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Diluc meets Zhongli in Mondstadt’s oldest library.
He’s only there to drop some things off for Lisa, a congratulatory gift for her new job from her three old friends. Jean and Kaeya had of course, other things to do and sent, Diluc, along with a wrought metal box full of expensive teas and their apologies. Lisa had cooed over the gift, pecking Diluc on both cheeks all while waving away her friends’ relayed messages with her trademark half-smile. Diluc hadn’t grimaced once while being fussed over but when Lisa had been called over by one of her new assistants, he’d let out a sigh of relief.
Diluc rubs his cheek, the smudged colour of Lisa’s bright lipstick marking his coat sleeve, and he rolls his eyes. Given the distressed face of her assistant he doesn’t think she’ll be free to chat anytime soon. He’s done what he was supposed to, ferried tea and apologies from across the city so Diluc may as well leave, get back to his slew of unsigned papers and stock lists for the bar, now in an outrageous pile on his desk.
God, he can’t think of anything worse.
Pursing his lips, a little, Diluc wanders away from the main desk, threading through imposing dark oak bookcases. The library was originally a towering gothic cathedral; the old purpose of the structure lingers, the high arching beams of the roof, ascending upwards in a tall spire, the architraves running high above the bookshelves guarded by crumbling gargoyles, whole but darkened with age.
The large stained-glass windows cast a strange light over everything and Diluc sticks to protective gloom of the shelves. They depict old legends and stories, not all religious in nature, the glass panels curving into dragons and golden stags nestled beneath a blue sky on one of them, angels and saints on another. The cathedral became a library around two hundred years ago, during the industrialisation of the city and Mondstadt’s academics have since claimed it for their own. It’s been restored—renovated really—an extra level added to the library to store more books; it’s a little different from when his father used to bring him here, but all the bones are achingly familiar.
Diluc makes his way to the spiral staircase connecting both floors, ignoring the way the thin wood creaks beneath his shoes. He doesn’t see anyone else as he walks along the second floor and stubbornly ignores the view from the railing the drop below.
Surely, he thinks, a little queasy, they could have just added more bookshelves instead of a whole other floor, five metres in the air.
He glances along the shelves picking out titles and authors that seem familiar and runs his hand along their spines. Most were, if Lisa is to be believed, transferred from the first floor; old books, unpopular ones, those that are solely useful to academics or bordering on archaic. Diluc snorts; he’s not sure what his recognition of such old titles says about him, nothing exciting he’s sure but—oh, right there… Diluc slides a slim gold volume off the shelf, the pages rustling in welcome as he flips it open.
Diluc used to have a copy of this book; a collection of myths from Liyue, stories passed down from the tongues of the country’s great masters and delicately penned by their students. It’s was a translated version of course, little footnotes dotting the pages where words have been deemed ‘untranslatable.’ He’d scowled at those notes when reading it years ago, filled with boyish annoyance at the barrier that existed between him and what he thought were the true stories, written in a language he couldn’t yet decipher or understand.
As a consolation, Diluc had made his father read it to him, his voice smoothly pronouncing the names of people and places that Diluc had fumbled over. He can barely remember it, those years before Kaeya was his brother, what it had been like to sit in front of the fire with his father, to command all of his warm and sometimes melancholic affection.
Diluc huffs and closes the book with a snap, slotting it back into the shelf.
“Not a fan of Liyue’s literature?” queries a voice behind him, deep and curious.
He stiffens, mouth downturned. “No—no just—” Diluc turns, clumsily bumping into the railing. The stranger holds out a gloved hand to steady his elbow and Diluc swallows the prickling urge to jerk away. “—Just, that book. In particular.”
The stranger—a man— stares down at him, an amused glint in his eyes. He’s tall and broad and Diluc thinks, half-stunned, that he must be the type of person photographed often, all bold dark lines and tweed and gold; as if magazines made school-teacher propaganda to convince the masses to become beautiful sepia-toned educators.
He moves closer, leaning past Diluc to read the book’s title, and his ears burn. “Ah, so really, you’re not a fan of mythology?” He tilts his head and Diluc thinks he must be laughing at him, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, only his eyes hold that spark of laughter. “A man of science, hm?”
Diluc holds his gaze, watches the slow dark fall of the man’s eyelashes. “No,” he repeats, “Just that book it—frustrated me,” he admits, “When I was a kid.”
Those eyelashes graze his cheeks again. “In what way?”
