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Morning mass has only just wrapped up when something sharp taps Dahlia on the shoulder.
He whips around, startled, only to see it's none other than Sister Rosaria, which explains the piercing nature of the fingers poking him. She looks bored, which is how she usually appears, especially whenever she's at the church. Dark eyes bear into him from underneath a long black veil. Her harsh silhouette and the many sharp objects she's covered in would cut her as an intimidating figure to anyone who didn't know her, and even some who did. Not Dahlia, though. He knows her well enough to be mostly unafraid of her - mostly, because it's impossible to be a hundred percent comfortable around Sister Rosaria.
“Sister,” he greets her, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Is everything alright? How are you faring this morning?”
“Don't start,” she warns him. He does his best to suppress his smirk - he knows damn well how hungover the nun is, because he was there for every drink she downed last night. She rolls her eyes at his expression. “Your bard is outside.”
“My bard?” Dahlia exclaims in mock scandelization, although he's mostly putting it on. His entire body has already lightened in anticipation. “Well, thank you for the warning, Sister. I know to go out the back exit now.”
“Oh, I'm sure you will,” she deadpans. Her eyes flit up and down, examining his entire being with a look of vague disrelish. “How do you look so fucking put together? You seriously piss me off.”
“Such language,” Dahlia says sarcastically, although he does actually look around to see if anyone is nearby. No one is close enough to hear either of them. If they were, he'd have to scold her louder for misconduct, and she'd hate him for it later. He lowers his voice. “I just have good genes, Sister. I could outdrink Lord Barbatos himself and still show up to work without so much as faltering.”
She snickers. “Now who's being blasphemous. Seeya, Deacon.”
She saunters away without another word, staying within the shadows under the windows until she reaches the back door of the church and slips outside. He doesn't bother shouting a goodbye after her. If he knows her at all, he'll see her the next time he's at the tavern, two inches apart from the Knight's Cavalry Captain with a drink under her nose.
He shakes his head and prepares himself to leave, adjusting his outfit so he at least looks slightly neater than he feels like he does.
Sure enough, the second Dahlia steps outside, he's accosted by a figure in green by the doors.
“Boo,” says Venti. The bard is sitting on the wall next to the stairs leading down to the plaza, legs crossed and swinging in the air childishly. He's leaning back against the pillars lazily, and waves when Dahlia sees him, sticking his tongue out and winking at the same time. “Have you missed me?”
“I just saw you last night,” Dahlia replies, without missing a beat. He doesn't wait for Venti, already heading down the stairs - he knows the bard will be right behind him. “How long were you sitting there? I didn't get out on time.”
He can practically hear Venti's pout as he leaps off the wall and follows after him, exactly as expected. “Not too long. What held you up?”
“Some compliments on my service,” Dahlia tells him. He turns to raise his eyebrows in Venti's direction. “One woman was in tears because my utter devotion made her realize how much she loved the Anemo Archon, apparently. She said, “Deacon Dahlia, if you are truly the messenger of Lord Barbatos, will you ask him when he'll stop lazing around drunk and come back to Mondstadt to actually do his job?””
Venti scowls, arms crossed, although even that gesture doesn't look serious. “I don't believe you.”
“You shouldn't, I'm lying,” Dahlia admits, and cracks a grin. “The first part was true, though, and that's why it took me so long to leave. I figured you'd be waiting for me, but I know you have so much time on your hands anyway, I didn't think you'd mind.”
Venti hops down the last few steps, landing steady like a cat. He must be extremely sober, to have done that so gracefully. “You know me, when I hear the sound of prayer on the wind, I have to listen!”
The plaza is quiet, given the time of day. The only people around are those who were just at the service in the cathedral, milling around amongst each other as they head off in different directions to start their days. The statue of Lord Barbatos stands tall above them all, holding his hands outwards with a gentle smile.
