might be easier for him, like this. Easier to not have to look straight at Wriothesley when scrambling for answers.

“Thank you,” Wriothesley smiles, then waits for the second serving that Diluc hands him soon. He doesn’t comment on the seating arrangements.

Before sitting down himself, Diluc takes one last thing out of the fridge.

Crouching down, face turned away, Diluc closes his eyes. Breathes in, and then he braces himself, because maybe… maybe he could breach the topic first, instead of waiting anxiously. Maybe if he brings up the thing that started everything, then speaking about it will be less difficult.

“Your prize,” he says when Wriothesley’s eyes land, curious, on the bottle that Diluc puts down in front of him. “For winning the spar.”

He doesn’t have a bottle opener, but the cap gives in easily when he pries it off with the butt of the knife.

“My memory might not be that sharp anymore,” Wriothesley replies. A joke— Diluc can see clearly now, in the glimmer of mirth in his gaze. He’s learnt now. “But I remember saying we’d share if I won.”

He doesn’t say anything about what happened after they fought.

Diluc’s chest sinks under the weight of relief.

Wriothesley fills Diluc’s cup first. “Two hundred coupons is too little for this,” he says with wonder after taking a sip, making Diluc release the breath he was holding.

Good, Diluc thinks to himself.

It might make up for the taste of the dinner. “You can have mine, too.” He pushes his cup closer to Wriothesley.

“The deal was different,” Wriothesley stops him with a tap of fingers on Diluc’s bare wrist.

The touch is unforeseen. Makes Diluc freeze.

“I heard things taste better when shared,” Wriothesley… winks.

He winks. At Diluc.

Like he did with Monglane when they bickered.

Like he’s speaking with a friend, and it has any possible reply die in Diluc’s mouth.

Thank heavens, Wriothesley looks away from Diluc to cut into the food, because Diluc knows his face is painted open with shock.

Diluc feels the hope grow. God, it grows so fast that Diluc doesn’t even manage to hide it.

He ducks his head and prays— even though he hardly believes in any gods anymore— for his reason to come back. Because now is really not the time for elaborating anything.

“How was your day?”

Wriothesley’s question startles Diluc out of his internal turmoil.

“I went to Palais Mermonia,” he replies. Lifting his eyes turns out to be a mistake, because Wriothesley is already looking at him, with curiosity written into the curve of his easy smile.

“Oh? To see Neuvillette?”

Diluc’s first instinct is to omit the truth. He has never shared his plans or whereabouts with anyone, but the lie stops right on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes,” he says, his lungs heavy, because he’s not. He’s not lying.

“Case-related, or social?”

Diluc doesn’t do social visits. He doesn’t tell the truth either, and yet he’s not lying to Wriothesley right now. His heart is beating fast while he continues, against everything he’s ever lived by. “I went to ask for the transcripts.”

Wriothesley’s brows raise. “Found anything interesting? I remember that trial being quite disappointing. The man refused to answer any of the questions. Not even when offered a plea deal. After being found guilty, he went straight for a duel.”

“No,” Diluc replies. He’s been through the file enough times to have it memorized. “Only that he didn’t look local.”

Wriothesley stops with a forkful halfway to his mouth. “… What?”

“It said in the file that you couldn’t find any affiliation in Fontaine,” Diluc says, a sliver of puzzlement coloring his words. “That’s because the man is from Snezhnaya. South-Eastern, most likely.”

Diluc could tell the moment he saw the picture— because his body doesn’t forget. His stomach filled with bile as soon as he saw the hair color, and the slant of the man’s eyes.

“It’s close enough to Fontaine to confuse,” he adds when Wriothesley doesn’t answer.

“Diluc,” Wriothesley says slowly. His eyes are wide again. Wide on Diluc, only on Diluc, the stillness of his full focus enough to have Diluc’s pulse quicken. But Wriothesley doesn’t say anything bad.

Instead, with a hint of something that sounds a bit like wonder, he asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to come work for us? Just name the terms.”

Diluc exhales while his heartbeat settles down.

Then, he smiles.

“The entirety of Teyvat would have to stop drinking wine and cider.”

The shackles of his Father’s legacy, and the prize Diluc has to pay, cannot really be undone.

Diluc made peace with that a long time ago.

“I’ll take you to Clorinde,” Wriothesley says, a bit sudden, the maybe-wonder still caught up in the lines of his face. “I have to see when she’s free, but she’s the duelist who fought that man. Sometimes, people say things only when death’s already at their doorstep. To be fair, we were suspecting that the guy wasn’t from around here when all our informants came back with nothing. I should’ve dug deeper.”

“It’s not too late to still find something,” Diluc replies. Impossibly, the reassurance comes through by itself, without Diluc having to force it out.

“It’s been two years,” Wriothesley sighs. “But there are a few more people I can ask.”

Diluc studies Wriothesley’s face. The sharp arch of his brows, the faint tan, and the tiredness.

For a split second, he thinks about asking him what he thinks about the trials. What he thinks about the fact that an object decides for the accused, but he bites his tongue before the thought can even properly take shape.