He purses his lips and looks away this time; a rush of people come through the doors, and there’s the shuffle of umbrella’s, teardrop rain on the stained-glass windows. An impromptu storm.
“I wanted to read the original version,” Diluc says and shoves his hands into his pockets, the man’s eyes seem to catch on the action, but he doesn’t comment. “Without the translation, but I couldn’t.” He clears his throat, eager to leave, feet imploring him to stay. “Nothing scandalous, I promise.”
The man hums, stepping back to lean against the railing, the distant marble of the first-floor blurs storm and gray and Diluc can’t help but blurt; “You’re not afraid you’ll fall?”
“I’m sure it’s quite safe,” he answers evenly, “Even so, I’m sure you’d rescue me, you seem like the type.” His eyes crinkle, little crow’s feet tucked away in the corners, they’re so charming Diluc can almost forgive the amused smile on his face.
He snorts. “The type?”
“A good Samaritan,” is the smooth answer and Diluc’s mouth curves. He’s said nothing truly funny, nothing like Kaeya’s witty but scathing remarks that tug the laugh out of you but there’s something in the man’s demeanour all the same, something quietly amused, perhaps a tad mysterious.
“If you fall that’s on your own hubris,” he says, frowning and the man grins lightly.
He holds out a hand and Diluc raises his eyebrows. “Then I should introduce myself, in case I don’t get the chance,” he winks, suave and Diluc’s heart beats strangely. “I’m Zhongli.”
Diluc bites his cheek, pausing for a beat before he clasps his hand, chest tightening at the warmth of Zhongli’s palm, the gentle squeeze. He thinks the rain has stopped, pale light bursting through the stained glass and spilling onto the floor below, a ray catches in Zhongli’s hair and the brown shifts to gold. He squeezes back. “Diluc.”
“Aw,” Kaeya coos, after pulling the story from a reluctant Diluc, “Sounds like love.”
“It sounds,” Diluc replies shortly, ears warm beneath his hair, “Like you’re an idiot.”
Kaeya rolls his eyes, quiet for a beat before he asks, smirking slightly, “Do you think you’ll see him again? This…Zhongli?”
Diluc sighs. Fiddles with the edge of his sleeve, pulling at a stray thread, all frayed and frazzled between his fingers. “I don’t know,” he answers, feels the cold burn of his brother’s inquisitive eyes, “I don’t know if I want to.”
Kaeya’s mouth curves into something softer, a little pitying. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Diluc.”
He meets Zhongli twice after that first meeting in the library. Twice before he realises that perhaps fate is trying to tell him something under the guise of coincidence.
The second time is at a farmer’s market, tucked away in the heart of Mondstadt, just after dawn on a sleepy Sunday. Diluc is drowsily evaluating jars of honey, fitted tightly between a dozen people or so doing the same, though they’re chipper and bright-eyed, so he tries to keep his grumbling to a minimum.
He ducks his head and yawns, only to squawk when a large, rowdy family pushes past him, their youngest children whipping past him, as he stumbles into someone behind him, the bridge of nose squashing against the rough fabric of a coat jacket.
“Gods—sorry,” Diluc tries to shuffle back but the children rush by again, squealing and he finds himself pressed almost flat against hard muscle. He scowls, red faced, into the stranger’s chest, and when he apologises again, it’s strangled. “Really.”
There’s a faint chuckle, and Diluc stiffens at the familiar cadence. No way, he thinks, tipping his head up, nope—no—not today—and his eyes find, a very amused Zhongli peering down at him, towering over the rivers of people rushing to and fro.
Zhongli casts a glance at the people around them, mouth a little flat with censure. “It’s a bit busy, isn’t it?” Diluc’s gives him a look that says ‘no, really?’ and with an amused smile Zhongli gently pulls him out of the stall and to the side, into the small space between each vendor, empty save for a few boxes and fold-out chairs. Diluc grips his bags tighter and let’s himself be whisked into the quiet, “here, that might be a bit better…” Zhongli glances down at Diluc’s flushed face and hums. “You don’t appear to do well with closed spaces.”
He purses his lips and steps back, raising his voice a tad to be heard over the chattering next to them, “I like my personal space is all.”
Zhongli smiles, and it’s so easy and full on his face, Diluc’s mouth eases its tense line in a pale echo of it. “Well, then I hope you won’t mind my request,” Zhongli says.
