Archive of Our Own ^beta

IV.

"Would you like to visit my realm later? There's someone I'd like you to meet," Morax asks, setting two cups of hot tea on the wooden table. Despite the smile on his face, Venti knows that it's a trap. Morax is phrasing it so that Venti will seem wrong in his refusal. Unfortunately for Morax, Venti has given up feeling guilty over this.

"I've got plans for tonight, actually," Venti sputters, squirming in his chair. Morax takes a deep breath, sighing through his nose.

"Not even for an hour? It's been a while since we've spent time together, Barbatos." Morax settles in the chair across from the anemo archon, taking a long sip of his tea. "I've missed you. Now that things are quieter between the nations, I was hoping to have your company for a few nights."

Venti knows what he's trying to do. He knows what Morax has been trying to do for hundreds of years. The bard keeps telling himself to ignore Morax's sweet words and insists he's occupied already, despite his lack of plans.

"I miss you as well, but I'm busy. I'm going to be playing at a bar in Mondstadt." Venti lies through his teeth, praying that this once, Morax will drop it. Instead, he levels him with a cool, steely gaze, orange eyes gazing through Venti. They've had this conversation many times, with the same ending every time. Venti wishes he could disappear to avoid having this talk. Morax hates when he lies to him, but Venti can't help it.

He doesn't want to see him.

Morax stares at him, silent as he thinks over his words. Venti keeps his eyes trained on the floor, determined to hold his ground and not give in to Morax's guilt-tripping. He's never budged once on this matter; why would he now?

"He isn't the same man as the medic, Barbatos."

"That's not what this is about," Venti snaps, finally looking up at his longtime partner. "Don't put words into my mouth. Never once have I said that this is about the medic. It isn't."

Morax stares at him again. He nods slowly, clearly unconvinced by Venti's outburst. He takes another long sip of his tea, scarily quiet. Venti doesn't enjoy having temper tantrums like a child, but sometimes, it's the only way to get Morax off his case. When Venti was a newer Archon, the only way Morax would listen was to yell and scream at him. Venti didn't behave for years after the bard's death, refusing to cooperate with anyone except for Morax, the only being he trusted.

"If you would just meet him-"

"I'm not going to meet him, Morax!" Venti shouts, standing up with a gust of wind. "Our agreement for our relationship was that we can be with whoever we want as long as we keep the other in mind. Not only are you not keeping me in mind, but you're trying to force me into something I want nothing to do with. I love you, but I'm not going to talk to him."

Morax, for a moment, looks taken aback before the same cold, calm expression takes over again.

"I'm sorry you feel this way, Barbatos," he says.

Venti sighs, wishing Morax would listen. They've had this talk before, and it always ends the same- Venti storms off (literally, it always rains in Mondstadt the next day), and Morax stays with his stupid little boyfriend, despite their fights.

I.

The Archon War was long and bloody. Venti knew this, even when he was only a wind spirit with no name or body.

There were brief moments of peace in between the carnage. In those moments, the wind spirit enjoyed spending time with a young bard. As time passed, it began to take on a form similar to that of the humans it watched. The spirit wasn't sure why it felt more powerful each day. The bard told it- in whispers, away from the other humans, that they saw the spirit as a sign of hope. To them, the spirit was proof that Celestia was there, watching and helping them.

The spirit didn't know how they came to that conclusion. It didn't know where it came from or what it was doing here.

The spirit knew it loved the bard, though. Maybe that was why it became more powerful.

During rare downtime, they were allowed to sit and talk for hours and hours, staring at the sky and imagining what life could be like. The wind spirit began to mirror the bard's form, wishing it could touch and hold the bard like they see so many people in the clan do. It changed a few things about its appearance, giving itself long hair like the girls in the Gunhildr clan and different facial features.

The wind spirit wasn't strong, so it could only appear like this for a few hours before having to rest. Soon, it learned to speak and developed mannerisms and more of a personality. Nothing mattered more than these moments with the bard, where they had no worries.

"What do you think we'll do after the war?" The bard asks, turning towards the spirit. They're curled around each other under a tree, pointing out stars to each other and making wishes.

The wind spirit blinks, thinking about all the fun things they could do. It heard many prayers from the younger kids of the clan, wishing they could have a more normal life. That's what it could have with the bard, right? A good life, free of violence and war and blood.

