Archive of Our Own

Venti groans, letting his face melt into the Angel's Share counter. His cape is shoddily bundled up and abandoned on the floor by his stool, right next to Kaeya's own. Rosaria had warned Kaeya about what would become of his very expensive, very white fur when exposed to the grimy floor of a tavern (to which Diluc sputtered in protest about the cleanliness of his establishment, only to be duly ignored), but the heat triumphed over any concern Kaeya would normally have over his coat. For now, anyways - Venti does not doubt that their next few conversations at the bar will be spent lamenting over the destruction of his fur.

Unlike the other nations, such as Snezhnaya, with its biting cold during the winter months, and neighbouring Liyue, presently in the throes of its yearly summer heat, Mondstadt seldom experiences the extreme when it comes to seasons. It maintains a pleasantly mild warmth all throughout the year - the worst of winter is forever contained in Dragonspine (and some parts of Wolvendom if Andrius is in a particularly prickly mood) and summer is easily tamed with a cool breeze. Venti doesn't mind taking a little credit for it all. After Decarabian's storms and Andrius' blizzards, Barbatos, despite relinquishing control over his people, decided he could at least ensure the elements were in their favour, and so Mondstadt has remained at a comfortable temperature ever since.

But today? Today has absolutely nothing to do with him. The sun, currently at its height, beats down on the city streets, leaving the cobblestone fiery hot to touch. Knights slump idle at their posts, every single window in the city is flung wide open, and Venti's pretty sure he saw at least five kids clambering into the fountain on his way here. He, along with Kaeya, Rosaria, and many of the men of Mondstadt's populace, have retreated to the cool of Angel's Share. This time, it’s not just to day drink, but, rather, to escape the heat. It's a futile endeavour. Even Master Diluc's succumbed to it, his black coat folded neatly away in the back corner behind the bar.

“It’s so hot,” Venti cries out, for probably the sixtieth time that day.

A stray bead of sweat slides down Rosaria’s face. She stiffly wipes it away with a gloved hand. “Thanks for letting us know. I never would have been able to tell otherwise.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Kaeya drawls. He’s pressing his empty glass, still faintly cold from his drink, to his cheek. “Finally regretting your choice of outfit?”

She’s wearing the uniform the church had custom-made so she could wear it in lieu of the clothes she had torn to shreds. The dense black material seems to finally be getting to her - she’s spent the last hour tugging uncomfortably at the fabric at her neck. Despite herself, Rosaria sneers, stubborn as ever. “Says the man who wore fur out today.”

“Not anymore,” he grins, pointing a finger to the floor where it sits, crumpled up, as if it changes the fact he put it on in the first place. Rosaria blinks at him, unimpressed. He coughs and turns away. “Another round, Master Diluc!”

“Not happening,” the man in question growls, reaching for another bottle of wine anyway.

“Wait!” Venti shrieks, shooting upright. Kaeya nearly topples over in surprise. “Don’t touch it!”

Diluc turns and frowns. “Why not?”

“Because your hands are probably really warm, and I don’t want to drink lukewarm wine in this weather,” he says. He rests his chin on his hand. “Or ever.”

“Please,” Rosaria scoffs, “you’d lap the stuff up out of a puddle on the ground.”

“As a last resort!” Venti retorts. He leans back as far as a backless stool allows, splaying his arms out. “We have choice here.”

“No, you don’t, because I’m the bartender, so I have to hold the alcohol in order to pour it,” Diluc explains, slow and deliberate - not in the nice way, like you do with preschoolers, but in the exasperated way, like you do with idiots and Venti. “So if you want a drink-”

“Kaeya can be the bartender,” Venti says.

“I can?” Kaeya asks.

“No, you can’t,” Diluc replies. He turns to Venti. “No, he can’t.” Then his brows furrow, and he lifts his chin so he can narrow his eyes down at the bard in an adequately accusatory manner. “Why do you want Kaeya, of all people, to be the bartender instead of me?

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Kaeya protests.

“He’s a cryo user, so his hands are probably colder.”

“Rosaria’s a cryo user, too,” Diluc points out.

“Rosaria would poison me.”

Rosaria snaps her head to face Venti, looking thoroughly offended. It’s only a moment before offence turns to grudging agreement. “Yeah, I would.”

“I wouldn’t do it anyway,” Kaeya shrugs. “It’s my day off. I’m not going to do any work.”

“Your guy, five o’clock,” Diluc says, not even glancing up from topping up Kaeya’s glass.

Kaeya whips his head around. Venti follows his gaze, noticing a man in Treasure Hoarder garb plop himself down in a seat in a dark corner.

Kaeya swears, scrambling off his stool to pick his coat off the floor and thrust it over his shoulder. “Diluc, can you-” he grabs for his glass, surprised to find it already full. He smiles. “Thanks.” As he turns, the smile distorts into a lazy smirk. He begins sauntering over to his suspect, greeting a few other patrons on the way so as not to arouse suspicion.

Diluc shakes his head and pours Venti another glass. When he goes to refill Rosaria’s, she holds up a hand in polite refusal.

“I should be going,” she says, standing up. “Unlike Alberich, it’s not my day off.”

“Aw, already?” Venti frowns. “Since when did you care about going to work?”

“Since Sister Victoria threatened to ship all my knives over to the harbour to be tossed into the ocean.” She leans over to check her reflection in Venti’s wine. “If that’s all, I’m off.”

He looks up at Rosaria and gives her his best puppy dog eyes (which are definitely adorable and very convincing, and do not at all make him look like he’s constipated, Ei). “Make me some ice cubes before you go?”

“Barbatos above, my hands are not that warm!”