“Depends on the request,” Diluc returns, squinting with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
“Walk with me,” Zhongli says. He raises his eyebrows and Zhongli shrugs with a smile. “I’d much prefer your company to solitude.”
He swallows. “I still have shopping to do.”
Zhongli nods earnestly and holds up a list. “Me too, let’s do it together.”
Diluc crosses his arms and peers up at the man, mouth soft with consideration. He could be a psychopath, a twisted stranger; a man with too much time on his hands seems likely, given he’s so freely offering his hours to Diluc. An annoying voice in his head—that sounds suspiciously like Kaeya—urges him to get over himself and take the damned hand that being offered and have some fun. He looks at Zhongli squarely, as if through a telescope; he focuses on all of his little details, his tidy hair and steady brows; Diluc is, for one second, unabashed and quiet and his honestly follows.
“Alright,” Diluc says brusquely, gripping Zhongli’s hand and tugging him back into the main square. His hair slips over his hot cheeks. “Let’s go… and I’m not carrying your bags.”
Zhongli blinks at their tangled hands, lengthening his stride to keep pace with Diluc and he practically charges through the crowds and then he laughs. Not the faint chuckles from before but deep and clear. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They exchange numbers (Zhongli carefully navigating Diluc’s smartphone before pulling out the ugliest brick phone he’s ever seen and handing it to him, cheerfully ignoring his muffled sounds of pain as his fingers stumble over the clunky buttons)
Zhongli texts him a week or so later and there’s something so aggravating and lackadaisical about the message that Diluc just knows that he obviously took so long just to torture him with the pain of waiting. It’s a simple text, with a link to an opera performance happening that week, late in the evening.
Beneath the promotion for the event is a simple: come with me?
Diluc huffs as he scrolls through the information. The invitation seems entirely too presumptuous, but he can admit he’s charmed by the event. It’s not dinner, or a movie, or a sport’s game, but an opera. He skims most of the summary until his eyes catch on a reference at the very bottom of the page and he chokes on a laugh. The opera is based on three tales from that book of Liyue myths he’d stuffed back into the shelf at the library. The one Zhongli had taken such careful note of.
Diluc: really? This opera in particular?
Not even a minute passes before his phone buzzes.
Zhongli: it’s a coincidence I promise ^ - ^!!
The emoticon makes him snort.
Diluc: That statement would be more believable if I didn’t know you
Zhongli: How strange it is that we’ve only met twice but already you know me well
Zhongli: Does this mean we are friends, or only friendly acquaintances?
Diluc bites his lip as he stares at the screen. Typing out half a dozen replies before hesitantly settling on:
Diluc: you’re very bold
Zhongli: I think if I weren’t you might just disappear
Zhongli: But if I’m being too forward, let me know
Diluc: You’re being too forward
Zhongli : Ah, what a shame, I’ve forgotten how to read.
Diluc’s tense shoulders ease as he chuckles. There’s something so constant about Zhongli’s brand of dry humour; it’s never mean-spirited, and always delivered in the same way, even over the phone, patiently anticipating an answering breath of amusement. The easy humour has hi nodding to himself, a decision impulsively made. Diluc grips his phone tightly before striding into his room and throwing open his wardrobe, nodding to himself. I need to iron my—-a suit—any suit, he thinks, wildly sorting through his ties, and find my cufflinks, the nice ones. A minute or so later, hair sticking up with static, Diluc emerges from underneath a pile of shirts with his nice cufflinks and places them delicately on his nightstand before lying on his bed, propped up on his elbows like a schoolgirl. Satisfied he sends a swift message.
Diluc: What time does the opera start?
Zhongli: 8pm, I’ll come and pick you up
Diluc : You can read again? What a surprise
Zhongli : It’s miracle ^=^
Zhongli: and thank you.
The light drizzle that greeted him when he’d left the florist five minutes ago has already transformed into a righteous downpour and his shoes hit the pavement wetly as he jogs along the bare sidewalk. Clearly, Diluc is the only one reckless enough to venture outside in the stormy weather.
Diluc wipes his dripping hair out of his eyes, jerking to a stop as a taxi speeds along the street, tires shrieking on the asphalt. Its wheels kick swaths of water that drench him even further and Diluc curses loudly. The bouquet of flowers he’d impulsively bought is crinkled beneath one side of his coat, not that it’s doing much to keep it dry.
