Chapter Text
Since his father’s passing, Diluc Ragnvindr had learned that some fractures never fully mended.
Time had dulled the sharpest edges of that night—the rain, the firelight, the sound of steel—but it had not erased them. The memory lingered like a faint scar beneath skin: invisible to most, sensitive only when pressed. His falling out with Kaeya had carved that scar deep, and for years afterward Diluc had chosen distance over proximity, exile over coexistence.
Mondstadt had continued without him. Kaeya had remained.
When Diluc returned, he did not expect reconciliation. He expected civility at best. What he received instead was something far subtler: a slow, deliberate reconstruction of something neither of them dared to name.
It had begun with cooperation.
A joint commission that required efficiency rather than argument.
A brief exchange of information delivered without venom.
A nod after battle instead of a cold shoulder.
From there, it had grown cautiously. They could now hold conversation without the air thickening with unresolved accusation. They could stand on the same battlefield without reopening old wounds. On rare evenings, they could even sit across from one another at Angel’s Share in something approaching ease.
But the ease was measured. Careful.
There was a distance between them that had not existed in their youth—a quiet awareness of fault lines beneath every word.
Diluc accepted it. It was better than silence.
He knew Kaeya well enough to understand that ease, too, was a performance.
Kaeya Alberich, Captain of the Cavalry of the Knights of Favonius, was beloved in Mondstadt. He was charismatic, attentive, impossibly charming. He remembered names. He remembered preferences. He remembered weaknesses.
He wore that charm like armor.
Diluc recognized it because he had once been allowed to see what lay beneath it.
Flirtation was one of Kaeya’s most reliable tools.
It disarmed suspicion. It softened hostility. It gathered secrets from loosened tongues. It unsettled opponents and amused allies. And, perhaps most importantly, it ensured that no one looked too closely at the man wielding it.
Diluc had long since grown accustomed to being its target.
“Master Diluc,” Kaeya would purr, leaning one elbow against the polished counter, “if you glare at me any harder, I may begin to believe you missed me.”
“Unlikely,” Diluc would reply evenly, polishing a glass without looking up.
“Ah, cruel as ever. And here I was hoping for a warmer welcome from Mondstadt’s most handsome bartender.”
“You’re confusing me with someone else.”
Kaeya would laugh—low, delighted—and tip his glass in acknowledgment of a game well played.
It had been like that for years now. Predictable. Ritualistic. A dance neither of them acknowledged but both performed with precision.
Diluc never encouraged it.
But he never truly stopped it, either.
—
The change was subtle enough that he almost overlooked it.
One evening, Kaeya entered the tavern alone, uniform immaculate despite the dust clinging faintly to his boots. He offered the room a sweeping glance, acknowledged a few patrons with a tilt of his head, and took his usual seat at the bar.
“The usual?” Diluc asked.
“If you’d be so kind.”
No flourish. No lingering emphasis.
Diluc poured the cocktail, Death After Noon, and set it down before him. “Long patrol?”
“Mm. Hilichurls near Whispering Woods. They scatter quickly when confronted. Pity. I was hoping for more excitement.”
“You’re welcome to seek it elsewhere.”
Kaeya’s visible eye crinkled faintly at the edge. “Tempting.”
A pause followed—brief, unremarkable.
When Kaeya finished his drink, he rose smoothly and placed the appropriate amount of mora on the counter.
“Thank you for the hospitality.”
Diluc inclined his head. The door closed behind him with a muted click.
It was only several minutes later that Diluc realized what had been absent.
No teasing farewell. No light remark about being missed. No mischievous grin.
He dismissed it. Even Kaeya could forget a line now and then.
—
The pattern repeated.
A few nights later, Kaeya arrived with the Traveler and Paimon. The tavern was lively, conversation flowing as freely as the wine. Kaeya settled comfortably beside the Traveler, one arm draped lazily over the back of the chair.
“Master Diluc,” he called, “three drinks. Something refreshing for our little floating companion, if you please.”
“Paimon is not little!” Paimon protested. “And Paimon wants grape juice!”
“You heard her,” Kaeya said solemnly. “The lady has impeccable taste.”
Diluc poured without comment.
As he placed the drinks before them, Kaeya leaned closer to the Traveler and murmured loudly enough for half the table to hear, “Careful. If you stare at him too long, he may charge extra.”
The Traveler only smiled faintly.
Diluc shot Kaeya a flat look. “If you’re finished causing disturbances—”
“Perish the thought.”
Laughter circled the table.
Later, when Kaeya approached the counter to pay, he met Diluc’s gaze directly.
“Put the rest on my tab.”
“You actually intend to settle it this month?”
“Have a little faith.”