Rosaria stares down at him, unblinking. Venti’s near certain she’s about to turn away and leave (which, honestly, was his expected outcome from the get-go). Instead, she takes a deep breath, lets out the longest sigh Venti’s heard in a good while - and he’s heard a lot of sighs in his two thousand and something years - and drops three or four shards of ice, which all bear a concerning resemblance to the sharp end of a polearm, into his drink.

“You’re a saint, Rosaria,” he smiles.

“No, I’m a nun,” she says. “See you.”

And she’s gone as quick as she arrived. Which is really not quick at all. She had come in dragging her feet after Kaeya, and, whilst leaving, she gets about halfway to the door before she remembers she has to pay. She silently returns to dump out a bag of mora on the counter, the life leaving her eyes when Venti giggles at her.

And then she’s gone.

“Should you really be encouraging someone who works at Barbatos’ church to skip work?” Diluc asks, eyebrow raised.

“It’s the Church of Favonius, not Barbatos,” Venti easily replies. He gets an eye roll in response. “And I’m not encouraging anything - I was just hoping she’d hang around. I enjoy the company.” He gulps down his drink, stopping to cough and splutter when one of the ice shards stabs at the back of his throat.

Diluc looks on unsympathetically. “Complaining about lukewarm wine, and then you go and put ice in it. Some of the things you do…” he trails off, murmuring unhappily to himself as he gathers up Rosaria’s mora.

Venti scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking between the coins and the furrow of Diluc’s brow. He chuckles nervously. “Uh, about payment-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Diluc says, the coins clattering as he deposits them in the cash box under the bar. “Just for today, that is,” he adds quickly, when he stands up again and comes face to face with Venti gaping at him, eyes brimming with excitement. “I’m not giving you free drinks forever, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Venti sighs melodramatically, playing up his disappointment. “Why for today then, Master Diluc?”

Diluc doesn’t make eye contact. In one swift sweep of the arm, he places Rosaria’s empty glass in the sink and picks up one that’s been washed. He begins to dry it with a cloth, and his eyes stay fixed on that. “Well, it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Venti’s hand stops, his drink only halfway to his lips. “It is?”

Diluc looks up, looking equally confused. “It isn’t?”

“I mean, you’re probably right, but-” Venti sets his glass down and peers at Diluc. “Hey, who told you about my birthday?”

“The Traveler,” Diluc replies, suddenly sounding unsure of himself. “The sixteenth of June, right?”

“It’s June?!” Venti yelps, jumping up and slamming his hands down on the counter. Everyone sober enough turns their head to stare. This includes Kaeya, who gives them a judgemental raised eyebrow (or maybe he’s just raising both eyebrows, but one can never tell because of his eyepatch - and, when it comes to Diluc, one can safely assume he’s being judgemental) before Diluc tells Venti to sit down and shut up. 

“At least I know I’m not the problem here,” Diluc mutters, once Venti’s settled back down. He’s pinching his nose. Venti can practically see the wrinkles forming. “So it is your birthday.”

“Yes.”

“And you just… didn’t know.”

“Yes.”

Diluc looks like an owl, eyes wide and mouth in a thin line. He puts his face in his hands and exhales deeply. “Barbatos, I don’t know what I expected.”

Venti throws back the rest of his drink, nearly throws the glass over his shoulder, and promptly remembers that Diluc really doesn’t like it when he does that, even when Venti reminds him it was cool and trendy to do back when Sumeru had just found a way to mass-produce glass and rock goblets instantly fell out of fashion. He slides it onto the wooden counter instead.

“Well, this has been delightful, Master Diluc. The wine was wonderful as always-”

“You put ice in it,” Diluc rasps out, exasperated.

“- and thank you for reminding me about my birthday, but I really have to go now. See you!”

Diluc watches in bewilderment as Venti goes, scooping up his cape as he barrels out the door. It slams shut behind him in a gust of wind.

With no one left to tame the wilderness, the flora of Old Mondstadt has long become overgrown. Patches of moss and tangles of vines creep their way up the crumbling remnants of stone structures and wrap their way around Decarabian’s old and dilapidated tower. In some places, the grass even grows tall enough to tickle at Venti’s knees. But not here.

Here, the grass is shorter, crumpled flat against the earth, the rocks and soil beneath it peeking out. Maybe it has something to do with the sword wedged into the ground, or the makeshift tent tethered hastily down, or the fact that, whenever Venti comes here (which is pretty often, save for the five hundred years he was asleep), he makes the effort to clean up a little.

He kneels down in the dirt, sourly noting that his tights will be completely scuffed by the time he leaves. Having been sheltered from some of the harsher elements present in Decarabian’s old lair, the grass under the tent has thrived - a little too much, for Venti’s liking. Anywhere else, he wouldn’t feel this way - he takes nature flourishing in Mondstadt, flowers prevailing even in the unrelenting winds of Starsnatch Cliff, as a little victory for himself. He tries his best not to wince at places like Yujing Terrace, where glaze lilies are laid out in ordered rows, and the grass is reduced to little pricks of green, reaching only a few centimetres up from the earth.

It might be the lingering stench of a long-gone storm in the air getting to Venti’s head, but, in a place like this, the uninhibited plant growth starts to feel less like a sign of freedom and more like one of neglect. Regretting not stopping by at Dawn Winery to borrow a pair of shears, he summons an arrow and starts hacking away at the grass with its head.

A swift breeze blows the severed ends of the grass over to some other deserted corner of the old city. Venti picks up the makeshift bouquet of flowers he picked up along the way (windwheel asters, dandelions, even a few small lamp grass, the sun’s blinding light drowning out their soft glow) and feels guilt pooling in his stomach for the lack of cecilias, despite how long the detour up to Starsnatch would have taken, even with the assistance of anemo. The idea of taking the cecilia out of his hat briefly crosses his mind; he shakes his head, wondering if that would appear even more careless.