He rocks back on forth on his feet, annoyance dragging hands down his spine. He just—just wanted to grab some flowers for his—for Zhongli—as a…surprise. As a congratulations even, for putting up with him so far. Diluc knows he isn’t…an easy person to be with, to talk to; he knows he’s willing to hold hands only half the time, when it’s just them, at home or in the darkness of the theatre. He knows that Zhongli does not hide his affection, is so open about it that it’s downright mortifying, that even while he wants to introduce Diluc to his friends and family, he hasn’t pushed him to meet them.
He could have and Diluc would have caved; they’ve only been together like this for a few months, but Zhongli is all heart beats and slow blinks, unthinkable in all the best ways, and oh-so hard to refuse.
Zhongli for all intents and purposes is, like Diluc, content to stay in their own little world for just a little longer, to humour him, and his worries without complaint. Impulsively buying a bouquet is something Diluc would have laughed at months ago, the action deemed too childish or sappy, but now it’s the only way he can think of to express what his fledgling feelings. It’s the only way he can say ‘thank you.’
A ‘thank you’ that’s a lot damper than he would have hoped for.
He tosses his hair out of his face again, wincing at the cold droplets of rain that run down his neck. It’s safe to say he’s not a fan of weather like this. The cutting breezes that come with rain, the stinging smell of wet concrete and pavement muddy with disappearing footsteps. Everything is all hazy when it rains, as if a curtain of gauze has covered all the buildings and lights, diffusing the red and orange lights of a few passing cars into fragments of warmth, fractal as they gloss over his face.
The cathedral looms in the distance, the spires passing between the rain clouds and Diluc breathes a sigh of relief. It’s become a ritual of sorts, for them to meet here, whether inside the library or beneath the archways at the sides of the structure; usually they will wander inside, and Zhongli will drag Diluc up to the second floor and pull him into a cosy corner with two armchairs and murmur to him about the contents of one book or another. It’s almost religious of them to meet here, but Zhongli is inclined to sentimentality and Diluc can’t deny him that.
He huffs as he trudges up the marble stairs, his feet slapping wetly in a puddle as he dips gratefully beneath the cover of the cathedral’s arches. Delicately, he extricates the bouquet from underneath his coat and frowns at the slightly wilted petals, still dotted with drops of rain despite his best efforts.
There’s the faint sound of footsteps and he whips his head up, a tall silhouette strolling towards him, all brown and silver lit shadows, one hand tucked behind his back the other nestled in a pocket. Diluc’s mouth curves tiredly, bouquet cradled in his arms. “Hey,” he says, “I got you flowers.”
Zhongli’s gold eyes focus on him and he shakes his head, exasperated, as he stops in front of him. “Diluc,” he lifts a hand and tugs and Diluc’s wet fringe, his fingers skating down the curve of his cheekbone. “You’re soaked.”
“And you’re quite dry,” Diluc returns, swallowing the urge to bury his face in Zhongli’s fleeced coat. “Remind me to steal your umbrella.”
“You could easily contract pneumonia.”
He snorts, pushing Zhongli’s fussing hand away. “I’m not even cold,” he assures him. “Just take the flowers, you blockhead,” Diluc adds pressing them to the man’s chest.
Zhongli’s eyes crinkle and he untucks his other hand from behind his back to reveal a bouquet of bright poppies, their red faces turned towards the arches and faint watery light leaking through. Diluc’s ears burn beneath his wet hair as he looks between the flowers and Zhongli’s face. “It seems we had the same idea, then,” he manages, hesitantly swapping the bouquets until the poppies rest in his arms and Zhongli has his own hands full. “I wanted to surprise you.”
His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You showing up like a drowned kitten is surprise enough,” Zhongli murmurs, tucking a piece of wet hair behind Diluc’s ear. “But thank you for the flowers,” his smile widens, a sliver of silver in the shadows, “Magnolias are my favourite.”
Diluc huffs, cheeks hot, and steps forward to lean his head against Zhongli’s front, “I didn’t know it was going to rain…and you’re welcome.”
Zhongli chuckles, resting his cheek against the top of Diluc’s head. “Want to come over to mine?” His voice drops to a murmur, “I can assure you it’s quite a bit dryer than this old church.”
Diluc’s hands tighten around his own bouquet, the poppies pressed tightly against his chest like a dozen beating hearts. His voice is quiet when he replies. “Can we stay here for another minute?”
There’s a beat of quiet before Zhongli’s hands press gently against the small of his back, holding him just a touch closer.
“Of course.