The location doesn't matter to the spirit, though. That's not what it wants out of life.

"I'll go anywhere you want to go," the spirit says, resting its head against his chest. "I'll follow you to the end of the world."

"Then we'll travel all over the world together," The bard smiles at the spirit, tucking a strand of long black hair behind its ear. "I'll keep you safe from the war. I'll protect you."

"I'll keep you safer," the spirit retorts, a mischievous smile slowly appearing. The bard squeezes its cheek, tugging on it softly.

"I don't need you to protect me." The bard pauses, seemingly remembering their situation. "I guess I don't need to protect you much either. Spirits probably don't need much protection, huh?"

The spirit pauses, sitting up and facing the bard. Its long hair drapes over them, almost like a shield from the rest of the world. Glowing green eyes bore into blue, the spirit gazing at the love of its life.

"I want you to protect me," it whispers, nose brushing against the bards. "You and I will feel safe. Together."

Venti had his first kiss that day.

VI.

There's a head on top of his chest when Venti wakes up. Bright red hair tickles his face, the curls shifting with every breath the man takes.

Venti blinks once, twice, opens his mouth, and closes it again. He's beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful mortal ever seen- and Venti has seen a lot of mortals. Venti is in awe. His eyelashes are soft, fluttering against his chest while his nose twitches. What sort of dreams is he having? Is Venti in them? Why does he want to be?

The redhead has an arm draped around Venti and another around Zhongli, who sleeps next to them, snoring peacefully. Zhongli always snored at night, even when he was barely asleep. After their many hardships and struggles together, Venti has found comfort in this. It grounds him at night when he feels so consumed by grief that he might die. It's one of the few things to bring him back to reality after being lost in his head for so long.

How did he get here, anyway? What sort of trouble did he get into this time?

There are wine bottles on the dresser and Szenhnayan vodka, all empty. If that isn't enough evidence that Venti was drunk, he still feels woozy, his head full and chest heavy.

None of that matters when he hears a deep sigh and feels the head on his chest lifting.

For a brief moment, Venti forgets how to breathe. Sleepy red eyes find purchase in Venti's, pupils dark and dilated as he looks at the bard. They contain a fondness that Venti never thought was possible for the man. He hasn't felt seen like that in nearly two thousand years, and his heart, now aching and stinging, the pain sharp and fiery- his heart knows no one has looked at him like that.

The redhead smiles and tucks his head under Venti's chin, sighing against his skin like he's breathing Venti in. He feels lips on his neck, not quite kissing, but resting there. Venti wraps his arms around him, shutting his eyes and wishing to quiet the angry voice in his head, telling him he's betraying the love of his life by doing this.

And still, he doesn't move. He doesn't move an inch. Venti stays in the same spot, staring at the redhead and listening to Zhongli's snores, wondering if he'll wake up and regret this. He convinces himself it's the alcohol, that he doesn't actually like this and only cares for the attention he's getting.

Venti sighs, lips brushing against the redhead's forehead. He tangles a hand into bouncy curls, then shuts his eyes, hoping he can come to his senses in the morning.

VIII.

Venti disappears for a while.

He explores the world- the same thing he's been doing for years, but he's doing it now to get his mind off everything. He refuses to admit that he has genuine feelings for anyone, even Morax. He'd been upsetting Venti for the past few hundred years now. Venti needed a break.

One day, he lays down to take a nap. Unfortunately, it's a very long nap, and he manages to miss a couple of years. Venti isn't sure how many, though he supposes it doesn't matter, seeing as he's already over two thousand. It was hard to keep track.

When he wakes up, Morax is dead.

Venti is the last of the original seven.

Morax broke the promise he made when Venti first became a god- he left him. He's truly alone in the world, no one left to look up to or love. None of the newer archons would understand him, not even Ei. She always understood Venti, understood his grief and inability to move on.

She wouldn't get it, though. She does not know what it means to be the last one.

Only Morax understood what it meant to be the last of the original Seven. Morax practically saw the world's creation. Venti witnessed things the new archons have only heard stories of, but Morax? Morax saw it all with him.

Now he's gone. He's dead and gone, and he never said goodbye to Venti. It hurts. It's a new heartbreak, different from the bard leaving him. At least he had Morax when the bard died. This time? Venti doesn't have anyone. No one would understand what he's going through.

