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"What in Barbatos' name," Diluc Ragnvindr whispers to a lantern, "are you doing here?"
The lantern does not reply.
Narrowing his eyes, the redhead leans closer, giving the lantern a look that could kill it if it were alive. Which, Diluc thinks, it is. "How did you jump like that? You don't even have legs."
Stoically, in the face of such stern interrogation, the lantern does not crack.
Diluc gets up from where he was crouching, dusting off his knees as he turns his nose in the air. "I know you're in there, Harbinger."
"Master Diluc!" A voice calls from behind him, and he abruptly turns on his heel, pretending like he wasn't just grilling a lantern that Diluc swore he saw jump off of his roof and into a cart. "Have you, by any chance, seen anyone suspicious on the premises?"
Mona Megistus stands, arms akimbo, her face flushed and her chest heaving, proudly on top of the post holding his grapevines in place. He frowns.
"Miss Megistus. You appear to be trampling this season's harvest." He says flatly.
She glances downward, makes a little face of apologetic guilt, and hops down onto the grass. Around the soles of her shoes, the grass gives a wet plop in return. Diluc's frown deepens as she sheepishly shakes a speck of mud from the heel of her shoe, crossing his arms over his chest.
She says, once more, "So, have you seen anyone of interest on the grounds, Master Diluc?"
He's just about to wave her away and go back to interrogating the Harbinger disguised as a lantern when suddenly, a head of blonde hair pops up from behind a bush of grapevines a few yards from where they're standing. With a few leaves in her hair, the girl who calls herself The Prinzessin der Verurteilung points straight at Mona with a look of such conviction and condemnation, Diluc thinks that he's somehow walked in on an outdoor court hearing.
"You!" The Prinzessin cries. "How low hast thou sunken to resort to the blackened methods of cheating? Night Raven, deliver thy judgment!"
From behind her, a rather large, black bird ruffles its feathers. "You suck!"
The astrologist looks quite offended at that remark - as anyone would be - and Diluc watches as her jaw falls open. Then - without any warning - she crouches low to the ground and sets off into what should have been a sprint but is instead a tidal wave of sparkling water.
"Zounds!" The Prinzessin shrieks, scrabbling over a post that holds the grapes in place.
"Shit!" The raven yelps, diving in pursuit of his mistress.
Mourning the drowned grapes, Diluc pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a slow, heavy breath through his teeth. He can deal with them later. The main issue here is to figure out how the Harbinger can turn into a lantern and why he thinks it's a good idea to do so on the Dawn Winery's privately owned carts.
He turns back around, glancing down at where the lantern was sitting. Oddly enough, it seems to have grown in size and shape. A bit less "lantern" and more "gigantic fucking barrel."
Dumbfounded at the brainless idiot, Diluc blinks. "Are you perhaps short of your wits? How in Barbatos' name is a barrel more inconspicuous than a lantern?"
It's as if he's learned nothing. The barrel doesn't reply because it's a rude, diffident bastard, and it's enjoying Diluc's torment like the sadist it is.
Childe watches from the manor's roof as its master argues with a barrel full of sand and dirt. It's difficult not to laugh, but that pesky alchemist is right below him, examining the lantern he stuffed full of the same dirt explosives with such interest that Childe is a bit worried he's not all there. All worries of unsound minds are cleared when the alchemist summons his sword, slotting its blade through the ring attached to the top of the lantern and flinging said item into the air with a flourish. With a cloud of dirt, the lantern combusts, showering the winery tables in general muck. The alchemist, Albedo, if Childe remembers correctly, subtly slides the sword back into nothingness, the gold flecks of his subspace dissolving into the air as he sprints onward, checking around the side of the building.
