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The weather is pleasantly nice today, Dahlia thinks to himself, his boots clacking against the stone paths as he makes his way through the streets of the City. While it’s true that Mondstadt tends to have its winds blow through the land in gentle, warm breezes, ones that playfully flick at your hair in twisting thin-bare threads of teal, there are days where they seem to linger—brushing past your cheek, slowly, as if you were holding the fluttering petals of a Windwheel Aster.
Of course, this lovely weather brings even more excitement to Dahlia. There are those who use this as a chance to lounge out on their balconies, and sometimes, calling down to him for a chat; there are those who find themself hitting the tavern in a burst of enthusiasm, their tongues loosening terrifically fast; there are those who travel out into the wilderness, the clouds overhead luring them to gaze upon the skies; and there are even those who use the cooled breezes to get their adrenaline pumping (fighting, jogging, he’s seen every one!)—all of which, Dahlia would approach with a pep in his step, ready to dig his fingers into any trouble he could get.
But. Dahlia frowns. Someone has been strangely missing—or, rather, he’s been running to and fro for a majority of the day, and it’s hardly aligned with the fluttering about this one in particular likes to do), and who would he be if he didn’t go and find them? Mind made up, he pats down the wrinkles in his clothes, and continues further into the City—his sights set on the stalls set up within the markets, as surely a treat of some kind would be appreciated after hours of singing!
The rushing water of the fountain is what greets him first, followed by Margaret walking past him and towards the stairs, murmuring to herself, and only pausing to say hello to him. When he glances to the right, Sara is engaged in a thorough conversation with Eury, and when he glances to the left, Blanche is waving off a grateful Norma, a paper bag crinkling in her arms. He waits until she’s passing by Marjorie’s shop to approach Blanche himself (all the while keeping his tail carefully tucked down), who turns around from sorting the fruits in a basket to send him a warm smile.
“Dahlia, hello! What can I do for you today?”
“Good evening, Miss Blanche! Could I check out your apples?”
“Of course, of course,” She pushes the display closer to him. “Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you kindly!”
Leaning down, one gloved hand going to his chin in deep thought, he inspects the apples laid out for him. They're all lovely, and he would gladly eat each one here, but there is a certain type he’s hoping for… there is an apple with green creeping up from the bottom, there is an apple with shades darker than the others (bordering on purple), there is an apple with a shimmer brighter than those around it, there is an apple that seems to be leaning an maroon more than red, there is an—ah, that one!
Dahlia grabs at the apple with streaks of green peppering all around through the red. He tests the weight in his hand, before tossing it up, and catching it in a plunk. “I’ll be taking this one,” he tells her, smiling, as he pulls out the mora from his short’s pocket.
She takes them, he waves her goodbye, and with a twist of his heels, he sets off into the City once more. Teal threads, nearly invisible to the eye, twist around his form, and he reaches out to tug at one in an inquiring manner. It loops around his hand, hooking into the cuff of his sleeve, where it then happily jerks him in the direction of… the docks. Hm.
His boots clack noisily against the stone pathways as he jogs backwards, towards Blanche.
“Actually,” he says, the tip of his tail swishing, “would you happen to have any bird seeds around?”
——
Stepping through the side gate brings him the fresh scent of Cider Lake. He pauses, there, allowing it to wash over him—it lingers in the air, those crisp, bubbling breezes cloying around him. He inhales deeply, exhales, then peers his head over the stone wall. Usually, by now, on the near right of the gates, a boy named Arthur would be standing by the rusted sword lodged into the ground—but presently, there is no sign of him (or, more probably, he was persuaded into little treats or tasks for the day). Dahlia glances further up, towards the lower docks, where a group of doves have gathered around, who then flit into the sky when they hear him step closer. Further further up from that…
There, sat at the very edge of the docks, his frame caught by the dappling evening light, does Dahlia spot him; his cloak spilling out over the wooden planks in rippling fabrics, while his legs dangle just over the side, quietly plucking at the strings of his lyre with gentle hums. A little ways away from him—enough so that the ever slight swinging of his feet do not make any attempt to graze them—rests a flock of ducks in the water. With every honk or fluttering dip of their wings, he plucks at a new string, as if weaving a beautiful melody from their sounds.