Dahlia's eyes flicker upwards to look at it. He spent a lot of time sitting before this statue as a child, praying, deliberating. Where was Mondstadt's God, and why did he not come visit his people anymore? Had they done something wrong? Was he still listening, wherever he was, and would he ever return if they truly needed him?
He has all those answers now. If Dahlia could tell his ten-year old self the truth, he might fall to the ground in a dead faint.
As if reading his mind - which he very well may actually be doing - Venti bumps into his side, drawing Dahlia's attention from the statue back to him.
“Got any plans for the morning?” he asks, instead of making fun of Dahlia for his ridiculous train of thought. Not that Dahlia is ashamed of anything he thinks about. Venti has seen his soul bare a hundred times over, and still he chooses him again and again. “It's so sunny, we should take advantage of such beautiful weather, don't you think?”
“Take advantage of it how?” Dahlia asks. He adjusts his book in his grip, tucking it underneath his arm so it's out of the way. Venti watches him closely. He's always watching so closely, it's almost unnerving.
“We-ell,” the bard hums. He turns around to walk backwards before him, smiling mischievously. Dahlia is sure the bard could make his way through Mondstadt drunk and blindfolded, so he's not concerned. “Perhaps I prepared a picnic for two, in case one was to have skipped breakfast and was hungry after using all of one's energy during a long service.”
Dahlia snickers. “So you went to Good Hunter this morning when it opened, then?”
Venti shrugs, nonchalant. “We may never know who exactly was the one to make this meal. All I want to know is if you would be willing to share it with me.” Spring green eyes glitter in the sunlight. “I mean, I could finish it by myself if you were busy, Deacon Dahlia.”
Dahlia ponders his schedule for the day - the whole day, because a small activity with Venti was never just a small activity. Everything is a song and dance with him, and ends up taking up hours longer than it really needs to. He has to hang out his washing, and go to General Goods to get some vegetables and flour so he can make dinner, and visit the troubled woman who'd come to him during worship several weeks before to check in on how she's faring…
“I believe most of my activities for the day can be delayed,” he says indifferently. Apart from the last one - his duties as a Deacon do come first, especially when they're related to the status of the community and the people of Mondstadt. “What did you have in mind, then? Are we going out somewhere specific?”
Venti stops walking right at the top of the stairs leading from the plaza, the heels of his shoes right at the edge. He doesn't need to glance back to know. His smile grows as he looks up at him from beneath his lashes - very deliberately, given that the two men are the same height.
“Wherever the wind leads us,” he says, and grins cheekily.
Dahlia sighs, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he opens them, the bard is still standing there, arms folded neatly behind his back as he waits. Wholly confident in what Dahlia's answer will be, he's sure.
“Fine,” Dahlia replies, and Venti laughs. He jumps in before the other man can speak. “But, I have to get changed first. This cloak is too hot for a day like this.”
“Whatever suits you best,” Venti says, and a cool wind curls around them playfully, as if in response to Dahlia's words.
He's maybe a little too agreeable with everything that Venti wants, he thinks as he bounds down the steps with his friend in tow. But of course he is. Who is he to refuse the word of his own God?
He heads home to get changed like he'd advised. Venti leaves him at his door, winking cheekily and promising he'll be back in fifteen minutes. He's likely going back to his own home to pick up the food, although where his own home is, Dahlia has yet to find out. Venti always insists on walking Dahlia home when they go out, and whenever they fall into bed together after a drunken night, it's always at his place. He'd tried following him home, once, wanting to find whatever the bard was hiding from him, but it's difficult to conceal something from an Archon. Venti had noticed him immediately, and led him on a wild goose chase around the city until Dahlia gave up. He hadn't tried it again after that.
He changes into a pair of more casual shorts and a light button up, leaving behind his cloak and hat. It doesn't nearly take fifteen minutes, so he spends the time brushing out his hair and washing his face. Once he's done that, he sits at the edge of his bathtub and picks at his fingernails, staring out the window. There's nothing in particular on his mind while he does so. He's honestly just tired.