Diluc waited. Nothing followed.
No playful epithet. No deliberate brush of fingers as the mora changed hands.
Just a brief nod and a quiet, “Good night.”
Diluc found himself staring at the space Kaeya had vacated.
It was… strange.
He told himself it did not matter. Perhaps Kaeya had simply decided to temper the act. Perhaps he had grown bored.
—
It was the third encounter that lingered.
Rain fell steadily that night, blurring the lanternlight outside Angel’s Share into soft halos of gold. The tavern was crowded with citizens seeking warmth from the damp chill, conversation rising and falling in steady waves.
Diluc moved efficiently behind the bar, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms as he poured and polished with practiced precision.
The door opened to admit a gust of cool air and the faint scent of rain.
Kaeya stepped inside, shaking droplets from his cape with mild annoyance.
“Evening,” he greeted, voice smooth as ever.
“You’re late,” Diluc replied without looking up.
“Tragic, isn’t it? I’m certain you were counting the minutes.”
“I was not.”
Kaeya hummed faintly, neither agreeing nor contradicting him. He removed his gloves and slid onto a stool at the counter.
“The usual,” he said.
Diluc poured the cocktail and set it before him.
For a time, their conversation followed familiar paths.
“The Knights are stretched thin this week,” Kaeya remarked, swirling his glass idly. “A group of Treasure Hoarders has taken an unhealthy interest in the roads near Springvale.”
“Deal with them quickly,” Diluc said. “The farmers won’t tolerate disruption during harvest.”
“Always thinking of business.” Kaeya’s visible eye flicked up, assessing. “Some things never change.”
“Efficiency is not a flaw.”
“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.”
A faint smile ghosted across Kaeya’s lips—brief, contained.
Before Diluc could analyze it, a pair of young merchants approached the bar, clearly emboldened by wine.
“Captain Kaeya!” one called brightly. “You survived the rain.”
“Barely,” Kaeya replied solemnly. “It was a harrowing journey from the Knights’ Headquarters. I may require another drink to recover.”
Laughter followed.
One of the merchants leaned closer. “Is it true you once negotiated a trade agreement by threatening to duel the entire delegation?”
Kaeya rested his chin lightly against his hand. “Threatened is such a harsh word. I prefer encouraged through persuasive demonstration.”
“And did it work?”
“Marvelously.”
The merchants flushed beneath the weight of his attention.
Diluc observed the exchange with quiet detachment. Kaeya’s tone remained warm, engaging, perfectly calibrated. He leaned in when appropriate, withdrew when necessary. A masterclass in controlled charm.
When the conversation drifted elsewhere, Kaeya returned his focus to his drink.
The tavern’s fire crackled. Rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows.
“You’ve been busy as well,” Kaeya remarked casually. “Jean mentioned increased patrols near Dawn Winery.”
“They won’t be necessary if the Knights maintain proper coverage.”
“A jab?”
“A statement.”
Kaeya chuckled under his breath. “I’d expect nothing less.”
There was no edge to it. No hidden provocation. Just an observation shared between men who understood each other’s standards too well.
As the evening wore on, Kaeya finished his wine and signaled for another.
Diluc set the fresh glass down before him.
“For someone so concerned with efficiency,” Kaeya noted lightly, “you pour generously.”
“Consider it an investment in keeping you quiet.”
“Cruel.”
The word carried faint amusement—but lacked the teasing lilt Diluc had grown accustomed to.
Kaeya drank slowly this time.
When he finally stood, he adjusted his cape and reached for his gloves.
“Early patrol tomorrow,” he said. “The rain will make the roads treacherous.”
Diluc inclined his head. “Try not to slip.”
“Concerned for me?”
“For the paperwork Jean would leave on my counter if you did.”
A soft laugh escaped Kaeya—quieter than usual.
He placed mora on the bar.
“Good night, Diluc.”
Diluc met his gaze briefly. “Good night.”
Kaeya held his look for a fraction longer than necessary, expression unreadable, then turned and made his way toward the door.
The lantern above the entrance flickered as he stepped back into the rain.
The door closed.
Conversation resumed its steady hum.
Diluc returned to polishing glasses, movements precise and controlled. The evening continued as any other—orders filled, coins exchanged, laughter rising and falling like the tide.
And yet, beneath the familiar rhythm of the tavern, something felt faintly out of place.
He had always regarded Kaeya’s teasing as trivial. Predictable. An affectation to be tolerated.
And yet, in its absence, something felt off-balance—like a familiar rhythm interrupted mid-beat.
He told himself it was merely observation.
Nothing more.
Still, as the evening wore on and the rain softened to a whisper against the glass, Diluc found that he was listening for something that no longer came.