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There are few warmer places in Mondstadt than the Angel’s Share tavern. Considered from a purely objective perspective, this should not be true. The building is drafty, with two stories of room for air circulation and thin wooden walls—the reason for the absence of a fireplace. Even sheltered within the capital’s walls, Mondstadt gets cold, especially at night. Angel’s Share should not be warm.
It is anyway.
The doors opened hours ago, but the atmosphere is still lively. Charles is kept busy by the patrons drinking the night away in splashes of effervescent color. Playing cards, laughing, dancing, singing, it all feels so warm, even to one who prefers to watch from the sidelines, as Mondstadt’s most popular bard dances to his own song atop one of the tables.
Venti attracts attention wherever he goes, and not entirely by accident. A bard is meant to be noticed, and their songs are meant to be shared. Tonight, he is doing just that. You can hardly spot him through the crowd of people though you are only a few feet away. He’s got them all dancing, tripping over each other in drunken joy as they stomp to the beat of his song. The atmosphere swirls around you in a flash of disbelief. To be here, at this time, with him . The scenario seems impossible, yet here you are, treasuring every moment.
Rising from your seat on the edge of the jumble, you crane your neck to catch just a glimpse, solid proof—brilliant green eyes catch your own. For a moment, there is no one. No press of bodies, no scent of wine, no shouting or laughter, nothing except warmth, a song, and the two of you.
He winks, and the moment unravels. You smile, grab your drink, and join in on the song.
***
It's early but not early enough to still be called late, when you finally stumble wearily out of the tavern, Venti’s arm hooked around your shoulder to keep you upright. You’d only had a couple of drinks throughout the course of the night, so your unsteadiness is mostly exhaustion.
Venti, however, exhibits none of your symptoms, and he’d hardly let go of his drinks except to play his lyre. His feet are sure despite the hours of dancing, his voice is clear despite its use, and his eyes are bright despite the fogginess over your own.
“‘s not fair,” you grumble, navigating through the dark.
Venti giggles, his hands brushing your arms. They seem to sear your skin. Blearily, you wonder if you’d mind. “And what is that which seems unjust, to one so true as my dear gust?”
You fake a stumble to step on his foot but then sigh and lean closer. The night is cold, after all. “I am tired, and you-” you punctuate it with a lazy tug on his slightly mussed braid “-are not.”
“Oh? But if I was weary from the day, I could not hold you, your steps to stay! Would you prefer I dump you here to make your own way?”
“Hey. I can walk home by my own power.” As if on cue, your dragging feet catch on a cobblestone and you lurch forward, only to be steadied by the arm around your shoulders and another on your waist, burning through the layers like coals. He laughs, and you can feel your face heat up in embarrassment and . . . something else.
“If fantasies your heart desires, then listen to the strum of my lyre~” He winks and clings to you even tighter, moving both of his arms to wrap around your neck, as if he was the one needing support.
His lyre materializes from his vision, and you watch in awe as his eyes and braids begin to glow teal. A warm breeze plays with your clothes and twirls the lyre in front of you both. Venti flicks a hand, and a gentle melody begins to play, as beautiful as if plucked by his own hands. Your eyes widen and you turn towards him. He stubbornly holds on, so he’s practically hugging you, face pressed against you.
“Venti . . .” you breathe in awe before shaking yourself out of it. This could be bad if anyone happens to see it. “This might not be the best idea. Even vision holders can’t do that, I don’t think.” Honestly, it’s already a minor miracle that Mondstadt’s populace hadn’t figured out his identity yet. Well, despite a few including yourself, that is.
He breathes into your neck, “Guess we’d better get a move on then, huh? Now hush and let me sing to you!”
You chuckle and nudge him into walking. In his most genuine moments, Venti hardly rhymes at all—unless he’s singing, of course. Which he does now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear. The words are soft and delicate, things to be treasured.
You lean against each other as he sings, and your eyes begin to droop until you can hardly see the cobblestones beneath your feet. The night is still and otherwise silent. Your fingers are tucked beneath Venti’s cape to ward off the chill, and though you know the way by heart, you can barely make out the shapes of the buildings that surround you.
You wish the moment would never end.
After a while, the song finishes with a final strum of the lyre and a mere whisper against your skin. You shiver. His voice is still soft and absolutely sober when he says, “Welcome home. Let’s get you warm, yeah?”
You blink to awareness and find yourself being led up the stairs into your shared apartment. He pushes the door open and lights a lamp before leading you to the bedroom.
You stand there as he sets down the lamp, pulls back the comforter, and gestures to the bed. You sit down and blink lethargically at Venti, who steps out of his shoes and, with practiced hands, undoes both his cape and corset before leaning down to remove your boots. Your mind is moving slowly, but you remember the cloak you’re still wearing and fumble with its clasp. After a moment, soft hands stop your own, and the fabric falls to the bed.
You lay down, too tired to do any more, and smile up at him as your eyes close. “Thank . . . you . . .”
He climbs up beside you and sits up by the headboard. Gentle hands tug you closer until your head is resting on his thighs. You curl up, and his arm wraps around you. You grasp his hand closer. His other hand rests on your hair, gently scratching your head.
As you fall asleep, you can hear the first words of a lullaby drifting above you.