So tired he doesn't notice when Venti knocks, or even when the bard gives up on waiting for him and slips inside with his key. He's so light and quiet that Dahlia doesn't hear him until he's directly in the doorway, staring down at him with his hands on his hips.
“Thinking about me?” he says teasingly, and Dahlia just about jumps a foot in the air. He can see now that Venti, too, has changed into a different outfit, but not by much. He's simply ditched the tights and changed his shorts and shoes for something a little more appropriate for a walk, although he's kept his cloak on. Dahlia can't help the way his gaze drops to look at Venti's legs, unusually bare. He's only human, after all.
“A little,” he says, nonchalant as if he hadn't just been scared out of his skin. He gets to his feet, brushing imaginary wrinkles out of his shirt. “I didn't hear you, my apologies.”
Venti's expression flickers just slightly when he says this. Dahlia has known him long enough to be familiar with his microexpressions at least a little, although he's not entirely sure what this one means. When Venti is sober, he's hard to read.
“Not a problem,” he says, and then smiles. “Ready to go out and about?”
“That I am,” Dahlia replies, and flashes his friend a grin. Then he notices the basket hanging off of Venti's arm. “Breakfast?”
Venti bows his head. “Naturally.”
They exit the room into the hall. Venti's eyes don't leave Dahlia once. He makes a show of acting like Dahlia caught him looking, even though he knows the bard knew the whole time, and grins bashfully, scratching the back of his neck.
“Quit that,” Dahlia scolds, although he's rolling his eyes. “Let's go, then, wherever you're taking me.”
The walk out of the city, the wind pleasantly cool on their backs. It's still quiet for how early in the morning it is - a glance at his watch tells Dahlia it's only nine am, now. Of course, Mondstadt is a city that is busy day and night, most of the time, so there are still enough people around for it to be considered lively. Men and women doing early morning shopping, taking their children to Sunday classes, rushing to prepare for the return to work the following day.
Today is a day of rest, which is why Dahlia had so little on his to-do list. He's much busier during the week, although never so much so that he can't meet his closest friend for a bottle of wine and some good conversation.
Venti makes conversation, although it's more one sided than anything. Dahlia is a much quieter person than Venti is specifically when he's sober - a drunk Dahlia is a whole other beast - so their dynamic consists of a lot of Venti speaking and Dahlia listening and only chiming in when needed or when he has something really funny to say. He's found that his friend always has a topic to discuss no matter what, always has something ready whenever there's a quiet moment. Maybe it's something to do with Venti's natural charisma that charms oh-so many of Mondstadt's citizens. Maybe he's used to filling silences.
They're on their way out of the city gates when someone nearby calls Dahlia's name.
“Deacon Dahlia,” comes the voice. It's an older woman with dark hair tied up with a flower, an emerald dress flowing around her waist. “I apologize for interrupting, I simply wanted to compliment your service this morning. It was beautiful, as always. The way you speak is beautiful enough to bring a tear to the eye.”
As surprised as he is by the interruption, Dahlia is used to having to revert to sudden professionalism in casual settings. It's essentially part of his job. “Infinite thanks for the kind words, madam,” he says in reply, and bows his head seriously with a gentle smile. “May the Anemo Archon be with you always.”
The woman breaks into a grin, mimicking the gesture. “And you, Deacon,” she replies.
When she glances up again, her gaze travels to meet Venti's eyes. The bard is silent, waiting for the interaction to pass, but her acknowledgement of him causes him to lighten, lowering his head and gesturing with one hand warmly.
She steps forward to meet him. “Oh, and of course to yourself, as well, dear bard” she says, and from the bag on her arm she brings out two crimson apples, placing one in each of their hands. “A token of appreciation. May Barbatos be with you both.”
“May Barbatos be with you,” Venti echoes cheerfully, and bows lowly in lieu of thanks.
A sudden gust of air swirls around them, cool and inviting. The woman's hair is swept up and then falls back onto her shoulders as quickly as it had happened. Distantly, windchimes ring, disturbed by the gentle breeze.