Venti tries to spend his day in a bar, but for some goddamned reason, because the universe hates him, the redhead owns the place and refuses to serve him any alcohol.

"My best friend died. My lover died," Venti cries, head against the bar. "I really need this, please. I can't deal with this without a drink. Please."

The redhead levels him with a stare, ruby-red eyes looking deeply into his. Venti puts on his best puppy dog eyes, hoping Diluc will finally listen to him. He doesn't care about the fact that it's his one-sided enemy. Venti only cares about getting drunk to forget about Morax's death. He doesn't know how he'd ever be able to cope with this. Why didn't Morax call him for help? Did someone kill him? It all happened in Liyue, so Venti didn't know much about it and thought it too painful to ask. He didn't think he could visit the nation without completely breaking down.

Diluc, after about twenty minutes of Venti's nonstop whining and crying, finally gives in and pours him a drink. He listens to Venti's drunk ramblings all night, giving him the occasional pat on the shoulder or advice for dealing with these feelings. Even when the other patrons are gone, the bar is closed and locked up, and Diluc lets Venti stay. He tells Venti to sleep upstairs for the night and that he'll be there in the morning to whip up something to alleviate his hangover.

Diluc even gives him a change of clothes and comforts him with words that shouldn't mean anything to Venti. When he leaves, Venti feels the emptiness of the room. He feels how cold he is without Diluc's warm arm around him.

Venti doesn't want to admit Diluc made him feel better.

III.

Venti never wanted to be a god.

"Please, I can save him- I can-" the spirit shouts, choking on his sobs. "I just need a minute, please- I- I need him."

The other beings around the room give him a look, some sneering at the crying and screaming god as he sobs on the floor. He's never experienced pain like this before, gut-wrenching and heart-stabbing. He reaches his hand out, wishing to return to the bard but unable to leave the Hell he was forcefully taken to by some divine being.

The god feels a warm hand on his shoulder, slowly pulling him away from the edge.

" It's going to be okay, " a deep voice says, strong arms slowly winding around the new god.

"I need to save him," he cries, his body wracked with sobs and tears streaming down his face. His hands are still red, coated with his lover's blood.

"You can't. Mortals are... meant to die," the voice says, pulling the godling closer to him. His wings, now much fluffier and heavier than when he was a spirit, make the hug uncomfortable and suffocating. A hand brushes out the god's hair and wings, smoothing down the unruly strands and soft feathers.

"Saving him wouldn't be right. Somewhere inside you, you know this. Mortals are not meant to last forever. It's an unfortunate truth, but one you need to accept," he says. The godling thinks about it, realizing the man was correct. He didn't want to admit that, though. He wants his lover back more than anything in the entire world. He gives up, slumping against the man and allowing himself to sink into the hug, sobs wrecking his body.

"My name is Morax. You're one of us now, little god. I'll stay with you."

Venti never wanted this. He never wanted his title of Anemo Archon. Like the war, it was something thrust upon him, on both of them. The bard's death changed something in him and proved to the higher-up that he was, for some reason, worthy of ruling an entire nation.

He didn't want to be a god. The only thing he wanted was to have his lover back.

VII.

The morning after, he finds himself in bed with the two men, one his sworn enemy and the other his lover of two thousand years, Venti escapes early. He sneaks out before the sun is up, only looking back at the bed when he hears Morax's laughter. While buttoning up his shirt, he turns towards the man, huffing at him.

"What's so funny?" Venti asks, struggling to assemble his unnecessarily complicated outfit.

"You didn't hate him," Morax says, a smile on his face. He must think this is funny. Maybe he tricked Venti into sleeping with them or something like that. Or he waited until Venti was drunk and convinced him to do it.

"It doesn't matter, anyway. He won't remember. In a hundred years, he'll be a new person," Venti says coldly, lacing up his boots. He ties his hair up with a ribbon, planning to braid it later. Finally, he turns to Morax, his blue-green eyes normally twinkling with amusement now devoid of life. "When he is that new person, I'm going to stay away from him."

"Why can't you apply that logic to the medic, little god?" Morax asks, trying to keep his voice level for the sleeping redhead's sake. Venti huffs at him, crossing his arms.

"It isn't the same." Venti gathers the rest of his things, staring at Morax from the doorway. "Every time I look at him, he's always going to be the medic. He couldn't save him. I'm not going to forgive him. You need to stop forcing it."