Now, Childe has half a mind to give up his hiding place to declare that the alchemist of the Knights of Favonius is, in fact, cheating. If he had to check his weapons, Vision, and Delusion at the door, why shouldn't the knight? Honestly, Mondstadt's hierarchy is so spoiled. In Snezhnaya, if you were a noble, you didn't get any special treatment. You still had to enlist in the military at eighteen, pay your taxes, and, unlike this crafty little chalk man, deposit your precious weapons in an unceremonious burlap sack in front of the Dawn Winery in order to play a game of Windchase. (Trace? Windtrace sounds better, no?)
Out of the kindness of his heart (and a fear of that witch with the big hat and the water sprint), Childe will let this guy off easy. After all, he just loves a challenge. With a snicker, he kicks back, ready to watch this game pass by as an easy win from his vantage spot. The sun is shining, the breeze is warm, and Diluc Ragnvindr is still arguing with the barrel. Really, the gods must be giving him some make-up luck from all the times they've screwed him over. You know, falling into the Abyss before his voice cracked. Or, even better, sending him on missions far away from home. Oh, and then flirting with handsome funeral parlor consultants only to find out that he was playing him the entire time, and that one time he called out a name during sex, it was someone else's, and the like.
Childe lets out a winded sigh. Perhaps counting his misfortunes within the hearing range of two formidable transmuters of knowledge and alchemical components isn't a good idea. Instead, Childe decides to focus on how the master of the Winery's legs look rather excellent today. That odd-looking garter he keeps around his right one would be very satisfying to look at against the bare skin of Diluc's thigh, he finds. Leaning his head on this hand, he watches the sun glint behind the hills like a sword being sheathed. And then, because things cannot go minutely well for even a minute, Diluc draws his claymore on the barrel filled with explosives. Dirt explosives, but explosives nonetheless. Childe should probably do something about that.
Just as Diluc arcs his sword over his head, the edge of the blade gleaming like an executioner's axe over a terrible criminal's covered head - or in this case, barreled head - a pair of arms wrap around his waist, tackling him into the grapevines below. (The sword clatters to the ground a few feet away, landing precariously by a pair of scuffed brown loafers. They have little butterfly charms instead of the regular round buttons that gleam in the sunlight.) Diluc looks up to see a familiar face looming over him, hands planted on either side of his head. Gazing incredulously into the distance, Fatui Scumbag Supreme - A.K.A Tartaglia, alias Childe - presses his chest as close to Diluc's as possible, shrinking under the leaves.
Notably, he smells rather pleasant, if not a little bit like dust and dirt. The scent is like rain and fresh lemongrass, combined with the sweet fragrance of crushed grapes, and the overall effect is Diluc wanting to slap himself out of pure self-loathing. This utterly idiotic Fatui Harbinger has tackled him to the floor, likely to kill him, after appearing out of nowhere, and is now making sure there is no one around to see the deed done. He shouldn't be commenting on how he smells nice!
"I thought you were a barrel!" The redhead hisses.
Childe only presses a finger to his lips, narrowing his eyes as he watches something in the distance move. Once he's sure that it's gone, he turns back to Diluc with a haphazard smile on his face, folding his arms under his chin as he rests on top of the other's chest. "Surprise! You're welcome, by the way."
Diluc scoffs. "I have nothing to thank you for. You've not only beaten this season's grape harvest into the ground, but you've done so using my body as a battering ram."
The bastard has the audacity to shrug, a devil-may-care grin on his face as he nods towards the barrel. "Watch this."
Childe points at a small bird, fluttering peacefully over the wall and hopping across the surface of the wooden container. Nothing happens for a moment, and Diluc gives him a look that could melt iron. With an eager grin, Childe only nods back to the barrel as a second bird glides over. The second its little feet touch the top, the entire thing explodes. There are two very, very sad squawks as the birds combust in a mess of feathers, dirt, and tiny guts. Childe smiles widely, turning back to Diluc like a cat who dragged in as much of a dismembered mouse as it could.
"See?" He puffs out his chest, pressing closer to the redhead as a result. "You're welcome. That could have been you."
Oh, if only.