How could Diluc ask something like this when Wriothesley was sentenced by that same thing as a child?

“I also visited Hotel Debord,” he says at last. It comes out a little rushed. Before Diluc can change his mind. Before he can make himself believe that he should stop being honest, for one reason or another, because Wriothesley might tell someone.

Wriothesley hasn’t betrayed Diluc’s trust, he reminds himself, as firmly as his never-dying suspicion allows. Wriothesley has only ever helped him.

He’s only ever been kind.

Wriothesley nods. “For your cover?”

“I’ll be working at their bar. Starting tomorrow.”

“What?”

“It’s the easiest way for me to gather intel.”

Diluc has a reply ready, impatient at the line of his lips, sure that Wriothesley will try to dissuade him.

Wriothesley, however, rarely seems to do what Diluc expects. Because his surprise gives way to approval, and then to a small smile. “Well, that makes things a lot easier for the two of us.”

Diluc waits for Wriothesley to elaborate.

“For one, we won’t have to worry too much about the fact that we can’t investigate out in the open, together. You can simply do that on your own,” Wriothesley says, his thumb lifting first. Then, he extends his index finger. “Second, it’s a good place to start our ‘collaboration’. I could approach you casually, like any other patron of the bar, and strike a conversation. The Steambird will handle spreading the rumour.”

“Selling Mekas in Mondstadt?” Diluc asks, still abashedly unused to a praise that demands nothing in return.

Wriothesley’s shoulders drop with a sigh. “That’s the only thing I could come up with that was believable.” But then his gaze grows teasing, and so does his voice. “It’s not like a humble manufacturer like me has anything else to offer to the most renowned winemaker in Teyvat.”

And Wriothesley is so far from the truth that Diluc, disarmed, laughs.

Between the two of them, Diluc is the one with no worth left to exchange. But that’s not something he can tell him either. It’s something that has to stay unspoken, rotting beside all the other things he’s unable to say.

His eyes are crinkled at the corners when he opens them. “What’s a remarkably complex machine capable of understanding human speech compared to a bottle of wine.”

Wriothesley’s cheek dimples. “My thoughts exactly.”

Diluc drops his gaze while his smile widens.

For a moment, the silence fills with the noise of cutlery clinking on porcelain.

“What time are you at the hotel tomorrow?” Wriothesley asks after a while, his plate almost clean. He splits the remaining juice between them.

“Afternoon until ten in the evening,” Diluc responds. “There’s some more left,” he adds, looking down.

“Wouldn’t want to rob you of any leftovers,” Wriothesley retorts swiftly.

“I have enough food for tomorrow,” Diluc says, wondering why it’s always so difficult to just ask directly.

“In that case,” Wriothesley says, already lifting himself up, “I will be more than happy to help myself while you eat. I’ll try my best to pass by tomorrow, too.”

While Wriothesley dishes up another portion, Diluc’s eyes linger on the broad line of his back.

This isn’t supposed to feel this normal, he thinks.

It’s like a thought that forgot to surface— one that got caught up mid-way, somewhere, so now it’s arriving a little too late. But it’s true for Diluc; that the time spent with someone else is either filled with unease, or the desire for the meeting to end as soon as possible.

Company almost never soothes. It doesn’t make the feelings that burn Diluc down to his core more bearable, only now it does. Because when Diluc moves his attention to himself, the peace around his heart isn’t so terribly stifling anymore.

It’s muted.

It’s muted within the soft sounds of the night, and Wriothesley’s quiet motions around this house that shouldn’t feel like home.

Diluc has hardly earned any right to know. He hardly has any right to know how Wriothesley spent his day, but he…

He’d like to. He’d like to know.

Diluc’s pulse is a steady drum, under his skin. As quick as the wings of a crystalfly.

“How was your day?” He mirrors Wriothesley’s question now that Wriothesley is facing the other way. It’s easier when he’s not looking at Diluc. It’s easier to swallow just how laughable his nervousness is.

Diluc is just asking Wriothesley what he did. Even acquaintances do that.

“Mine?” Wriothesley glances at Diluc over his shoulder. “It was unnecessarily long.” There’s some complaint in his voice again, but his expression is serene when he puts the plate down beside Diluc. “Water?” He glances at Diluc, then motions to his empty cup.

“I should be the one filling—”

“I’m already up,” Wriothesley stops him with a hand on Diluc’s shoulder.

The next breath that Diluc takes is deep.

“I had an arrest to handle in the morning, and then took an Aquabus straight to the Institute. The scientists there research new Meka prototypes. They invite me over whenever they have something new tried and tested, and if I see a market for it, then I buy the patent.” Wriothesley wraps his fingers around the small handle and brings the teacup to the sink.

“I presume the invitations are frequent,” Diluc says above the noise of running water.

Wriothesley huffs a small laugh. “Were it up to them, I’d take permanent residence in one of their dormitories.”