Morax sighs. He rests his hand on the redhead's shoulder, rubbing it softly. Venti wondered if he was awake and listening and knew that Venti despised him for something he didn't do. Did he understand that what he did was unforgivable, even if it wasn't him and just an incarnation from a thousand years ago?

"Okay, Barbatos," Morax says quietly. Venti feels a stab in his heart. Morax only uses that name when upset at Venti or wants him to remember who he is. It makes him think about how Barbatos came to be.

It's supposed to remind him of the bard. Morax is an evil, petty person sometimes. Venti knows he antagonizes and fights, and he's probably just as cruel as Morax, but to have his lover bring up the bard like this is a new low for him.

Venti leaves with a gust of wind, ignoring the tears burning his eyes and threatening to drip down his cheeks.

IX.

One day, Venti wakes up in Diluc's bed.

He's clothed in one of Diluc's shirts, a long, silky smooth white, though nothing about the scene indicates anything sexual happened. He feels fine, not sore or uncomfortable in his warm bed.

Venti becomes aware of the other's presence when he shifts over, wrapping an arm around Venti's waist. He feels himself draw into Diluc's chest, sighing heavily in his sleep.

Venti doesn't even think it's wrong. He doesn't feel angry like he always does. The medic that let the bard die was cruel and incapable of this, incapable of loving another person. Sure, Venti didn't know him. His memories of the Gunhildr clan were fuzzy, fading as he got older and filling his brain with other useless information, but those moments with the medic were what he never forgot.

The bard was too young to die. Venti knew this, even as a spirit, and the medic knew it too but didn't do anything.

Venti sighs and tucks his head under Diluc's, hoping he wakes up before him again and flees the scene. He can't keep ending up in his bed like this.

II.

"I can't save him. He's... he's going to die."

The words rang around in the wind spirit's head, his entire world freezing. He's struggling to maintain his more human form, staring at the bard's bleeding body. An arrow to the chest. Or multiple. Probably multiple. The spirit can't think, doesn't know what to feel, can't wrap his head around it- and he feels like he's  dying .

It's the medic's fault. It has to be. He isn't trying hard enough, and it's his fault, and he's destroying the spirit's world. It didn't care about the war or the other people that needed medical attention. It cared about the bard.

"He's just a human!" The spirit shouts, tears streaming down its face. It feels so weak, but it can't leave the bard alone. They've been attached at the hip for so long now. The spirit can't imagine a world without him. "He's so young. He- he's barely seventeen. I love him. I- you can't just let him die, please."

The medic looks at the crying spirit, his expression solemn. He lays down the bard to rest as if that's it, and he's no longer trying, and he just gave up , deeming the bard unsavable. The spirit rushes in when the medic leaves to attend to other patients. He cradles the bard's dying body, holding his head in his lap.

"Please, please don't leave me- I- can't-" the spirit cries and sobs, tucking black hair out of his beautiful, bloodied face. "I don't know how to be without you. I've never been without you. Please."

The bard opens his eyes weakly, looking up at the spirit.

"Please, please, you're going to be okay, I- I will make you okay. I said I'll keep you safe, right? I'm doing it now! You- you're gonna be okay!"

The bard reaches a shaking and bloodied hand towards his face, brushing his thumb against the spirit's tears.

"You don't.. have a name..." The bard says. His voice is hoarse and quiet, and he coughs, almost choking on his blood. The spirit shakes its head no, sniffling and clutching the bard against its chest.

"Carmen?" The bard asks, offering one final smile. His hand falls back on his stomach, clutching the wound. The spirit panics, eyes going wide at the bard's sudden limpness.

As the spirit feels the bard dying in his arms, strange energy flows through him, taking the air out of his lungs. The tips of his fingers tingle, and somehow, he knows he is no longer just a spirit.

A crowd gathers among the screaming and sobbing god, some offering consolation or trying to help, but no one wants to go near him. As far as they're concerned, he's an angry god. No one wants to be in the way of an angry god.

The Anemo Archon is not one to get angry. He actively avoids violence, even when he knows he should take part. But here? After the bard's death? He's fuming.

The air swirls around, pulling plants out of the ground and swirling dust, dirt, and rocks. Some fall over with the force of the winds, unable to withstand the storm he's creating. The new god has no regard for the life around him, wishing death upon the people and the land. He will tear up all the trees and plants and kill every single human in Teyvat if it makes him feel better. He would trade it all for the bard back.