Diluc sniffs. "That's highly illegal and terrible for my grapes. I'll have Miss Megistus escort you off the premises."
He rolls the ginger-haired man off of his torso, moving to get to his feet. A hand shoots out from below him, dragging him back down into the leaves and nestled snugly between Childe's legs, his back facing the Harbinger's stomach.
As he clamps a hand over Diluc's mouth, his eyes watch the strip of blue sky above them, scanning the air for an unknown clue. Diluc waits silently, transfixed as well. A small splash of water drips onto his nose, and he can feel Childe's heart race, pressed against Diluc's shoulder blades. Above them, Mona surveys the land, the already-battered grapevines crushed underneath her embellished shoes. After a moment, she moves on, a trail of glimmering water in her wake.
Childe releases Diluc with a sigh, but he rests his chin just over the other's shoulder so he can look him in the eye. "That was close. Honestly, you should learn to be more careful, Master Diluc. She nearly caught us there, and then we would have lost the game."
"I beg your pardon?" Diluc hisses. "'Lost the game?' Were you born an idiot, or did someone rob you of your senses?"
Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Childe tugs on a flick of hair that hangs in the middle of his forehead. "That's rather rude."
"Aren't you the one who tried to drown all of Liyue?" Diluc says, wrestling to turn onto his back. He's successful, but now he can see all of Childe's smug little face from this angle. Well, decidedly less smug now that he's reminded him that he's a war criminal.
Childe wrinkles his nose. "Touché. But calm down, Master Diluc. I just need us to hang tight for..." He glances down at his pocket watch. "Three more minutes."
There is a pause as Childe tucks his clock back into the folds of his coat and then, quite comfortably, settles on Diluc's chest and rests his chin on his forearms. Shocked into silence, the redhead stares at him in shock, taking in the carefree smile and the casual manner in which he has literally splayed on top of him.
"Three minutes?" Diluc repeats. "Like this?"
"Yep. Don't go giving away our place, now."
Scoffing, Diluc begins to shake his head, leaning on his elbows as he tries to get up. "You're insane. Now move before I send you back to your Tsaritsa as a bucket of ashes."
Just as they start to fidget and tussle underneath the grapevines, approaching footsteps shock them into staying still for a split second. Oddly enough (to Diluc, at least), it appears that Albedo, of all people, raises his hand to his forehead to block out the sunlight, searching for something in the leaves. Childe takes advantage of this moment and rolls the two of them over, finding cover underneath a square frame of thickly intertwined vines. The blond alchemist stops, turning his head in their direction.
As Diluc gets ready to curse him into next week, Childe peers over his shoulder at the approaching fluff just peeking above the cart in the way. Instinctually, he reaches out for the first thing on Diluc's body he can get purchase on and tugs him down, shoving his face into his chest. Hand knotted in the redhead's hair, Childe cranes his neck just in time to see Albedo start running in the direction of laughter. He exhales, letting his head fall back against the ground below him.
Something vibrates against his chest as Childe realizes he's still holding Diluc rather tightly by the hair. A look of amazed wonder spreads across his face as he lets go, leaning back on his elbows to stare at the man laying on top of him.
"Master Diluc," He asks gleefully and slowly. "Did you just moan as I pulled your hair?"
To his further joy, the incredibly stoic and very serious Master Diluc grips the fabric of Childe's shirt and presses his face further against his chest. "... No."
His lie is only further accentuated by the fact his ears have gone really quite red. Oh, this is just too cute for Childe to handle. He twirls a strand of scarlet hair around his index finger, watching Diluc's shoulders twitch as he tightens his grip on the Harbinger's shirt.
"It's alright, you know. I won't tell anyone." He says, casually tugging on the coiled hair around his finger like the smug bastard he is.
A short gasp leaves the redhead's mouth, but it feels hot through Childe's shirt, sending rivulets of electricity running over his skin. With angry eyes, Diluc lifts his head so he can give Childe a look that would knock a bird from the sky through the sheer power of intent. "Or what?"
