Work Text:
behold: a gentle man.
you are not used to this kind of man. you are used to the sort who crowd your bar every thriving night
with the froth slipping from their mugs to the counter and every dozen minutes a raucous cheer.
you are used to the man who watches you flit from table to table, examining the curve of your spine
over the cards with which he is not playing. he is more interested in the bounce of your tail.
you are used to the man who reaches out, touches your ears, never for a moment asks if he can ruffle your hair
and you say nothing. you tally another mark on the slate inside your heart and bottle darkness for the morning.
so– here is a man you are not used to. a man of wheat hair and scarred neck, a thousand ships behind his eyes
and simple answers to each of your questions. a sketchpad laid on the wood table before him.
little rose is curled under his chair like a pile of snow. night pilot is perched next to his elbow,
pushing his snout into the man’s gloved hand to ask for more scritches.
you bring him a sweet juice unpoisoned by lizard tail or slime. you watch him with narrowed eyes,
the same way you do for any new booze hound come trawling to your establishment.
but he doesn’t drink. he doesn’t reach out to grasp your tail. each time your eyes lock as you pass by
he gives you a nod and you toss up your chin. his smile burns the back of your neck like the heat of the sun.
all the men you know take without asking and drink until they’ve emptied their wallets and their memories.
the man who tries to resemble your father laughs uproariously, and the scent of alcohol on his breath
freezes your insides..
you’re used to booze hounds and creepy hangers-on and losers who think of you as a decoration or a toy.
not this man. not this man with the blonde hair and the radiant eyes
who sketches prince’s likeness, pleasing him so very much that the thing gets framed.
you never find his hands crawling your back when you turn away;
he leaves your ears and your tail and your skin in your own possession, unlike every other man.
and when you finally demand his name – his tenth visit, then, accompanied by sucrose and in the middle of a card game,
the way he tells you isn’t what you expect. the one word slips from his teeth like melting ice.
albedo.
he asks yours in turn, and you gripe at him. you’re diona! of course he knows that! and yet
he offers his hand, and the fingers that wrap around yours are like a winter’s breath.
he says nice to meet you, diona and sucrose looks between the two of you nervously
so you toss your head and stomp away. you hear his quiet laugh. you allow it.
(but now that he is known to you it makes you all the more angry
that men can’t be like albedo and albedo can’t be like other men.
even kaeya is a drinker and razor is just razor. the ones who are good
always have a fatal flaw. no man can be perfect.
if they could then your father would never have crumbled in the first place.)
you pass albedo his sweet drink and you turn away.
he’s sketching a portrait of you; grit your teeth.
it’s beautiful.
you’re not used to this kind of man.