He pats the ground flat and places the flowers down. It’s not an unfamiliar routine. He always brings flowers when he visits his friend’s grave.

Normally, it’s to mourn, but today is a little different. Truth be told, Venti has no idea when his actual birthday is - he burst into life in a flurry of wind, in tandem with a hundred other wind sprites, and spent either days or years frolicking idly before Decarabian swept them all up in a brutal hurricane. Besides, wind sprites didn’t have months or days the way humans did. It was only when he met that bard that he found out what a birthday was. The bard, innocently gasping at the mere concept of someone not having one, soon declared that today was the little elf’s new birthday. Today, two thousand six hundred and something years ago. The day they met.

Venti smiles to himself and plops down to lie on the grass, next to the bouquet.

Thank you, he thinks. I wish you were here.

He throws an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the still-blaring sun. There’s a blast of wind in his face, strong enough to send his braids flying. He shoots out one hand to secure the bouquet, using the other to swat the hair out of his mouth as he sputters.

Sunlight blinding him, he squints up at the offending party. As they trudge closer, they block out the sun, enveloping Venti in a massive shadow. He sighs in relief - for the cool shade, and for the fact he recognises them.

“Dvalin!” he beams, waving an arm. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“I LIVE HERE,” Dvalin replies.

“Well, to be precise, you live there.” Venti cranes his neck to point in the general direction of the tower. “But, alas. Semantics! What are you standing all the way over there for?”

Dvalin casts an eye down at the grave, and the flowers placed on it. “I HAVE GROWN MUCH OVER THE YEARS. I DO NOT WISH TO TRAMPLE ON ANYTHING.”

“So conscientious, these days,” Venti croons. “I remember when you first emerged from the heavens, wreaking all that unintentional havoc and destruction-”

Dvalin coughs. “BARBATOS,” he complains, akin to how one responds to someone telling an embarrassing story about them.

“Oh, hush,” Venti says. “It was very endearing.”

Dvalin huffs a puff of hot air out of his nostrils, looking away for a few moments. He glances back down at the flowers and hesitates. “I’M AFRAID I DO NOT FARE WELL WITH DATES. WHAT IS THE OCCASION TODAY?”

“Nothing unpleasant,” Venti says. A wry smile spreads across his face. “It’s the day I met him.”

“AH.” Dvalin nods knowingly. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BARBATOS.”

Warmth blossoms in his chest. “Thanks, Dvalin.”

The sun is starting to creep out of view when Venti clambers up onto the statue of Barbatos in the plaza. The clergy of the Church of Favonius are preoccupied with finishing up the day’s final service, and preparing everything for the few devotees who will come silently to the cathedral at night to sit lonely in the pews. The only nun who would be neglecting the clean-up, and thus be out and about to spot him, is Rosaria, and he’s pretty sure she’d remorselessly topple the statue, given good reason. So his seat up here is undisputed today.

He leans back onto one of the cool stone hands, his legs kicked up onto the other. He takes a languid sip of wine from his beer mug, sighing with delight at its sweet flavour. An icy glass of non-alcoholic apple juice is carefully grasped in his other hand. He downs another mouthful of wine and lets his eyes flutter shut.

He could go to sleep just like this - if it weren’t for all the noise the Traveler and Paimon were making, shushing each other as they climb up the statue.

He fakes a few snores for dramatic effect and fights the smile threatening to appear on his face when he hears Paimon squeal in glee, rushing right up to his face.

She stifles a giggle, the Traveler snaps at her to be quiet, and she yells out “boo!”, throwing her arms out.

Venti opens one lackadaisical eye. “Oh, hello, Paimon.”

The joy drains from her face. Her cheeks puff up, red with ire. “Tone-Deaf Bard! You tricked Paimon!”

“Whatever do you mean?” Venti asks, the mischievous smile on his face negating his attempt at feigned innocence.
She crosses her arms. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, you know? We went to Angel's Share, Stormterror’s Lair…”

“How funny,” Venti muses. “You must have missed me by thiiiis much.”

“It’s not funny!” she shrieks. “We have other stuff to do!”

“We really don’t,” the Traveler admits, moving to sit cross-legged beside Venti. They’re cradling a meticulously wrapped box, an off-white ribbon tied into a neat bow on top. He tries not too stare too hard at it. “We’re being dragged every which way around Inazuma, so it was nice to be dragged every which way around Mondstadt instead. Shame that the weather’s been abysmal today.”

“I know, right?” Venti agrees, sitting up. His wine sloshes out of his mug, hopefully not falling on some poor unsuspecting Mondstadter down below. “Of all the days for Mondstadt to be this hot…”

They perk up, suddenly seeming to remember the box in their hands. “Oh, right! Happy birthday, Venti,” they say, offering it up to him.

“I heard you told Diluc about it, and that won me free drinks for today, so thanks,” he winks. He holds the apple juice out to them. “Here, special apple juice made just for you. Try it.”

“Hey! Where’s the special apple juice for Paimon?!”

The Traveler takes the drink, and Venti grabs for the gift box with his now-free hand. The ribbon comes loose with a gentle pull, and he quickly chucks away the lid to look inside.

It’s an assortment of various objects, which he assumes the Traveler has accumulated during their expeditions across Mondstadt. A small pile of uncut gems catches his eye with the way they glimmer in the light - he recognises them as Vayuda Turquoise. Next to the gemstones are a number of Hurricane Seeds, still thrumming with anemo energy (he silently sends his well-wishes to Beth - he knows the Traveler bestows no mercy in a fight out in the wild), and a bunch of freshly picked cecilias (Venti laments that they would’ve been helpful earlier in the day).

He lifts a book encrusted in gold out of the box, briefly noting the title has something to do with ballads, only to find a clump of something sticking to the back cover as he pulls it away. Cautiously, he pokes at it. He has to suppress a grimace when his finger comes back sticky with slime condensate. Gross.