She's smiling as she leaves, acknowledging Dahlia's thanks for the gifts and heading off into the city with a spring in her step.
Before she's even gone, the familiar crunch of an apple sounds beside Dahlia's ear. “You weren't lying,” Venti says, mouth full of the acidic fruit. “People really did like this morning's sermon.”
“What can I say,” Dahlia says, and tosses his own apple into the air, pleased. “I'm good at what I do. And you benefit from it, clearly.”
They exit the city and start across the bridge, Dahlia nodding and waving in the direction of familiar faces as he goes. Venti eats up the attention as usual, and even stops to perform a song for one group of people who ask if he'd be willing for a few mora. He's always the most beautiful when he's performing, Dahlia secretly thinks, although it's not really secretly at all. Lost in the music, regardless of whether his song is serious or whimsical, smiling gently with rosy cheeks. It's impossible to be stressed out when Venti is singing. The sound of his voice alone is relaxing enough to make him feel light and airy, like he himself is part of the breeze and Venti is commanding him with just a thought.
By the time they escape the people, it's past ten am and Dahlia's stomach is grumbling. Venti seems to register this and laughs, light and ringing like bells. “Hungry?” he asks, nudging Dahlia's side. “Perhaps you should eat before your sermons. Would you even have had breakfast if I hadn't come along?”
No, is the honest answer, but Dahlia won't say that. He tends to forgo important things like his own health and well-being without intending to, just because they're not at the forefront of his mind all the time. He always has so much to be thinking about.
“Quiet, you,” is what he says instead. “Let's get going before more people spot us.”
Venti giggles. “Oh? Deacon Dahlia is willfully avoiding his loving fans?”
“Don't refer to it like that,” he protests, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I love the citizens of Mondstadt as much as you do. But sometimes, people are just too much to deal with. I need a damn break.”
“Such foul language from the deacon of the church,” Venti murmurs teasingly, but doesn't go any further, and lets Dahlia have his peace as he guides him away.
Dahlia thinks he figures out where they're going several times over. He originally assumed Venti was taking them to Windrise, but then they veer off in the direction of the woods instead, which Dahlia would ordinarily fear due to the amount of Hilichurlian creatures within it, but not when he's with the Anemo Archon. They do spend a moment at Starfell Lake, where a statue of Barbatos stands, beautifully crafted by whoever it was, thousands of years ago. Dahlia had once asked Venti if he knew who had created them and why. He had just laughed and told him, “I can't tell you everything, Deacon.”
It's a lovely walk, and it makes Dahlia realize just how much he needed this time away. He wasn't lying when he said he loves his people, because he does. He wouldn't be fit to do his job otherwise. But being someone that many others look up to is a difficult task when oneself isn't entirely stable in their own self image - and God knows that Dahlia isn't. He spends a lot of time pondering his own self, his soul and his future. His parents used to call him an “old soul” when he was as young as seven. Maybe they were correct.
But out here, there is nothing but clear skies and soft wisps of clouds, grass underneath his boots, trees shifting in the gentle wind. Dandelions and Windwheel Asters bring new colour to the scenery, spots of blue and red sprouting along the way. Squirrels scurry among the branches as they walk underneath, watching them silently. They even spot a cat at one point, a beautiful creature with brown stripes that tiptoes cautiously closer to them and causes Venti to screech and fly fifteen feet up a nearby tree.
“Usually it's cats themselves who get stuck up in trees,” Dahlia calls up to him, amused, as he bends down to say hello to the cat. “How the tables have turned.”
“If you pet that thing, I'm staying three miles away from you for a week,” Venti sniffles haughtily at him.
Dahlia grins wickedly. “Oh, promise?”
However, he lets the cat go without touching it anyway.
Venti jumps down soundlessly and pouts. “How cruel of you to tease me like that with something that could kill me.”
“You're right,” Dahlia replies seriously. “May Barbatos condemn me for my sins.”
“Oh, he will. Trust me, I know him personally.”