Shaking his head deliberately, the Harbinger abandons the small strand wrapped around his finger and, instead, starts to card his hand through the mane of crimson hair loosely tied in Diluc's ponytail. "There isn't an 'or what' in this situation. That's not how I do things."
"Wouldn't-" He stops, pressing his forehead to Childe's sternum to hide his face. "I wouldn't put it past you."
Childe removes his hand from Diluc's hair, easing a whine he'll probably never live down from the latter's throat. "Well, I'll stop then. If you're so worried about that, you can leave. It's only one game of Windchase, after all. I'll just win the next one if they find me."
Bashfully, Diluc peers over Childe's chest, averting his eyes until he can find his words. "Harbinger, please."
Inclining his head to the side, Childe lets a small smile play on his face. "'Please' what?"
Aggravatedly groaning, Diluc rolls his eyes, dragging the other down across the dirt to look him in the eye, hands planted on either side of his head. With as must confidence as he can muster, he narrows his eyes and pretends his legs aren't shaking like jelly. "Don't be cruel."
Hu Tao shimmies underneath a cart stacked high with barrels, the gravel catching on her coat. A few yards away, a shimmering veil of water is making its way towards her with a vendetta, and the girl yelps, diving into a bush. For some unknown reason, the traveling puddle runs straight past Hu Tao and goes straight for a blond boy in a strange combination of tights and shorts. Ugh. Mondstadters and their weird fashion sense. Hu Tao crawls forward to catch their conversation, leaving each shred of dignity she has in the twisted brambles.
"The stars have forsaken me, Albedo!" Mona says, launching into the air from her puddle form and throwing her hat on the ground. "These stupid, stupid cheaters!"
Albedo raises an eyebrow. "Weren't you asking Master Diluc where the other participants were hidden just a moment ago?"
Making a conflicted face, Mona averts her eyes and shifts her weight from one foot to another. "Well, yes, but now the ginger one is cheating by using him as well. It cancels out like... Like math, you know?"
"Please, Miss Megistus, perhaps you may want to stick by what you know rather than what you don't." Albedo sighs, pinching his brow. With a sigh, he reestablishes eye contact with her with the weariest expression that Hu Tao has ever seen - and she runs a funeral parlor. "How was Tartaglia cheating?"
Mona crosses her arms over her chest as Hu Tao's ears prick at the name Tartaglia. As she explains how she found him, the girl frowns, picking her way back through the bush to dart over to where Zhongli was hidden, mentally noting to dock his pay for being such a coward. Behind a stack of barrels, the consultant crouches low to the ground, pulling Hu Tao next to him as soon as she's within range.
"Aiyah, Mr. Zhongli, it seems you've really pushed him over the edge." She whispers. "He's off sucking faces with the master of this establishment. Poor Fischl must have seen them. It would explain the way she's collapsed on the table over there."
(Fischl is, indeed, draping herself over a table, Oz fluttering weakly beside her as she fans herself. It's not because she walked in on Childe and Diluc, however, but because she is wearing many, many layers of clothing and hasn't been drinking enough water. It is difficult being a goth in the summertime, but she will tell anyone who draws near that her homeland's sun has eclipsed the moon, draining her of her energy.)
Zhongli makes a face of troubled confusion. "Oh, dear."
Nodding, his boss leans her face on her hand. "Yep. I told you to be nice to him, you know."
A moment of terse silence passes between them. Honestly, Hu Tao can't believe she's giving this utter fool romantic counseling.
"Well, the past is past, Director," Zhongli says, straightening his tie. "Although, I am slightly worried about how adverse Master Diluc is to the Fatui and their envoys. Perhaps it is a trick to lure him in and then kill him?"
Hu Tao glances out over the grapevines, watching the sun hanging low over the sky. "You know, I don't believe he's smart enough to do that. I saw him arguing with a barrel."