And maybe Diluc was really worried for nothing. Because when Wriothesley finally sits back down, the only thing that happens is that Diluc learns more about the Fontaine Research Institute. About the different departments, and how none of them can serve half a decent cup of tea. About how Wriothesley is one of their main customers, but also investors.

“I’m not smart enough to design a Clockwork Mecha, but I have enough money to pay the right people to do it for me,” he says with a smile, not at all embarrassed to admit it.

Some time later, after catching Wriothesley gazing at the kettle a few times, Diluc asks, “Would you like some tea?”

The question earns him another smile. The dimpled, wide one.

It’s only when Diluc is filling the kettle with water that something occurs to him.

“Is it not too late?” He turns around to look at Wriothesley, to make sure that it’s okay to put it on.

Wriothesley laughs. A genuine, startled-out laugh.

“After all these years, I have become immune to whatever stimulant there is in the tea. Clorinde says I’m addicted. She’s right.”

Before Diluc knows it, they’re washing the dishes, and the clock strikes one past midnight, just as a rumbling thunder splits the sky golden.

Both of them look out of the window.

Wriothesley’s hands are full of soap; Diluc’s are full of water. Wriothesley took it upon himself to scrub everything clean, while Diluc offered to rinse and put the dishes away to dry.

Diluc has never done this together with someone else.

“It’s rolling in,” Wriothesley says, passing Diluc one of the last things.

Diluc catches the fork between wet fingers. His elbow grazes Wriothesley’s forearm when he moves, because the sink is small. They cannot really both fit there, but Diluc realised that too late— when Wriothesley first reached out for the dishcloth and his shoulder pressed flush against Diluc’s own.

Wriothesley doesn’t seem to mind, so Diluc hasn’t stepped away. But his whole body is warm.

With guilt rising up his throat, Diluc takes.

Soon, they hear the first heavy drops of rain hit the gravel and the grass. “I will finish here,” Diluc says, keeping his head low, not facing Wriothesley because he isn’t sure if the warmth hasn’t risen to his cheeks. “If you go now, you may still avoid the downpour.”

“It’s fi—” Wriothesley starts, but another thunder drowns his words in a deafening crack. The rain becomes louder.

For all Diluc was trying to keep his eyes on the hands, his gaze finds Wriothesley just as Wriothesley looks down at him.

“This one was close,” Wriothesley says softly into the silence between them. His eyes flicker across Diluc’s face.

Diluc is very thankful that the light above the kitchenette is very dim— because it dawns on him, with a chilling clarity, that the moment he learns how to fix himself he will get used to this. He’s weak like that.

And then he will have to go back home.

Oh.

It’s going to tear him to bits.

“As much as I want to say no, you may be right. I should probably go, lest I want to drown before I get home,” Wriothesley keeps speaking while Diluc looks away with the pretense of finding something to dry their hands with, because he cannot keep looking at Wriothesley when his chest tightens like that.

How can he be thinking so far ahead in the future when he hasn’t changed anything yet?

Wriothesley isn’t his friend. Even if he could be one day, Diluc hasn’t earned that. The only thing he’s been doing is barely pushing through, like always, only now it’s worse since he isn’t even capable of reining his feelings in anymore.

And yet when Wriothesley turns to him after Diluc opens the door, Diluc still waits. Because he’s greedy, and because Wriothesley does what he always does— he closes his palm around Diluc’s arm, just above his elbow, and says, “Thank you for the dinner, Diluc. It was lovely. I promise I’ll cook next time.”

Diluc’s fingers twitch at his side.

What does he want to do?

His body is too stiff.

He… he wouldn’t even know where to put his hand.

“Sleep well, hm?”

Wriothesley’s expression isn’t cold.

Even though Diluc told him he wanted to die.

“I hope… I hope you can rest too.” Diluc’s voice betrays him, but it’s only for a second. It’s short enough that it doesn’t sound like he stopped mid-sentence, or like his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

Wriothesley smiles. Behind him, the rain is starting to pour. “I’ll try my best. Running helped, by the way. I was out in a blink of an eye. See you tomorrow? Will you have time to pass by Meropide?”

“I might not,” Diluc replies. He has to curl his hand so that his fingers cease to twitch.

How could he have something like this after everything that he's done?

Wriothesley doesn’t look bothered by Diluc’s answer. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do tomorrow evening then. Ten o'clock, right?”

Diluc nods.

The veil of peace is still there. Right where it was. Still as frightening. 

Wriothesley hasn’t dropped his hand yet. He nods too, only he looks fully at ease. “Goodnight, Diluc,” he says, smiling.

Diluc swallows.

How can he want to die and live so badly at the same time?

“Goodnight,” he says. That's the only thing that passes through his throat. 

He doesn't want to ruin this, he thinks. He almost did two days ago, but Wriothesley didn't allow that. Wriothesley, who is only now lowering his hand and turning away to go back home. Who sat with Diluc the entire evening and listened to Diluc speak, and ate the food that Diluc made, and is still— still not asking for anything in return.  

Diluc—

Diluc has no idea how to do that.

He has no idea how to not break everything with his own two hands.