Dahlia laughs, the sound carrying on the wind. Venti's grin only grows, and he starts off again in the direction of their destination, which Dahlia is pretty sure he's figured out by now. As he goes, he unclips his cloak and lets it fly on the breeze, almost hitting Dahlia in the face as it goes.
He catches it with one hand reflexively. “You're just letting this go?”
Venti shrugs. “The wind will carry it back to me.”
Then he does a cartwheel on the grass like a child, whooping as he gets farther away from him.
Dahlia sighs and folds the cloak neatly before carrying it with him underneath his arm.
It only takes another five minutes for them to reach Starsnatch Cliff, which is recognizable by the intense upwards slope and the clusters of pretty white Cecilias growing. He had figured Venti might take him here. It's one of the highest accessible places in Mondstadt, and the bard loves to lay on the grass here and play music to the wind, Dahlia knows. He often gets quieter and more melancholy when he's up here, leading Dahlia to wonder if there's some kind of emotional attachment to the area that he doesn't understand. It's another thing he never actually asked before.
Now, however, Venti seems just as cheerful as he has been all day, spinning in circles until he makes himself dizzy and flops down onto the ground.
The view is stunning here. Dahlia wishes he'd brought a Kamera despite having photographed similar views a hundred times already.
“Tired yourself out?” he asks Venti from above.
Venti grins up at him, face pink with mirth and exhaustion. “Never,” he says still, waving off the question. “I'll still have plenty of energy to walk back, especially once I've eaten some tasty snacks!
The unconscious rhyme makes Dahlia laugh. The bard in Venti never seems to sleep.
They sit down, and Venti unfolds a dark green blanket from his basket that doesn't look necessarily like a picnic blanket and more like a sleep one instead. It's the food that really matters, though. Dahlia's mouth waters when he sees it. Heavy looking chicken sandwiches with fresh green lettuce peeking out the sides, steaming grilled fish skewers and sweet apple tarts of the most perfect colour Dahlia has ever seen.
“You got all of this from Good Hunter?” he marvels, fingers itching to reach out and grab something. “Sara must be indebted to you for something.”
“Oh, not necessarily,” Venti says with a wink. “I just know how to make friends.”
Then he's reaching back into the basket with a sly grin. “That's not all,” he says, eyes shining. “I got us some of this as well.”
From the basket he produces two bottles of the Dawn Winery's famous apple cider.
“It's ten in the morning,” Dahlia protests, although even as he says it, he's reaching out to receive the offering with greedy fingers. “I have at least a few hours to go before I think about getting drunk.”
“Oh, relax,” Venti says with a dramatic eye roll. “They have a very low alcohol content, both of them, not just yours. It's only about one percent.”
Dahlia's eyebrows shoot into his hair. “You're willing to drink one percent alcohol for me?”
Venti uncaps his bottle and tips it back in response. When he smiles next, his lips are damp and shining in a way that has Dahlia's gaze lingering on them just slightly too long and leaves something swirling around in his stomach that he doesn't like.
“What can I say,” the bard says with a shrug. “Ah, the things we do for love…”
Dahlia stiffens at the phrasing of that, just slightly. Venti jokes about things such as this occasionally, and it always feels like a blade right through his ribs. This is almost entirely because he knows he doesn't truly mean it. It's not self loathing that prevents him from believing this, nothing of the sort - Dahlia is simply not delusional. He's well aware of what his relationship with Venti is, and also what it never could be. How ridiculous it would be to convince himself that it would be possible to conduct such a relationship with Lord Barbatos, immortal archon of Mondstadt.
As a deacon, Dahlia is a trained expert in self control and taking things in small doses. It is law, for him, to never take more than what he needs.
When he takes a swig of the cider, it tastes slightly more bitter than usual. He picks up a skewer and bites down on it to chase the unpleasant flavour away.