The only thing stopping him from taking the lives of everyone in the vicinity was the feeling of being ascended into the sky. His vision goes white, eyes closing only briefly. When he opens them again, he's looking down at the people from high in the air.

He didn't have the bard anymore.

The god tried to go back. He did. He screamed, threw a fit, cried, and tried to hit the man that restrained him, ignoring his pleas to calm down.

The bard was gone. It hurt so, so much.

The god didn't even know his name. He never told him.

From then on, he named himself Barbatos and called his lover Carmen.

X.

Venti doesn't know why he's gone to the bar so often these past few days. It's not just for the drinks or the chance to play a song for the drunks he's friends with. He tells himself it isn't for him, but Venti knows deep down that it's the only reason he's stopped inside at least every day for the past few weeks.

Venti sees it as them dancing around each other, but he isn't sure if the object of his affection views it the same. The little touches they share mean everything to the grieving bard. He watches his scarred hands wipe down the bar, red eyes glancing around the room. Venti loves how he pretends he doesn't care about the gossip in the bar, but his head turns ever so slightly to listen to the dramatic tales the patrons spin and let out low chuckles, only audible to himself and the bard.

When Venti performs, the man stops what he's doing. And he's always doing something. Distracting himself with busy work, he told Venti once. Distracting from what, Venti doesn’t know. There are things they don’t tell each other, and that’s okay. Venti will wait. But in these little moments where Venti sings his heart out about past loves and the fun he's had over the years wandering the world, the man watches with such intensity, red eyes glued to nimble fingers strumming his harp.

Does he do the same thing with the man? Does he ever feel important to Venti? God, he hopes so. He hopes the man knows what he means to him, even if Venti cannot put the mess of feelings he has into words.

XI.

"So.. you're mad at me for.. something that a different version of me did three thousand years ago?"

Venti takes a long swig of his drink.

"Yeah. Basically. I'm not mad right now, if that makes you feel any better."

"Hm. Okay. Well..." Diluc trails off, setting aside the cloth used to clean the bar. Venti enjoys tracing over the scars at night, when they're huddled under the blankets together, placing kisses upon his burned fingers. He doesn't ask where they came from or why Diluc insists on hiding them with gloves. All that matters is that he trusts Venti enough to see it.

"Well..?" Venti pushes, feeling the familiar dread he's started associating with love.

"Well, I think we should work around that," Diluc says softly, his voice gruff. He tops off Venti's drink, then puts away the bottle. The rest of the patrons are gone, the bar empty of the other drunks. It's just the two of them. Two thousand years ago, Venti would be killing him where he stands, yet he only feels love towards the man.

"I would hate to have you upset with me, Ven." Diluc smiles at him, leaning over the counter to make eye contact with the miserable bard.

Venti takes another drink, then rests his head against the bar.

"You aren't mad at me for it? For all the times I’ve hurt you?” Venti asks, glancing up to meet red eyes. Diluc shakes his head, red curls bouncing. "Are you sure? It's dumb, right? I've never told you before. Not any other version of you, either."

"I don't think it is. What did I do to anger you, anyway?"

Venti sits up, tapping his now empty glass.

"I already put it away. You've had too much tonight." Diluc crosses his arms, trying to hold his resolve against the guilt-trippy bard.

"I'm staying with you tonight, aren't I? You can just take care of me!" Venti suggests, a sly smile on his face. "Just one more, bartender, please. I can't tell you if you don't get me another drink."

Diluc narrows his eyes, then pours another glass. Venti drinks it all, hoping he can black out before recounting the most painful event of his life.

Even after Venti tells him everything, he still finds a spot in Diluc's bed that night.

XIII.

"Little god, you cannot remain angry for the rest of your life," Zhongli says disapprovingly.

"What- that's not-! That isn't why I don't want to see him!" Venti stammers, holding back from stomping his foot at Zhongli. He tries to stop throwing tantrums and talk to Zhongli like an adult, but he makes it hard!

"Then why not? Every single time I've tried to bring Diluc over, you've always had an excuse for why you can't see him. I'd love to hear what flimsy excuse you came up with this time."

Venti stutters more, trying to get a single word out. Eventually, he blurts out everything he's been thinking.