“Oh, Traveler.” Venti subtly wipes the slimy substance onto the statue. “You shouldn’t have.”

They bashfully wave him off, passing their drink to Paimon, who guzzles the remainder of it down with great enthusiasm. “Really, it’s no big deal.”

A gust of cold air whacks Venti in the face as he tries to put the book back in while avoiding getting any more slime condensate on his hands. He inspects the box for whatever caused it, and can’t help the way his jaw hangs open uselessly when he spots it. Celestia above, is that a part of Andrius’ tail?

Out loud, he laughs nervously, trying to focus on the gemstones and cecilias instead.

“You better appreciate it, bard,” Paimon says through a mouthful of apple. “Do you know how much work it took to get all that?”

The Traveler swats at Paimon, insisting that, really, it wasn’t too bad. Paimon retorts by beginning to recount every single tedious walk from Dawn Winery to Andrius’ arena in Wolvendom, to which the Traveler can only bury their face in their hands.

Venti’s expression softens. Sure, it’s true he has no clue what to do with half the things in the box, but it’s obvious the Traveler put an immense amount of time and effort into amassing all of it. And it’s all just for him. He’ll find a way to make use of it all - even the questionable wad of slime condensate. The Traveler wouldn’t give it to him if they didn’t think he could.

Paimon snaps her fingers in front of his face. “Hey, bard! What are you staring into space all wistful for? Did you even hear what Paimon was saying?”

“I was just thinking about what good friends I have,” Venti says, smiling at the Traveler. He looks Paimon up and down. “And you’re here too, I suppose.”

“Hey!” Paimon cries indignantly, pummelling her pair of tiny fists against Venti’s shoulder. He laughs as the Traveller grabs her by the collar and pulls her back, the little pixie shrieking all the way.

“I’m kidding,” he grins, once his laughter has died down. “You’re nice too, Paimon.”

“Hmph.” She turns up her nose at him. “You better believe it!”

“Traveler!” a voice calls from below. All three of them lean forward to peer over the statue’s fingers. It’s Rosaria, hands cupped around her mouth to amplify her voice. Venti and Paimon greet her with a wild wave of their arms.

She rolls her eyes at them. “You three, come down here.”

Venti wonders if Rosaria wearing her actual uniform today was not a sign of her obstinancy, but, rather, her newfound piety, and wonders if said piety now extends to him no longer being allowed to sit on his own statue (not that any of the nuns know that, of course). “Are you really picking now to be concerned with the sanctity of this statue?” he shouts back, making a big show of shaking his head in disappointment. “Say it isn’t so!”

“Are you stupid?” she yells back. Venti opens his mouth to answer. “Of course you are,” she swiftly finishes, before turning back to the Traveler. “Something’s happened. Don’t know what, but Kaeya wants you at Angel's Share.”

“Kaeya wants us to join him at a tavern,” Paimon says, sharing a knowing look with the Traveler. “What a surprise.”

“I heard Jean’s down there too,” Rosaria adds.

Paimon pauses. “Okay, something is wrong.”

“It’s not like Rosaria would lie about something like that in the first place,” the Traveler reasons, already readying their glider. “Venti, you should come with.”

“Hm?” Venti glances up at the Traveler, surprised. “Me?”

“Unless there’s someone else named Venti around here, then duh,” Paimon says.

“Hopefully, it’s nothing serious, but if it is,” the Traveler says, “then it would be good to have you there.” They lean down to whisper, as if Rosaria can hear them from all the way down there. “Anemo archon, and all.”

Venti yawns, stretching his arms. “Shame,” he says, getting up. “I was having a nice time up here.”

“You seriously don’t have anything better to do than laze around, huh?” Paimon deadpans.

“Not in the slightest!” he replies cheerily. “Let’s go.”

The Traveler jumps down, keeping their wind glider splayed out for about half the way down and plunging the rest of the way, leaving a remarkable dent in the floor beneath them. Paimon flits down after them and Venti chooses to float down at a steadier pace, like a feather falling to the earth, gift in hand. 

The Traveler cringes at the mark they made. “Sorry about that,” they tell Rosaria.

She shrugs. “Not my problem. If anyone asks, just don’t blame it on me.”

And they’re off, speeding down the stairs to reach the lowest level of the city, where the tavern is. Rosaria and the Traveler choose to forgo a few flights by jumping over the side of the stairways; Venti sighs and hoists himself over, cushioning his landing with anemo, and Paimon complains the most out of all of them despite never using her legs.

It’s eerily quiet when they reach Angel's Share. Usually, at this time of day, with the sun slipping below the horizon, this area would be bustling with people either heading back home or out to somewhere with alcohol. Angel's Share would be bursting with commotion, the rambunctious cackling of its patrons resounding down the street. Rosaria is a regular here, and he knows the Traveler and Paimon have made plenty a visit when Diluc is behind the bar, so, naturally, the lack of comment on the silence already gives him an inkling that something’s going on that he’s not privy to.

Still, that knowledge doesn’t stop the smile spreading across his face, nor the way his chest swells, when he cracks the door open and hears a cheer of mismatched “surprise!”s and “happy birthday!”s.

Paimon lets out a screech of surprise. She grabs onto the Traveler, demanding why she wasn’t told about this, and archons above, you could’ve given Paimon a heart attack! The Traveler simply replies that she would have given it away. Diluc and Kaeya immediately flip on each other and start bickering about whether they had agreed to say ‘surprise’ or ‘happy birthday’, leaving Jean to laugh nervously. She beckons Rosaria over, who makes a beeline for the pair, and promptly begins to tug Kaeya away. Barbara waves at him from her seat at what appears to be the designated children’s table. Razor, sat beside her, looks at her, looks at Venti, and copies the action.