A few minutes pass where Venti chatters, already having found something new to talk about - something about Dragonspine, he thinks, involving the Knights of Favonius. He's listening, but it's all such nonsense. Not that Dahlia minds. May Barbatos forgive him, but he's possibly even more nosy than the man himself. Sometimes he wishes he was able to listen in to the confessionals at the church, but at the same time, he knows he can't be trusted with secrets being fed to him in such a private manner. He prefers to get his information from other sources anyway. Venti, for example, or Rosaria, on the rare occasion that she approaches him first.
He comes back to the conversation when Venti suddenly changes the topic. “Eugh,” he says, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. He's grimacing unhappily, swirling his drink around and eyeing up the rim. “Does this taste unpleasant to you at all?”
Ah, so it's not just him. “A little,” Dahlia admits. He hadn't drank any more since his first sip. “I thought that drinks with less alcohol content were supposed to taste better. Fruitier, and such.”
“It must have been stored badly,” Venti says, and tosses aside the bottle. “I expected better of the Dawn Winery… I will have to write a strongly worded letter later.”
Dahlia snickers, dragging his ungloved hands through the grass. It's slightly damp from yesterday's rain. “Strongly worded ballad, do you mean?”
“Perhaps,” Venti says, and a flash of sea green brings a lyre into his hands. It's made of simple wood and has seen better days, clearly having been beaten up over the years. Dahlia is sure it's just for show, sure he's held infinitely more exquisitely crafted instruments in his many years. “I've already started working on it. Do you want to hear?”
Intrigued, Dahlia leans back on one hand, twirling his chicken skewer around with the other. “Of course.”
It doesn't surprise him that Venti has already managed to come up with something. A lot of his ballads are like this - ridiculous tunes that tell ridiculous stories. There are even some of these that the citizens of Mondstadt remember by name and regularly request, such as Some Treasure Chests Contain Monsters and A Hilichurlian Love Song. Out of the silly ones, Dahlia's personal favourite is One Am At Angel's Share. This is partially because it always makes Master Ragnvindr terribly annoyed when he plays it, and partially because Dahlia was the one who made the request that brought it into being. That was many months ago, and still, whenever it gets late at the tavern, someone will remember to slide a drink Venti's way and ask him to sing it until the bartender kicks them all out.
It's a rare occasion when Venti sings something serious. Only once did Dahlia stir in his sleep to catch an earful of a soft, mournful tune coming from what sounded like his rooftop, on a night the two of them had spent together. He had stayed perfectly still, as if he could possibly scare him away. As if Venti didn't certainly already know he was awake. That night was yet another thing Dahlia continued not to acknowledge, to his friend or even to himself.
“You seem a little distracted today,” comes a teasing tone, and Dahlia startles upon realizing that Venti has stopped singing and is looking at him with raised eyebrows, hands still against his lyre. He hadn't even realized. How embarrassing.
“Pshaw,” Dahlia scoffs, and waves him off. “No more so than usual.”
“Yes, more so than usual,” Venti says. He disappears his lyre and scooches closer to him on the blanket, picking up an apple tart and taking a large bite. With his mouth full, he asks; “Mora for your thoughts?”
“Charming,” Dahlia deadpans, eyes dropping to watch the spray of crumbs fly from Venti's mouth. His eyes linger there a little too long, yet again, and he tears his gaze away to stare out at the scenery. In the distance, windmills spin slowly and flags fly, the wind bringing their city to life.
He hasn't answered Venti's question. “There's nothing wrong with me,” he says after a moment, casting Venti a glance. The bard's expression is entirely unreadable. “I suppose I'm just… I don't know, I've been bored, lately.”
“Ha!” Venti laughs, shaking his head in shock. “You, bored? Deacon Dahlia? You could make entertainment out of paint drying.”
It's true, ordinarily. Being the way he is - extroverted, nosy, easily excitable - it's almost impossible for him to run out of things to do. There's just been something different lately that he can't express in words.
Having Venti around usually helps when he feels a little restless. As of late, however, this hasn't been the case. It actually seems to only having been making things more difficult for him.