"Because- 'cause I like him now! And I- he doesn't deserve someone like me! I was angry for so long and hated him for.. a silly reason. Something dumb. He doesn't... He needs someone better than that. Better than me."

Venti watches Zhongli's eyes go wide, mouth hanging open slightly. Within a second, Zhongli composes himself, pretending he wasn't shocked.

"I... I really like him, Zhongli. But I can't be around him. What if I decide to be angry again? What if I hurt him?" Venti asks, eyes welling up with tears. The night breeze picks up around them, swirling around with the increase of Venti's emotions. He can't help it. It's hard to control himself when his feelings are this messy.

Zhongli stays quiet, then looks down at Venti, sighing quietly. Venti tries to stand his ground but crumbles, plopping onto his ass. Zhongli follows, kneeling in front of him. He tucks a stray hair behind Venti's ear, looking remorseful like it was somehow his fault.

"Don't hurt him, then. Work things out." Zhongli says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. Venti leans against the tree behind him, staring at the ground.

"You said you like him?" Zhongli asks, a faint smile on his face. Venti nods, curling up into a ball.

"He's.. different from the rest. He's never mean to me. Diluc is patient, like you are. He gives me drinks all the time and tells me when my hair looks pretty or when I've played a song he likes."

Zhongli rests his hand against Venti's cheek, pulling the little god closer to him.

"I'm glad to hear you've grown fond of him, Venti. You.. You hated him for years. What possibly happened between you two? I didn't think you would ever change your mind about him."

Venti thinks for a moment, holding Zhongli's hand against his cheek like he's going to try to escape. He can't handle him leaving again.

"I missed you. I thought you were dead, and he made me feel better about being alone. He's always there for me," Venti says, leaning into Zhongli.

"Am I not always there for you?" Zhongli asks, intending for it to come off as teasing. He shuts his mouth right after, almost like he regrets his words. He knows he isn't there for the archon the way he promised. Venti feels his heart aching, a pit forming in his stomach.

It's the same feeling of dread.

Venti sighs and opens his mouth.

XII.

Every few years, or when Venti feels hopeless, he takes a day off and visits the grave of his old lover.

Venti brings flowers (a bouquet of Cecelias) and travels to the Brightcrown Mountains. Venti makes his way around, the area all too familiar for the god that never wanted the title. He hates it here, but this is where the bard's final resting spot is. Venti wouldn't dare dig up the body to move it. He sits under the tree, under their tree, where they once sat, pointing out the stars to each other and promising to stay together to see.

It was here Venti had his first kiss and earned his name, and fell in love. It was here that he learned what it means to be alive. And it was here that Venti went from thinking the world is beautiful to wishing death upon everything. He's never experienced anger quite like that, hot, blinding, and all-consuming.

"I've messed things up again," Venti whispers, talking to a boy who can't listen to him. "I do this a lot, you see. I mess things up, then I get real drunk and cry about messing things up."

I'm sure everything will be okay, Venti says in his head, using the bard's voice. Even though the world was at war and their lives were in danger when they were in love, Venti felt a sense of safety hearing him. The bard made him feel protected. No one's done that in thousands of years.

Venti smiles, leaning back against the tree. He pets the grass, imagining that the bard can feel it, and reciprocates the gesture. Ghost hands caress his face, braiding his long hair and telling him stories of what would happen after the war.

"I miss you more than anything, Carmen," Venti cries, breaking into sobs.

XIV.

"I think I've made him upset." Venti slumps against the bar, sighing when Diluc immediately fidgets with his hair, twirling curly blue locks around his fingers.

"Zhongli is upset with you?" Diluc asks, failing at masking the surprise in his voice. "Would you like me to speak with him?"

Venti shakes his head, eyes wide. "No! Heavens, no, that's so embarrassing!" He cries, flushing a bright red.

Diluc chuckles, tracing a finger along Venti's flushed cheek.

"I'm a dead man, Diluc!" Venti whines, turning his head to look at him. Diluc places his hand on his cheek, a fond smile on his face.

"What did you even say to him, Ven?"

"I told him I cared for you both. That I don't have a favorite and- and now I think he's upset! What if he believes I'm trying to steal you! Or- or what if he doesn't want to be with me? And what if he convinces you to not want it either? It's horrible, Master Diluc!"

