Work Text:
diluc's fire has been put out.
jean realises this silently, during a mundane, routine visit to dawn winery, while he sits achingly still, muted eyes raking the fine print of the latest document she'd thrust into his hands. corporate life dulls him, she thinks, and yet he still remains competent in his new skin: a costume of the mundane. maybe it suits him, and she's simply being sentimental.
but when she looks at him, if she squints, the delicate features of his face will melt into a blank template, where she can choose what she thinks he feels. where she can choose for him.
she'll see the ghost of a smile on his face, and a sword in his hands. it's jarring in that she'll suddenly be thrown back to years ago, when there was fat and colour in his cheeks and fire in his eyes. in the absence of that joy in him, that life, her mind has grown to take liberties, to stretch the details of her fading memories into a canvas set to her whimsicl taste. in her mind's eye she'll manifest an image of him smiling in penchance of nostalgia. it's always overwhelmed by a haunting sense of wrongness, the smile shows too many teeth, is too big on his face, feels synthetic. she tries to believe it anyways.
(she should probably give up this troubling habit.)
there's a metaphor about herself somewhere in there. she'll unpack it someday, when she has the time.
maybe it's rather hypocritical of her to lament his commitment to paperwork and office, given her own shackles. still, there's something poignant in his new adopted lifestyle, she thinks it feeds off the catharsis of his once big ambitions. of course, while she knows it's not, she can't help but feel like she's watching his downfall. from cavaly captain to bartender, from an energetic knight to sombre businessmen. arguably, it's a path of maturity and age. it's not something to pity, point at and lament on. maybe someday she'll teach herself to accept it.
but she thinks there's something melancholic in aging too, if it steals smiles and makes dreams of military greatness fade into unpolished medals, left in the recesses of the mind to gently slip into being forgotten forever.
diluc looks up from his desk briefly to meet her wandering eyes. the air between them is pregnant with an inexplicable strain, like an echo of unspoken tension from years shared, the distance festering between them but softened by the pretense of the diplomatic setting. years of chasing his windswept hair as it flies, catching on and tangling with grape vines as he runs carefree, training sword held high, smile spead wide. all of it seems to have dissolved between them, every lingering trace of friendship has hardened into compact business discussions. the little boy is a faded photograph.
really, her realisation isn't revolutionary, nor is it monumental. but the profound effect of accepting in her heart what her mind had already grasped filled her with a sudden surge of dread. she decides with inexplicable urgency that she absolutely must say something, the words spill from her like breath.
"you don't look well, diluc."
he's silent, unmoving and expression unchanged. she thinks he must not have heard her. debates whether to repeat herself or accept that their stagnant relationship will forever follow their professional script.
"i do hope i'm not coming across as rude acting grandmaster, but neither do you." his head has lifted to look at her, but his eyes still drift over the page.
maybe it's the closest to concern she'll get from this new man, the closest glimpse into what feeling remains for her in his heart. she straightens, smoothing her hands over her pants as she decides what to say. something to prolong this rare slip of vulnerability shared between them.
"it's jean" she blurts. he nods politely. "and... things have changed." she settles on, it's a sentiment he's sure to agree with. she's proved right when he hums thoughtfully, then moves back to his task. she fiddles with her cape, worrying her lip.
"you know, i never could have imagined you'd be the one to run the winery."
and she means it, with passion as overwhelming as his, with the ease he glided though combat with, there was no doubt he'd assume grandmaster. she feels dressed in stolen robes when she looks at the name plate "acting grandmaster" on her desk. when she does, she thinks back to wild red hair and graceful swordsmanship and tries to live up to the legend burned into her mind.
she's not sure if this is a concern, her glorification of him. she's quick to revere any honourable qualities in people, and she's learned he has many. she wonders what he would think of that, always so unaffected by what others think of him. does he laud anyone?
diluc is looking at her now properly, the scratching of his quill has paused and his face is unreadable.
"i don't know," he murmurs eventually, "maybe it's better this way."
they both knew that was a lie.
"how is work treating you?" he's seemingly engaged now, but it’s a hollow victory.
"it's busy," she muses, "quite dull at times." she pauses. "but it satisfies me."
his gaze feels strangely heavy on her.
"i see," he responds, "good on you, jean." the sincerity of his tone is heartening but the formality of the conversation suffocates, settling at the botton of her lungs. it feels practiced. like communication has become a reflex over a connection. her smile feels thin on her face.
often she's considered the merits of letting go, watching from afar as he ascends the next phase of his life. maybe it's progression, and she's the one falling behind by staying rooted in persuit of the knights. after all, everything he does is perfect. (she believes that with all of her heart)
it's difficult to organise the thoughts in her mind, to seek closure it's better to simply ask.
"are you satisfied diluc?"
diluc blinks.
"i..." he looks strangley unsure, out of place. that sort of hesitation humaises him, reminds her that he's made of flesh and blood and lives the same hours she does. she forgets that sometimes.
"i think i'll be fine."
it's not a reassurance really, nor is it a warrant for concern. she lets him keep his peace, but silently hopes he might reflect on it later.
...