Dahlia grins at the sight.
Carefully, the seeds inside rustling about in quiet tink-tinks, he raises the tip of his tail to coil around the bag. Then, just as carefully, he lowers his tail to his side, allowing the tip to hang near his waist. When he presses his boot to the wooden planks, next, his steps are deliberately light, making ascertain not to step between the cracks lest he risk them creaking even louder. Then, slowly, he approaches the bard, and refrains from wiggling his ears as he watches how the swaying of Cecil’s feet begin to move to the pattern of his humming.
Eventually, though—
“Well, well, well,” Dahlia hums, delicately crossing his legs beneath him as he takes a seat beside Cecil, “singing to your own choir, are we?”
In lieu of a reply, he is given an answer in the form of a huff, and the swaying of Cecil’s legs falls to a halt. “Hello, Herald,” the bard murmurs, sparing him all but a mere glance as he strums a tune across the strings—which, he realizes, match the pitch of the skittering droplets tinking against the water’s surface perfectly. “Come to bother me again, have you?”
Precisely so, he doesn’t say, but the grin dancing upon his lips begins to stretch wider. Instead, what leaves from him is, “Oh, how you wound me! You think I wouldn’t come bearing an offering for your little concert, first?”
As the last few words are uttered, he reaches over to plop the apple in the dip of Cecil’s lap. While it distracts the man into startling at the offending fruit, Dahlia slithers his tail behind him, to deposit the bag next to his thigh (fitting snugly against the emptied one already there), before zipping it back to his side and laying it gracefully over his legs. For his efforts, he’s rewarded with skeptical steel-grey eyes, as the apple is grasped into Cecil’s left hand to be brought up by his face—tilting it this way, and that way, whilst he examines it.
“Sweet?”
“With just the tinge of sour, of course.”
“Mm.. I see. Many thanks.”
Cecil, then, leans back on the planks, settling the lyre in his hands against his torso, and after a final glance to the fruit, places the apple back into his lap. Without jostling both the lyre and apple, he twists to grab at the bag of seeds. Deftly, his fingers moving swiftly, he undoes the knot, gently loosening the opening of the bag.
“Hands.”
Dahlia blinks at the request, his tail—that had been quietly rippling, in a manner similar to that of a cat’s—falling to an abrupt still. When all it results in is Cecil continuing to stare at him, one thick brow raised questioningly, he extends his hands out in an offering, palms up.
A pleased hum emits from Cecil’s throat, this time, and he tilts the bag closer, to pour half of the seeds into those awaiting palms. Once done, he tilts the bag up, cinches the rope wrapped loosely around the top ever slightly tighter, and settles the bag to his side. The sounds of rustling seeds then brushes by Dahlia’s ear, where, all but a moment later, Cecil proceeds to scatter a handful out onto the water’s surface—watching in keen interest as the ducks honk, then rush to peck and nibble at them. Splatters of droplets pitter patter against the dock. A few stray away from the wood, to instead, dot wet patches on their boots.
Quiet stretches between the two of them as they observe the ducks, each noise beginning to falter the more that they gobble up the food—save for the rhythmic thumping of Cecil’s index finger against the planks, following after a tune inside his head.
“What brings you out here?” Dahlia asks. “Usually, you’re allll the way over there—” here, keeping four fingers closed around the remaining seeds, he points over to the land across from them. The City’s main bridge leads out into the grassy plains (where the large Windrise Tree rests in), and the smaller, oak tree that sways over the other side of the lake has become a favored spot by Cecil over the ages (of course, not that Dahlia was taking notice of every single place that the bard frequented… which is a lie, he very much was.)
