Archive of Our Own

Dainsleif remembers when they first met. 

Or, rather, when he had first seen him. 

The adoptive brother of one of the last of Khaenri’ah’s fallen line, hidden in the sanctuary of the moonlit city, with hair as fiery as the Vision glinting on his hip. 

Tucked away deep in a shadowy corner of the tavern, in retrospect did Dainsleif know that Diluc kept account of every visitor to the Angel’s Share, no matter how well-hidden they thought themselves to be, but at the time, he thought himself an unknown variable. 

Easily forgotten, blending into the creeping shadows as the night drew on. 

Thus had he been carelessly open in his investigatory glances and mental note-taking on the brother of Kaeya. 

The uncrowned king of Mondstadt, they called him. Their shining beacon, the noble example they all strive towards. 

Uncrowned or not, the notion that any one person would eagerly wish to proclaim one man their king left a bitter taste in his mouth, and eyeing this man, who was to say he had even earned it?

Nursing a silver spoon, coddled by a life surrounded by the riches of his family’s perpetually booming business, he was king only in wealth, not in earned life experience. 

So he had thought. 

Sitting there, hidden in his corner, he watched him. 

Meticulously, over and over, every wine glass was polished, the counter wiped down several times over, the floors swept and corners tidied. 

With an expression of quiet focus, one could easily find his activities too mundane to bother studying, no matter the man doing them. 

Perhaps that was why, when he believed no one was watching too keenly, Diluc’s mask would occasionally fall. 

The untouchable aura of a noble broke, and a glimpse into the truth of his soul pierced through the cracks—tired, hurting, and bearing a wistfulness that Dainsleif felt his heart unwillingly squeeze in understanding sympathy. 

“What are you thinking about?”

In the gentle fold of moonlight, a scarred hand carefully sifted through blond locks, as though afraid he may jolt and startle at the touch. 

Perhaps, if it were someone else, he would have. 

Instead, by reflex alone did Dainsleif cant his head into that wonderful touch, and quietly damn the weakness of his lingering humanity that no curse could outright erase. 

This curse cared not, anyways, for eliminating this part of him. 

To still crave human connection in spite of his mission is punishment enough. 

“… I have to move on.”

Always, always had he maintained a meticulous social distance from all those he passed. He was nothing more than a ghost. Long should he have died, whether it be due to the natural progression of time, or falling with his nation.
Dainsleif had lived to see things he should have never witnessed, to meet people he should have never met in his lifetime, and as time marched on, making him increasingly aware of his inability to leave this existence, he felt all the more sensitive to the influence he should not be exerting.

These people should not be made to suffer from ghosts.
Diluc should not be suffering from a ghost in his life.

This haunting that never ends as he clings, against better judgment, to this human connection he had neglected for years–and should have continued to do so.

Dainsleif feels the way Diluc's hand hesitates on his hair, and he cannot look up.
He remembers those fleeting moments in which the truth of Diluc's broken heart, torn to shred from years of torment in such a short life, showed.
It was always in his eyes.
Rare as it was, ever since first witnessing it at the tavern, Dainsleif had become something of an expert in picking up the subtle shifting in Diluc's expression.

At the time, he hadn't known why he looked so particularly haunted.

Now, he knew.
The tragic death of his father, the severing of brotherhood between him and Kaeya, and the painful journey of revenge that had nearly cost him his life.

In these quiet, moonlit moments, they had slowly opened up to each other about these things.
He should have left when they had first begun, when he had felt the beginnings of attachment ensnare around his heart, like a tangled web of thorns, so he could spare Diluc further pain.
Yet, the more he withdrew, the more the thorns dug in.
Painful and resisting his efforts to leave, he overstayed his welcome as a result–and what would his people think of such weakness?
Allowing himself to play pretend that he was not a cursed man not meant to walk this plane, playing house while forgetting his mission?

"I understand."

Diluc's voice is soft, and much as he tries to conceal the quiet pain, Dainsleif picks up on it instantly.
His eyes squeeze shut, forehead against Diluc's chest, warm and comfortable. Safe.
He is too cowardly to look at him.

"I… am sorry, I wish I could stay, I don't want–"

Against his will, the warm hands that played with his hair sweep up beneath Dainsleif's jaw, and he is made to look up.
He hates how Diluc is smiling so gently at him with such sad eyes, a smile he does not deserve.

"I said I understood, didn't I?" Diluc reminded him, and Dainsleif had no answer. He focuses instead on the texture of Diluc's palms against his skin.
They were rough with callouses and scarring from wielding his claymore in battle, yet radiated a soothing warmth as they handled him with such meticulous care.
Eyes shut again, and he turns his face into Diluc's left hand, pressing his lips against the heel of his palm.

"Just, can you promise me something?"

Tentatively, Dainsleif opens his eyes again.

"... Anything."

This time, it is Diluc's turn to visibly hesitate, eyes flitting elsewhere in the room, before summoning the courage to look back at him.

"Don't make me say goodbye. Whether that means you leave before dawn, or disappear after I have headed out for the day… Please don't make this goodbye."

Heart squeezing against his will, Dainsleif felt his throat likewise close up, unable to speak. He manages a small nod of agreement and presses their foreheads together, already deciding that he would leave while it is still dark.
Even if neither would be able to sleep.
Even if Diluc would be incapable of not noticing how the bed would shift with the loss of his additional weight.

It still felt like a greater mercy than making him witness him walk away in daylight.

"This won't be goodbye," Dainsleif quietly assures him, wishing he could truly promise this to be true.
As they sink into one another, a tangle of limbs that do not wish to separate, he feels Diluc quietly exhale into his hair, burying his face against him.

"I know," Diluc says, broad arms wrapping around Dainsleif tight.

"I know."