Venti waves back, shuts the door behind him, and skips over to the bar, where Diluc and Kaeya have made peace with a tall glass of Death After Noon for Kaeya, and a glare from Jean for Diluc.

“Look who it is,” Kaeya says, holding up his glass in greeting, and holding it up higher, out of reach, when Venti makes a playful grab for it. His brow raises when he spots the box Venti’s holding. “Ooh, already being spoiled with presents, are you?”

Venti proudly sets the Traveler’s gift on the counter. “Sure am. Am I going to get more?”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself,” Diluc says. He still slides a glass of wine across the counter, which Venti gladly picks up.

Kaeya lifts the lid of the gift box and peers inside, wrinkling his nose at the smell of slime condensate. He leans back in his chair. “Don’t worry,” he says, taking another swig of his cocktail. “They do this with everyone. Most of it’s really useful, actually. Except for that ridiculously large horn from some Liyuean monster - well, they claimed it was an earth dragon - that they gave to Eula. It takes up half of her living room, but she just refuses to put it anywhere else.”

Venti racks his brain for names of Liyuean dragons other than Morax, because he’s pretty sure the Traveler didn’t take one of his. Pretty sure.

… He’ll ask later.

“It’s better than when she was keeping it in her office, at least,” Jean says tiredly, holding a glass of water.

Rosaria mutters a quick thank you to Diluc as he pours her a beer. “I’ll buy you a drink at some point,” she says, looking at Venti. Her eyes narrow. “And I mean a drink. Singular. There’s my gift.”

Venti places a hand on his chest. “So generous.”

“Do you know what a pain in the ass it was to get everything done when we found out it was your birthday on the day of?” she leers.

“In all fairness, I also found out it was my birthday on the day of,” Venti smirks.

Jean pats his shoulder. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

“Despite the short notice, and because I had lots of time this afternoon thanks to me following protocol and not chasing down Treasure Hoarders,” Kaeya says, earning a look from Jean, “I managed to procure something quite special for you, dear bard.” With a flourish of his arm, he whips out a few pieces of card from his pocket, each with BUY ONE GET ONE FREE scrawled shoddily across it.

Venti gasps, snatching them out of Kaeya’s hand. “You got me Angel's Share coupons?”

“Yes, I did,” Kaeya says, smug as ever.

Rosaria raises an eyebrow. “Angel's Share has coupons?”

“Yes, they do,” Kaeya replies.

“No, we don’t,” Diluc hisses, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles go white. Kaeya’s smug grin stays fixed on his face.

“But this is in your handwriting,” Venti says, holding out the ‘coupons’ for Diluc to see.

He crosses his arms and leans over to squint at them for a few seconds. He stands to his full height. Blinks once, twice, at Kaeya. Opens his mouth to ask: “Have you been doing my tax returns?”

“What? ” Kaeya says. “Why the hell would I do your tax returns?”

“I don’t know,” he says, holding his arms out. “That’s why I’m asking.” He places an accusatory finger on the counter. “A lot of paperwork of that nature has been completely evading me,” he says, “and trying to find out where it’s gone has been giving me a migraine.”

“Look, Master Diluc,” Kaeya says, propping an elbow up on the counter. “I’m not surprised you managed to get your bloomers in a twist over a few missing forms-” Diluc squawks in protest- “but wouldn’t you say that if, hypothetically, I did do your tax returns, that such an act was just me trying to be helpful?”

Diluc reels back. “I can’t believe you,” he gawks. “You’ve been doing my tax returns. Why the hell would you do my tax returns?”

“Kaeya, really?” Jean says, setting her water down in the most disappointed manner possible.

“I never said I did them!” Kaeya holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying that, hypothetically, if I did-”

“Are the coupons valid or not?” Venti interrupts. “Because I’m going to need the free drinks if I have to hear about Master Diluc’s taxes for the rest of the week.”

Diluc thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he decides, “but the free drink really just goes on Kaeya’s tab.”

“Score!” Venti cheers, pumping his fist. Kaeya sputters and looks to Rosaria for support. She leisurely downs the rest of her beer.

Diluc rummages under the bar for something. “We’re talking about this later,” he says, glaring at Kaeya, “but, for now,” he stands up, wrapped gift in hand, “here’s an actual present, Venti.”

“Coupons are an actual present,” Kaeya sulks. He taps the rim of his glass and plasters on a winning smile. “Another round, bartender?”

The bartender in question deposits the gift into Venti’s hands before going to grab another bottle from a shelf on the back wall, grumbling to himself.

The wrapping is simple but carefully done, with no bow or embellishments, and not a even a sliver of visible tape. Venti doesn’t pay any of that much mind, however, giddy as a little kid as he goes to rip it to shreds. He’s stopped in his tracks when Jean places a hand on his arm.

There’s a frown on her face and her brows are knitted together. “Sorry, Venti, could we talk for a moment?”

“Hm? Sure, what’s up?” Venti asks, gingerly placing the gift on the counter.

“Not here,” she elaborates. Venti’s mouth forms an o-shape. He’s admittedly a little confused, but he follows her to a quieter corner of an already mostly empty Angel's Share anyways, ignoring everyone’s eyes on their backs.

“Lord Barbatos,” she begins, quiet and apologetic.

“Jean,” he sighs, not unkindly. “I’ve told you. Call me Venti.”

“Venti,” she starts again. “Listen, I am so sorry, but I had no idea it was your birthday until maybe half an hour ago when Kaeya called me down here, so I don’t have a gift or a card or anything, and I promise I’ll get you something soon, but you’re a good friend to me, and I just feel awful about it, and-”

“Jean,” Venti repeats, putting a hand on her shoulder. It’s a bit awkward, with the height difference, but Jean kneels a little to alleviate the angle at which Venti has to hold his arm. Which probably just makes it more awkward. “You have nothing to apologise for. To be frank, it’s my fault for not telling anyone other than the Traveler about my birthday,” he chuckles.