Belatedly, as his arm is retreating, he notices that one of the ducks has lifted their head up to stare intently at his hand. A fang peaks out from under his lip when he gives them a smile, and shakes out another scattering of seeds just for them—laughing to himself at how quickly the duck dives in the water to eat the seeds, their wings vigorously flapping as they do.
Cecil adds another finger to the thumping. “It was closer,” he says.
“To today’s performance?”
“Quite. And it is easier to hear the Windmills from here.”
“Ahh, I see!” Dahlia leans far into his space, his capelet gingerly brushing against the part of Cecil’s cloak that’s draped over his arm. “So this was for inspiration, then, was it?”
Cecil huffs, and shuffles his arm away—closer to himself—so that the capelet is not pressing down into the cloak’s fabric. He then, however, droops his shoulders down, and lightly knocks into Dahlia. “A poet never lets an opportunity pass, let alone one where the wind skittered past the blades such as it had.”
Then, inclining his head to the side ever slightly, and looking at Dahlia through the falling strands of his bangs, he continues on with, “You are not following routine, either. At this hour, you are still pestering any being that breathes inside the City.”
Oho? Dahlia’s ears flutter, and his tail thunks against his knees. He’s been keeping track, too!
“Well,” he says, shifting backwards, and places a hand over his heart, “could you blame me? I haven’t seen my favorite face all day.”
“Favorite face,” Cecil repeats, a dry puff of laughter to his voice. “So you did save all that pestering for me. Should I consider myself lucky, then?”
With an exaggerated sniffle, Dahlia raises a hand up to mime the action of wiping away a tear—and the more that he rubs just beneath his eye, the more that Cecil’s expression flattens into incredulity. “Your words truly do strike true,” he gushes, “you know just what to say. Why, yes, I would count this as lucky! It’s like the universe was determined to make us… ah, what is the saying? Two ships passing by in the night, today, and yet, here we are!”
Shaking his head at him, those midnight braids of his swishing ever so delicately across his shoulders as he does, Cecil directs his focus down to the ducks once more. He closes his fist around the seeds, idly juggling them in his palm to grab the attention of the two ducks that had drifted closer to them during their conversation, then sprinkles the seeds out. It leaves his palm empty, after, and there is a soft thunk as his arms slip to wrap around the wood of his lyre—the apple in his lap teetering for all but a moment from the movement.
“Complaining as though you had not lingered for confessionals.”
“In my defense, I was sure I was going to wrap that up in an hour.”
“Oh, certainly. Yes. Full faith on that.”
Dahlia ignores the doubtful tone.
“And how glad I am to have your vote of confidence!” His tail raises from their resting place over his knees, and slithers behind him, winding around to the other side of his legs, then flicks out at Cecil—the tip catching on the sagging fabric of his scarf, where it then slips between the crimson red folds, tugging half-heartedly, in a teasing threat to snatch it off of him. “It carries the weight of at least five men, you know.”
Cecil moves his shoulder away from Dahlia, using one hand to pull the scarf tighter around his cloak, whilst the other—to Dahlia’s delight—bats at the tail without much strength behind it. “You boast such flattery. I shall keep that in mind,” He drawls, eyeing the way in which the tail has yet to fully retreat, and narrows his eyes suspiciously when that has the heart-shaped tip wiggle at him. “Is that... all you have approached me for?”
“Oh no, no. Far from it, actually.”
His tail lurches forward, coiling around the apple, and presses the tip into its sparkling red skin to the point of leaving an indent. Once the apple has been firmly secured, he lifts it towards Cecil’s face; wagging it back and forth in an enticing manner.
“After all, there’s still snacks to eat!”
The apple is swayed once, then twice more, before Cecil grasps his lyre to settle it to the side, and points in the direction of where Dahlia’s vision is hung.
“And you shall be cleaning it. Your fur is everywhere.”