"I see."
Gently, Hu Tao places a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps we should head back, Mr. Zhongli. He doesn't seem to want to talk to you."
"If you're just using me as a rebound," Diluc says, trying his best to keep his composure as Childe runs his hands up and down his thighs, "you could at least be subtle about it."
Childe blinks, hooking his thumb through the cold metal ring of Diluc's garter. "A rebound? Not really."
The dappled sunlight begins to fade through the gaps in the leaves above them, casting odd shadows on their faces. Stifling a noise that the maids will swear they never heard, Diluc looks away as Childe presses a hand underneath his shirt.
"No?"
Shaking his head, the Harbinger traces his blunt fingernails over the skin above the waistband of Diluc's pants. "No. I mean, it's not especially romantic to fuck you in a vineyard, but it's not nothing, now, is it?"
"Bold of you to assume you'll get that far." Diluc scoffs, but he shivers as the other's hand drops a few centimeters lower.
A satisfied grin spreads across Childe's face. In this light, Diluc almost glows. Loose and messy around his shoulders, his hair is aflame, gleaming like embers in the dying sunlight, and his face is painted a lovely shade of rose. As Childe studies him, he tilts his head to the side in rapt focus, his hand sliding around to linger above Diluc's hip. The latter bristles slightly underneath the attention, flustered enough that he angles his head downward, letting his bangs fall into his face like a curtain.
Clearing his throat, Childe blinks, bucking his hips upward, so Diluc straightens up, a strangled sound warbling through his gritted teeth. "This isn't terribly serious. I expect you'll go straight back to calling me scum after this, not that I mind." He adds in a rakish wink. "But, yeah. You'd have more on your hands than you could handle if I came in here with a ring and a priest."
Startled, Diluc nearly falls off of his lap. "Are you threatening me with marriage? You can't just do... You can't just spring that on someone, what the -"
Like an idiot, Childe only beams as the redhead stutters, taking such great pleasure in his confusion that he slides his hands to give Diluc's ass a gentle squeeze. His legs tense around the Harbinger's hips, pressing a hand to his mouth as his face deepens a shade.
"I mean, if thinking about getting hitched makes you all that hot and bothered, you should have told me sooner! Do you want to wear the white dress, or should I?" Childe glances downward with a sly look on his face, relishing how the other man grips the fabric of his shirt so tightly, his knuckles crack.
"Don't be so heteronormative!" He hisses.
Sagely, Childe nods. "You're right. We'll both wear dresses. Although, I do have one request, and it's for me to do that thing where I reach up your skirt and look for your fancy lace thing."
"You are not going to toss the garter! We are not getting married!"
Pouting, Childe sits up, leaning back on his elbows as Diluc makes vague gestures indicating murder with his hands. Before he can say anything else, those slightly murderous hands grab his collar and pull him closer. With a frustrated sigh, Diluc presses his lips to Childe's with the enthusiasm of a man possessed, all-consuming and intoxicating like a forest fire. Shocked, Childe finds a place for his hand to rest, gathering a handful of Diluc's shirt.
Remembering that, yes, they have to breathe some time or another, Diluc releases him, eyes glazed over with a pensive look, brow furrowed and blinking slowly. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, Childe stares at him in amazement.
"Wow, you're -"
"Shut up," Diluc says shortly. "Everything goes wrong when you open your mouth."
Gaping at him in offense, Childe frowns. "That is so rude! Nothing bad ever happens when I open my mouth. I am a joy to be -"
Diluc kisses him again so hard that he forgets what he's saying, which is probably for the best. There is not much he can say without pissing at least one person off, so keeping him busy with something else to occupy his mind is the only thing Diluc can do to spare the world from the terror that is Tartaglia (alias Childe, alias Stupid Fucking Idiot, et cetera, et cetera).
That is definitely the only reason he kisses him with such zeal that his own name slips his mind. No other reasons. Obviously.
Shut up.