He can guess why, and he's sure Venti can too, when they end up together after a drunken night and Dahlia clings to him a little too long, hands lingering on Venti's face, desperately searching. It's not something he's willing to acknowledge.
Dahlia prefers drama when it's happening to other people rather than to himself. He's not in the mood to do something that might ruin the closest relationship he has and make a spectacle of himself in front of everyone in Mondstadt. He's a grown man. Thinking like this is nothing short of embarrassing.
Besides, if Venti felt the same way, he would have said something by now.
He locks eyes with Venti as he thinks this, as if to challenge him. If Venti hears, he says nothing about it at all.
His silence must be worrying, because when he next speaks, Venti sounds uncharacteristically serious. “If something's going on, you know you can always turn to me to help you.”
Dahlia wishes, for a moment, that he could reverse their roles and look into Venti's head to find out what he's thinking. It's common for him to wish he had the ability to read minds. However, it's stronger at this moment than it ever has been.
“I'm perfectly fine,” he says, and smiles. “Don't be so serious, it's terribly unbecoming.”
Finally, Venti's lips curl up, eyes thinning at the comment. “Maybe it's just been too long without some kind of drama,” he says, sticking out his tongue. “You're starting to lose your mind.”
“That's true,” Dahlia says thoughtfully. He neatly packs away the remains of the finished skewer and goes for a sandwich instead. “I'm secretly hoping that Captain Kaeya and Master Ragnvindr get into another argument next time we're at the tavern, it's always so entertaining when they do.”
“How evil of you, Deacon,” Venti says, nudging him playfully. “You know as well as I do that if they did, Angel's Share is closing immediately and we'll have nowhere else to go.”
“There's always the Cat's Tail.”
“I think you know that's not an option.”
“It could be -”
“Not if you don't want to drink by yourself all evening, it isn't!”
Their bickering fades into light conversation as they finish the spread, and the earlier discussion is forgotten. Well - not really. Dahlia's well aware of the fact that Venti doesn't forget things. He doesn't tend to either, despite how many long nights he's spent in a drunken stupor. It's just another thing that he doesn't want to discuss anymore.
Dahlia hates making things complicated. Hates deep discussions and complex emotions. He'd prefer to settle any problem he came across with a drinking game, a healthy competition, something silly that won't cause anyone any kind of hurt. It's hard, dealing with things like this - and as the Deacon of the Favonius Church, the Gods know that he spends so much time resolving other people's issues. Listening to spiels that end in tears. He spends so much empathy on others that it's hard to save any emotional maturity for himself.
So he'd prefer not to, any day of the week. If he can fix whatever's plaguing his mind with some alcohol and a song, he will. If he can't - well, then it's not his problem anymore, because it's going deep down into the depths of his mind and being locked away forever without a key to free it.
He watches Venti's lips move as he speaks, staring intently enough that surely Celestia itself can discern his intentions. And yet, the bard himself doesn't say a word about it. He never does. Dahlia is secretly grateful for it.
They'll have to talk about it someday. But he'll push that off for as long as he possibly can, and live in the now, where he has Venti, where he can still hold his waist and kiss his lips. Just not quite in the way he wants to. Just not all the time.
“Do you want to meet at Angel's Share later?” Dahlia blurts out. He doesn't look at Venti straight on, focusing on his sandwich instead. “I'll buy the first round if you keep the wind cool on the walk back to the city.”
“What a deal,” Venti crows in celebration of this, smiling broadly. “You didn't even have to bribe me to do that. But sure, if it means I can keep my hands out of my pockets, I'm more than happy to oblige.”
He reaches out and ruffles Dahlia's hair, sending electric shocks through his body at the contact. Venti's good mood is so infectious. Dahlia wants to grab his wrist and hold him there forever, warm hand pressed against his scalp.
“Anything for my favourite Herald,” Venti laughs, and sticks his tongue out teasingly.
Dahlia closes his eyes with a smile and lets the breeze kiss his face instead.