"You.. want to be with him? And me?" Diluc asks, blinking owlishly at him like he didn't expect it. Venti recoils, frowning at him.

"I mean- I didn't- I don't want to assume anything-" Venti spits out, nearly tumbling out of the barstool at the speed he sits up. "Aw, you're reacting how he did! Don't be mad, Master Diluc! C'mon, just pour me a drink, 'n we can forget it happened!"

"Venti."

"We can just go on and pretend I didn't say anything. It's okay, really! I'll be okay!" Venti insists, ignoring the horrible feeling of sickness crawling up his throat. He wants to throw up and run away, and he wants to die a little bit, too, though that's somewhat difficult. Venti will do anything to avoid the impending grief of losing Diluc.

“Venti,”  Diluc repeats, looking down at him. Venti freezes, terrified of Diluc's words. "We can talk to him together, okay? We'll make it work between us." He leans down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Venti musters a smile, the feeling of sickness still present.

V.

"Barbatos, it's unacceptable for you to be acting this way." Morax crosses his arms over his chest, glaring down at him. "Pull yourself together. You are being an embarrassment to not only yourself but every other archon."

"You aren't the boss of me!" Barbatos shouts, clutching a wine bottle. He's far gone by this point, hardly aware of his actions. They're at some dumb party, with the Archons and adepti and whatever gathered to celebrate the retirement of the Hydro Archon, Milan. Barbatos was never close with Fontaine's Archon, but in a superficial attempt to keep the peace between the nations, Morax dragged him along.

What Barbatos didn't know was that he brought an extra guest along.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" Barbatos demands, clutching the neck of the bottle, fingers threatening to smash the fragile glass.

"I thought you'd be mature about this," Morax seethes at him, taking a step closer to the manic bard. From inside the mansion, the object of Barbatos's hatred watches, scarred hand pressed against the door separating him from the balcony. He wants to interfere, most likely. Stop his partner Morax from killing Barbatos where he stands.

It's best if he isn't near them. Barbatos might kill him.

"You bring the man that murdered Carmen and you expect me to be mature?!"

"Get over it, will you?! When will you realize you are not the only one who has gone through grief-"

"I'm not! The problem is you won't let me go through it!" Barbatos yells, tears threatening to spill down his face.

"I've been letting you go through this for hundreds of years," Morax says, voice lowering. A door creaks open, but neither cares, too engrossed in their argument to notice the mortal peeking his head out. "You choose to live in your grief. You choose to remind yourself of that bard every day."

"His name is Carmen! He's not ' that bard' , his name is Carmen!" Barbatos sobs, throwing the bottle of wine at Morax. It smashes against the wall, missing Morax's head by a few feet.

It didn't miss the redhead.

Barbatos didn't try to do it. It wasn't his goal. Things happen sometimes- bad things.

Glass shards slice against his face, tearing into the soft skin of his cheeks. He cries out, sinking to his knees. Barbatos stares at his crumpled form, watching Morax run towards the redhead, sending a hateful gaze reserved only for Morax's enemies. Barbatos knew Morax could get angry. Barbatos has watched him rage before, destroying everything in his path without a second thought. Barbatos thought he was the exception, though. Never once did he imagine Morax giving him that look.

" Leave,”  Morax demands, leaving no room for argument.

"Morax, I-" Barbatos tries, feeling small as he steps closer to the bleeding redhead, wishing to apologize for his actions. He knows the heavy feeling in his stomach is guilt, though he doesn't know who to apologize to. Morax, the god who feels a responsibility towards Barbatos and thus always returns to him, no matter how egregious his actions, or the redhead that never wished to get involved.

That's not true. Barbatos knows it isn't. In every version of himself, the redhead tries to connect the three. Maybe it's an instinct passed down from each reincarnation of himself, something he knows to do the second he meets Morax. Barbatos wishes the redhead would hate him already. He wishes he could find it in himself to hate him, even while he's sobbing and screaming out of pain on the floor.

Barbatos leaves with a flourish of wind, knowing once again that he has irreversibly fucked up.

XV.

"And you're certain about this?" Venti asks, running a comb through his tangled hair. He sits at the vanity in Diluc's room, watching the man through the mirror as he prepares for the day, changing into his usual outfit.

