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Summary
"And what of your opinion, my friend?" Tartaglia sits back down, offering Diluc the flask with a flushed smile and bright eyes. They are full and round, twinkling like a harvest moon as the snow reflects the sunlight upside their faces. "Have you ever been in love?"
Diluc takes a sip. The drink is warm, rich, and soft, tasting like the sun rising above the snow-glazed horizon, leaving his lips cold as he returns the flask to the ginger-haired man. "I don't think I'm made for love."
--
"I love you," a voice rumbles through Zhongli's chest, and it doesn't quite sound like him. Chills erupt across Diluc's skin.
He swallows. "I love you, too."
A hum. "Do you?"
The hand grows colder.