He glances down at her armoured hands, no less than fitting for an Acting Grand Master. “You already do so much for Mondstadt,” he says quietly. “The Knights have never been perfect, but you, Jean - you truly care about the wellbeing of this nation and its people. Knowing there’s someone around who will work tirelessly to protect Mondstadt, even when I can’t - even when I don’t; as Barbatos, that’s all I could ever ask for.”

Jean nods, letting out a shaky breath.

He clicks his tongue. “Venti, on the other hand, wouldn’t be opposed to a good vintage bottle.” He pauses. “Or two.”

She huffs out a laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. He snivels in mock hurt but the grin stuck to his face as they make their way back to the bar, Jean fondly rolling her eyes and promising to find him something nice, leaves no doubt to how he really feels.

When they get back, Paimon is hovering over Diluc’s gift like a fly over an abandoned meal. The Traveler watches her warily, ready to yank her away if she makes a move for it.

“Ahem,” Venti coughs. Paimon turns her head to look at him. “I believe that’s mine.”

“Then open it!” she says, thrusting it at him. He thinks he hears Diluc squeak when he nearly fumbles the catch (or, at least, he assumes it’s Diluc, because Kaeya dissolves into peals of wheezing laughter upon hearing it, slapping Rosaria’s arm in mirth), so it’s probably something breakable, or valuable, or both.

He tears back the wrapping and inhales sharply at the sight of it.

Paimon sees the gift and looks up at the ceiling. “Celestia, help us all.”

“A fiddle?” he breathes, letting the paper fall to the floor. He looks at Diluc. “You didn’t.”

“Well, obviously, I did,” Diluc says, gesturing at the instrument in question. He taps idly on his wrist. “I don’t see you with anything other than a lyre, so I thought you’d appreciate having a try at something else.”

Venti twangs at the strings. The pleasant acoustics of the tavern suddenly become an inconvenience when a discordant chord rings out, making everyone wince.

“Have mercy on us and refrain from playing that in public before you actually figure out what you’re doing,” Rosaria says, massaging a temple. “Or you’ll end up making hangovers so much worse.”

Kaeya clinks his glass against Rosaria’s in a show of agreement.

He wedges it between his chin and shoulder, placing his chin on the rest, and adjusts his grip on the bow. Paimon hides behind the Traveler, as if a) it means she won’t be able to hear anything, or b) if Venti plays badly enough, he’ll cause some kind of explosion, and the Traveler will serve as her human shield.

The hairs of the bow bounce against the strings when he places it down. His brow furrows in concentration, and he launches into a well-known Mondstadt folk tune with little effort and even fewer errors, going so far as to dance around a bit.

He halts halfway through, frowning down at the strings. “It’s a little out of tune, but that’s fixable.”

When he looks up, he’s greeted with a room full of bewildered faces (plus the Traveler and Razor, who aren’t nearly as bothered). Even to those who know he’s the god of music, playing an instrument like that on a first attempt is an impressive feat. And if it isn’t actually his first time, and he’s picked up a fiddle a few times in the past, then they don’t have to know.

He gives a few bows, revelling in the attention, before Diluc snaps out of it and tells everyone to shut their mouths, lest they feed Venti’s ego any further.

“Let’s sing Happy Birthday,” Barbara suddenly pipes up, all heads turned towards her. “Venti can play his fiddle!”

“What a fantastic idea,” Venti smiles, readying the instrument. 

Diluc looks thoroughly horrified. “I am not singing.”

“Barbara’ll do all the singing. Just mumble along,” Rosaria advises. “That’s what I do in church.”

“Sister Rosaria!” Barbara gasps, incredulous. Rosaria looks away, whistling idly.

“Come now, Master Diluc.” Kaeya nudges his arm, smiling. “You wouldn’t want all those choir lessons father put you up to going to waste, would you?”

The Traveler snorts. “You went to choir lessons?”

“I’ll gladly remind you that you were at every single one of those lessons too,” Diluc seethes. It’s enough to get Kaeya to shut up, and the Traveler to start snickering.

“Barbara,” Razor starts.

“Yes, Razor?” Barbara says, finally halting her attempt to stare holes into the back of Rosaria’s head.

“Happy Birthday… is a song?”

“You don’t have to sing along if you don’t know it, Razor,” she offers. “I can teach you later, if you’d like?”

He nods, a little smile appearing on his face.

She claps her hands together, beaming. “Wonderful! Now, why don’t the rest of us sing Happy Birthday?”

There’s a general grumbling amongst the adults and Paimon, which is made up of more unintelligible sounds than it is words. Still, the general consensus seems to be ‘no, maybe not, how about some other time, I don’t really feel like it right now’. Barbara is having none of it.

Venti counts them in, tapping his shoe against the floor. “One, two, three, four!”

“Happy Birthda-”

Unsurprisingly, Barbara sings beautifully. Unsurprisingly, apart from that, it is possibly the worst rendition of Happy Birthday that Venti’s ever heard, and he’s heard the Seven sing it. He’s heard the adepti sing it, at that sad little party Ganyu recently put together for Cloud Retainer’s latest protégé (Shenhe, was it?), where the only ones who really knew the words were Ganyu herself, and a teenaged human boy, apparently Shenhe’s second nephew thrice removed, or something like that, who looked wholly out of his depth amongst Liyue’s immortals. But at least there was no Paimon screeching the lyrics at the top of her lungs.

