Chapter Text
If Zhongli could turn back time, he’ll make it a point to never meet Diluc again.
It’s laughable, really. In his six thousand years of existence, filled with war, erosion and defeat, he never considered to hypothetically change anything to reverse that. Instead, he would like to change a small, trivial thing that wouldn’t change the face of history. Some may call it a missed opportunity. He calls it liberation.
Meeting Diluc has become his greatest joy and greatest pain in one.
However, even as an Archon, he could never turn back time. He moves forward, like everyone does, like the world does. The only thing that he could do is to look back.
So, he does look back, before the rest of his memory becomes eroded by time. He looks back to when he first entered Angel’s Share to have a drink with a (rather troublesome) old friend. He looks back to goblets of dandelion wine that may have muddled with his head to let him make hasty generalizations.
“I think you and I are the same,” he remembers blurting out, eyes avoiding any sort of eye contact to make It seem that he’s not directing ito to anyone in particular. However, a certain bartender looks his way, like he knows it’s for him. “Pardon?” he asks, confused.
Zhongli had chuckled to himself then, to try and hide his surprise. “You’re Mr. Ragnvindr, correct?” he replies with another question, before sipping his wine.
The bartender – Mr. Ragnvindr – widens his eyes. “How did you – “ he starts, yet Zhongli offers him an explanation before he even finishes his question. “Mr. Venti here told me all about you. And you’re also quite the celebrity here in Mond.” A pink hue bursts upon Mr. Ragnvindr’s cheeks upon hearing the word ‘celebrity.’ “I wouldn’t call myself that.”
Zhongli chuckles into his wine goblet. “I think I have proven myself right.”
Eyebrows furrow. “Right? About what?”
“About you and I being the same.”
Venti never shuts up about his people. A gossiper, like some would regard him. Yet, Zhongli doesn’t see him as a mere gossiper. He’s more like a storyteller. Or, like a proud father of many children, Mr. Ragnvindr included.
Mr. Ragnvindr, in his stories, is described in different lenses. Sometimes, he’s a cold, tight-lipped Master of a winery which Venti ‘borrows’ wine from. Sometimes, he’s a humble bartender. Other times, he’s a knight, although that story has long slipped away into obscurity.
But, in many times, he’s a hero in the night, defending Mond from its many threats that lurk in the shadows.
Of all the characters in Venti’s stories, Mr. Ragnvindr is the character he wants to hear of the most. No matter of the swashbuckling Cavalry Captain who has his own peculiar secrets. No matter of the alchemist that Zhongli had once gifted a vision. No matter of the outlander who had once visited Liyue in search of their sibling. It’s Mr. Ragnvindr, and only Mr. Ragnvindr that piqued his interest and made him want to learn about him more and more.
There’s something about him, he thinks. Perhaps, it’s how he sees himself in him. Perhaps, it’s how in every story Venti tells him, he understands his motives, his goals and his struggles. Perhaps, it’s the way he felt every mortal emotion when he listens to stories all about him. That he feels much more human around Mr. Ragnvindr before even meeting him.
That’s one of his mistakes. He should’ve felt that feeling ‘human’ around a mortal was wrong. He should’ve backed away when he had a chance.
Alas, he’s reminded that even Archons cannot turn back time. He’s reminded that he can only look back. And he looks on, watching his memories show him how that night went on, as patrons filled and exited the tavern until it was him, Venti and Mr. Ragnvindr left. Watching as his memories showed him how he told his own stories to Mr. Ragnvindr. Watching as his memories showed him as Mr. Ragnvindr understood.
“Hearing your tales makes me think that we do seem alike, Mr. Zhongli,” the bartender tells him as he wipes down a glass. “I think, we understand each other the most.”
“I think so too,” Zhongli replies, downing the last of his wine.
That should’ve been the cue for him to leave. To forget. To say goodbye without looking back.
But he remembers that he hesitated. He remembers that he had taken a look at Venti, then to Mr. Ragnvindr, then to Venti again. He remembers that he had made excuses to stay longer, that the night is still young, that he has more stories to tell (six thousand years worth of it), that Venti’s too heavy to carry and he’ll just wait for him to wake up.
He should’ve left then and there but he didn’t. He stayed. And he can only watch in his memories because he can’t turn back time. He can only look back.
He looks back to awkward attempts to lengthen conversation. To Venti waking up half an hour later and leading Zhongli outside the tavern in a stumbling mess. He remembers goodbyes with promises of meeting again, of promises to write to each other to tell more stories. He looks back to unknowing smiles and longing gazes back to the tavern, to thoughts of the possibility of Mr. Ragnvindr looking at the door with the same longing gaze as he had given him long after the door had clicked shut.
He looks back to a haphazard realization, to something he should’ve banished from his mind from the first time that it had come to fruition.
That he might have fallen in love with Mr. Ragnvindr, even long before he had met him.