"Venti. We've talked about this twenty times," Diluc says, sounding exhausted. He finishes the buttons on his shirt, then walks towards Venti, setting burned hands onto lithe shoulders. He squeezes, then leans down to kiss the top of his head. "I'm certain. You don't need to convince me otherwise. You've told me everything. I remembered everything. If I was not absolutely certain about pursuing this with you, I wouldn't. Quit your overthinking."

"I've done horrible things to you, Master Diluc," Venti says, staring at himself in the mirror with a cold gaze.

"I know, Ven," Diluc says, prying the comb out of Venti's hands. He hadn't realized he was clutching it so tightly until now. He brushes through the back of his hair, taking his time with the longer strands. "It doesn't change my stance on this. You haven't wronged me now, have you?"

"Zhongli might disagree," Venti mutters.

"To hell with what he thinks, then," Diluc says, the corner of his lip turning upwards into a smile. "We'll work this out, Venti. Please stop fretting so much. You're going to get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that."

Venti laughs, leaning back to face Diluc, the top of his head against his chest. Diluc sets the comb down, resting a hand against Venti's chin. The redhead leans down, pressing his rough lips against Venti's softer ones. Their positioning is a little awkward, but Venti finds he doesn't mind at all. He hasn't been this happy in years. He supposes he was elated being with Zhongli for a few thousand years- and that's not to say Venti doesn't still love him, but he's happier loving them both rather than just one or the other.

Diluc pulls away, patting Venti's shoulder gently.

"Zhongli awaits us," he mutters, placing another little kiss on the corner of Venti's lips. "You don't want to keep him waiting for too long, do you?"

"I suppose there's no use in pushing it off any longer," Venti mutters, finally sitting up while Diluc buttons his jacket, fixing the cuffs of his sleeve.

"It'll all be okay, Venti. I promise."

XVI.

The scene played out eerily similar to one he went through before- pressed between a redhead and his lover of two thousand years. It isn't 'the redhead', either. Venti's sure he loves him, loves Diluc. Venti didn't know if he could ever experience the love for Zhongli with someone else, considering they'd had two thousand years to be together. He's had flings here and there, but they paled in comparison.

With Diluc, though? Everything feels new again.

"We've been here before," Diluc murmurs, face pressed against Venti's chest.

"I didn't think you'd remember," Venti says quietly, turning his head to face him. Zhongli snores next to them, a strong arm wrapped around the two. Diluc nods, blinking at him, soft eyelashes brushing Venti's chest.

"You and Zhongli fought in the morning. Yelled at each other again," Diluc says quietly, glancing at the sleeping man. "Did that happen a lot? You fighting over me?"

"It wasn't constant," Venti mutters. "There were times when things were perfect between us. We couldn't visit each other often, so we had other partners. I was furious the first time he introduced you to me. You- you looked so much like him. I thought Zhongli was trying to instigate or force me to get over Carmen."

Diluc nods, shifting his position, propping himself up on top of Venti, a pitiful look on his face.

"I'm sorry," Diluc says, voice quiet. Venti laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind Diluc's ear. Diluc seems confused by his laughter, so he starts up again. "What? I'm apologizing for what I've caused. I feel horrible for being the reason why your relationship was so stressed.”

"Master Diluc, you have nothing to be sorry for." Venti cups his cheek, pressing a kiss on the tip of his nose. Diluc wrinkles his nose, a faint smile on his face. "It was an issue I should've sorted out a millennia ago. We would have found something else to fight about regardless. Besides, we’re both happy with you. It shouldn’t matter.”

Diluc doesn't seem very satisfied with his answer. Venti sits up, pushing Diluc towards the bed so he can climb on top of him. Diluc instinctively reaches a hand out to hold his hip, already looking blissed out without Venti doing anything.

God, he's perfect. He wishes he knew sooner.

Venti kisses him, tangling a hand into red curls while Diluc grips his waist, holding Venti close. He pulls away before they get too into it, but Venti keeps his face close, their breath mingling.

"It was never your fault, Diluc," he whispers, tracing a hand down his chest. "How about I make this up to you? I'll do anything to get you to stop blaming yourself for my mistakes."

"Promise me you won't forget about this when I'm gone."

"What do you mean?" Venti falters, his chest feeling tight.

"After I.. After I die, don't go back to how things used to be. I'm sure that myself in the future would enjoy your company once more."

"Oh, Luc," Venti cries out, kissing his lips, face, and every bit of skin he can reach.

" I promise we will always be together. "