Despite how terrible it is, the fact that it’s the handful of friends he’s made since the Traveler crash landed in Teyvat, the way the only somewhat cohesive part of the song is when they all say his name (they actually put volume into it, in contrast to the rest of the four lines, which they mostly mumble out, as per Rosaria’s advice) and the way Razor tentatively joins in near the end once he’s got the gist of it - it’s silly, and he knows he can’t afford to get attached, not the way he is, and not in times like these, but, god, are they making it difficult for him.

Venti overhears Barbara singing the song again to Razor, pausing after each line so he can repeat hesitantly after her. He springs up onto a bar stool, wriggling his way into a heated conversation over who the worst singer is, and why it’s Paimon.

Diluc reminds Venti that he’s got free drinks until the day is over, and quickly regrets it. He seriously debates bringing one of the barrels out from the back and giving Venti a straw, because he orders enough wine to fill one. However, to everyone’s surprise, the majority of the glasses are slid over to Kaeya and Rosaria, who gladly gulp them down on his behalf. On any other day, he’d drink until he started regurgitating it, but he wants to remember tonight. And so he holds back.

The party ends relatively early by Venti’s party standards, lasting until about ten in the evening. Barbara and Razor are still children, Jean hopes to go to bed at a reasonable time before work in the morning (which they all know means that she’s still going to go to bed at stupid-o’clock, but it’ll be because of paperwork instead of a party), and the Traveler regretfully explains that they have to head back to Inazuma for some kind of drumming festival. Venti, intrigued, nearly asks to go with them, before remembering his previous attempt at festival-going over there nearly ended with him under arrest by the Tenryou Commission.

When Lisa appears at the door, greeting Venti with birthday wishes and declaring that she’s come to collect Razor, Razor pulls him to the side. He holds out a small sack of what appears to be wolfhooks - at least, according to the thorns sticking through the burlap. Venti gladly accepts it. He’s not sure what he’ll need them for, but it’s nice knowing he doesn’t have to go pick any himself, considering that Andrius tries to bite his head off whenever he steps foot into Wolvendom.

“Lupus Boreas says ‘happy birthday’,” he says. “and I say happy birthday too.”

Venti’s brows shoot up in surprise. Andrius is the last person (wolf, rather) he’d expect that from. He shrugs it off. Perhaps Dvalin said something to him. “Thanks, Razor,” he smiles, the sack of wolfhooks bumping against his leg. Ah, well. These tights have been a lost cause since his stop at Old Mondstadt. “Tell Boreas I said hi.”

Razor nods, eyes glinting with determination at his new task, and runs off to leave with Lisa.

Jean takes off with them too, Lisa chiding her over not having even one drink, and Barbara shortly follows suit. Rosaria reluctantly joins her, partly because she doesn’t want Barbara walking all the way to the cathedral on her own, especially when it's so dark, and partly because she hopes that if she gets on Barbara’s good side, she’ll forget about trying to get Rosaria to be a more active participant during hymns.

Then it’s Venti, Diluc, and Kaeya left at the bar. The Traveler lingers awkwardly at the door, not wanting to leave but knowing they have to.

Venti jumps up from his seat, stretching his arms out. “I’ve got something to do before the day ends,” he explains, casting his presents away to the same mystical dimension in which he stores his bow and lyre. He smiles at the Traveler. “Don’t know where you’re turning off, but we can at least walk to the bridge together.”

Kaeya’s slumped over the counter, surrounded with empty glasses, but he lifts a hand in a half-hearted wave. “Safe trip, Traveler,” he says. “Bring me back something nice.”

Diluc throws a cloth in his face. “Help me close up, or leave.”

Paimon is curled up fast asleep in the Traveler’s arms, so the night is silent, save for the clack of Venti and the Traveler’s shoes against the cobblestone. They’re both content to bask in the quiet. Venti’s just grateful that the sun’s disappeared and the temperature has died down to a familiar nighttime chill. Before long, they’ve reached the end of the bridge, where stone turns to a worn earth path.

“I can come with you, if you want,” the Traveler says in a hushed tone, so as not to wake Paimon. They place a hand over her ear. “Between you and me, the guy who invited me to this festival isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I got there and he hasn’t even set up.”

Venti stifles a laugh. “Really, it’s fine. I don’t want to keep you, or be around when this one wakes up,” he teases, poking gently at Paimon’s arm.

They hum, adjusting their hold on her. “If you don’t mind me asking, then, what’s the something you have to do?”

“Is that why you wanted to come? How nosy,” he huffs. “And here I thought you liked my company.”

The Traveler opens their mouth to protest, but Venti just waves them off, chuckling to himself. “I’m kidding. There’s just a few more friends I have to see,” he says. “That’s all.”

They nod slowly. “Alright then. Well, happy birthday, Venti. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Oh, who do you take me for?”

Venti’s kneeling in the dirt again.

This time, he’s at Windrise, desecrating the Symbol of Mondstadt’s Hero by scooping the soil up around the roots, trying to dig up one of the vintages he buried all those years ago. It’s late, and the fields are desolate apart from the stragglers of hilichurl tribes - the ones who smack the fires out with a hydro slime before going to sleep in their huts. There’s no one around to protest Venti’s digging - save for Mondstadt’s Hero herself, cawing irritably at him from a branch.

“I told you, Vennessa, I’m going to put all the dirt back in the ground once I’m done,” he calls out, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “It’d be faster if you were helping, you know.”

The falcon squawks, dragging her claws against the branch as if to remind him that she has them.

He stares up at her, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m not telling you to come dig up dirt yourself; I’m telling you to bring me a shovel or something.”

Another caw.

“Fine, be like that,” he says, scraping up another handful of dirt and tossing it aside. His eyes light up at the sight of glass reflecting the moonlight. “Finally!”

Clearing the soil around it away, he grips the neck of the bottle and gently pulls, nearly tumbling backwards when it comes loose with a soft pop! He casts an eye over the label to make sure it’s the right one, and sighs in relief when it is; he really doesn’t want to go digging the whole tree up to find the wine he wants.

Venti leans against one of the tree’s sturdy roots. He’s sweeping dirt back into the hole in the earth he’s excavated, when he hears the sound of the falcon’s beak pecking against the bottle and flips around to wrestle it off her.  

“Quit that!” he says, cradling it like a baby. “Do you know how old this thing is?”

She squawks, gesturing at the bottle with a wing.

“Can’t I have a nice drink just because I feel like it?”

Vennessa stares blankly at him.

He sighs and places it back down on the floor. “Alright. It’s because it’s my birthday.”

She makes a pleased noise, and nods at him.

He grins. “Thanks, Vennessa.” He glimpses back at the pile of unearthed dirt. “I really am sorry about your tree.”

One of her wings smacks him in the face, earning a yelp out of him, but she follows it up with nudging some of the soil back into the hole to the best of her ability.

Venti quickly joins in, and they fall into amicable conversation, complaining about the cider up in Celestia and arguing over how many bottles are left buried under Windrise. If the work goes a little slower because of it, neither of them seem to mind.

Nights in Liyue Harbour are always just as busy, if not more busy, than the days. In the same vein, nights in Liyue are always just as hot, if not more hot, than the days, humidity hanging thick in the air, forever without a cool breeze to stifle the sweltering heat.

Mr Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, when working late into the night, almost always leaves the window open. He enjoys hearing the sounds of the hustle and bustle in the streets below, remarking that it’s something inextricable from the ambience of late night Liyue. He likes the moonlight filtering through and scattering shapes on the dull wooden floors, and, on nights like these, it simply makes sense to do; an open window offers reprieve, however brief, from the heat.

Not that the temperature bothers Mr Zhongli - he’s still clad in his elegant three-piece suit, jacket and waistcoat and all, hardly breaking a sweat. Like clockwork, he lifts a steaming cup of tea to his lips, takes an unhurried sip, and places it delicately back on its saucer. Then it’s back to skimming over Wangsheng’s contracts, scrawling his signature out in all the appropriate places.

A gust of wind blows through the open window. The curtains flutter and he instinctively slams a hand down over a stack of papers to stop them from flying off, but he doesn’t look up. He taps his pen against the table. “I was wondering how long it’d be until I’d next see you.”

Venti rests one elbow on the desk, chin cupped in his hand, the other arm tucked behind his back with the bottle. “It’s never too soon to pay a visit.”

“Never too late, either,” Zhongli mutters, glancing up at the clock ticking away.

“Apparently not too late for you to be in your office,” Venti complains, hopping up to sit on the desk. “Surely, a funeral parlour can’t be this swamped with work? Especially with your rates?”

“It’s good to stay on top of things,” Zhongli replies, choosing to ignore the latter comment. His eyes flit to the bottle in Venti’s hands, widening when they spot the label. Schooling his expression, he coughs into his fist and looks back down at his paperwork. Neither of them mention how he doesn’t sign anything else. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, come on!” Venti cries, swatting a hand at Zhongli’s shoulder.

Zhongli chuckles, leaning back in his chair to avoid the younger’s onslaught. “I’m only joking,” he says, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “It’s your birthday, is it not?”

“You’re so mean these days,” he grumbles, shaking his head fondly. “I don’t know what’s worse: you telling jokes, or hurling boulders at me.”

Zhongli hums, eyes shut. “I would say the boulders. We practically had to peel you off the ground.”

Venti swings his legs against the desk. “Sooo,” he begins, tilting his head, “did you get me anything?”

The pause that follows already has Venti narrowing his eyes. “You already own better wine than I could buy you,” Zhongli carefully begins.

“Is that a seriously a no?” Venti gapes. “You stingy hunk of rock!”

“You know it’s not like that,” he replies, straightening out his pile of paper and setting it to one side. “I could easily find you a subpar bottle of wine, or a piece of jewellery which might suit your clothing, but you’ve never really been concerned with material objects. There’s hardly any point in buying you something like that.”

Venti grumbles, knowing it’s true; he wouldn’t be enchanted by some kind of shiny rock like Zhongli would. Initially, sure, he’d ooh and ahh, but the novelty would quickly wear off.

“I can take a day off tomorrow, and we can wander the Harbour or elsewhere in Liyue, if you’d like,” Zhongli continues. “You’re correct in saying we’re not ‘swamped’ - work is slow-going, and I am sure the Director would not be opposed to a single day of my absence.” He slowly tucks his pen beside the stack of paperwork, considering what to say. “I consider you a very good friend, Barbatos. I don’t want much more from you than time, and a little conversation. Perhaps it’s self-centred of me to make this assumption, but I think you feel just the same.”

Venti places the bottle down on the desk. “You’re right,” he sighs. “But I really wish there was a book I wanted or something so I could lord it over you.”

Zhongli lets out a huff of quiet laughter. “I’ll go get some glasses,” he says, standing up.

“I’m going to talk your ear off all night, you know,” Venti calls after him.

“And I, you,” Zhongli replies, letting his office door shut behind him. He returns only seconds later to stare accusingly at Venti. “Barbatos.”

“Yes?”

“Do not open that bottle until I return.”

And he’s gone, his footsteps growing quieter as he pads down the stairs. Venti makes a face. He hopes they’re not going to have to drink out of funeral glasses, if those are a thing.

He holds the bottle up, the liquid splashing and sparkling under the moonlight. He considers cracking the bottle open, just to get on Morax’s nerves, especially since he knows he wouldn’t dare to toss any rocks at him in the middle of the Harbour. His eyes glaze over the label, the writing slightly worn, but still clearly reading Osmanthus.

Barbatos puts the bottle back down. He waits, watching the clock as it ticks closer to midnight.