“My, my, how bossy…”
Despite his words, he still plucks the apple from his tail (and notices how Cecil scoots away from him in the corner of his eye), holding it by the top as he summons a small burst of water from his palm, pouring it over the fruit and drenching the planks underneath it a darker shade of brown. While Cecil seems to be preparing, Dahlia brings the apple up to squint at, rotating it slowly whilst he examines the skin’s surface—and upon spotting a stubborn strand of pink that remains stuck onto it, he douses another pouring of water over it, drenching the planks even further.
Once satisfied, he lets loose a triumphant noise, and glances up to Cecil. With a sharp tug to his lips, he begins to shake off the water, flicking those droplets at the cloak, the scarf, the tips of his braids, and parts of his cheek.
In response to this, Cecil lifts his right hand to his cheek, and uses his fingers to wipe off the remnants, gathering enough of them to flick back at the giggling Deacon. Then, with both his sleeves rolled up halfway, he gestures towards Dahlia with his left arm, and the blade of a pocket knife flashes out of the white blouse, only to be caught by Cecil’s hand. He holds it up expectantly to the apple, the sunlight rippling across and glinting off of the silver—and in doing so, points it directly at Dahlia's face.
“So that’s where you hid it away today?” Dahlia asks, handing the apple over to him. His tail thumps excitedly behind him. “I thought it’d be the garter.”
“Where everyone in the crowd could catch a glimpse of it? Much too obvious,” Cecil replies.
Hefting the apple in his hand to settle more comfortably, he takes the blade to the side, and begins to slice it into thin pieces. Soon, with quick, precise cuts, there are ten pieces laid in his palm—and Dahlia is all too happy to hold his hands out to receive five of those pieces, which Cecil tumbles into his grasp.
As he pops a slice in his mouth (what a delicious apple it is, too..), one of the ducks splashes another with its wings. He watches on, to see the splashed duck honk loudly (and quite indignantly, if he were to describe it) before it swivels in the water to peck at the air near the other offending duck. He leans forward, amused, and pops a second slice in his mouth—during which, he hears the rustling of Cecil’s clothes, alongside the bags, before a handful of seeds are tossed in the middle of the two riled ducks.
“So,” Dahlia starts, one ear fluttering, “what were the songs for today? I didn’t get to hear them.”
“Mm.” Cecil munches one of the slices. “A pity.”
“Awh, come onnn! One hint, give me one.” He pushes his shoulder into Cecil’s, crinkling the folds of his capelet into odd shapes. “Was it similar to Thus, to the Sun? That one is always good.”
“And horribly unfitting for days such as these!”
“Right, that’s for when it’s not so cloudy out, huh?”
“Or when the sun arrives after rain, yes,” Cecil takes a bite out of an apple slice. Chews it, swallows, then says, “That is… to say, ah, a young girl in the crowd came to me with a request. Asked me if I could play Maelstrom of Wisps.”
“Oh? How intriguing,” he hums. “Would it be, perhaps, because she was wanting a more whimsical tune for these softer winds? Is this where the inspiration came knocking? I remember you speaking of wanting more poetry for slower days.”
“I simply cannot believe you all are passing around that song still…” For a moment, he shuffles into the hood of his cloak, all but burying himself there. His braids slip in between the folds, with the puffs at the ends of them peeking over the top. Dahlia has half a mind to tell him that one of his favorite songs is the one Cecil had made up, half-asleep, slumping into Dahlia’s side as he mumbled on about a wolf prancing after a sheep. Then, as quickly as he had settled into it, Cecil pops out of the hood. “Well, yes, yes, something to that effect. I had hoped the Windmills could provide a… hm, fairytale-esque environment.”
“Did they?”
“… that would be when the ducks appeared.”
“Aha?” Dahlia fights to not guffaw. “Surely, they could add to the experience, no?”
“I have come out of it with two new songs in hand, certainly. Though, they seemed to enjoy it better when I was mimicking them.”
So the pitch perfect match was on purpose, then.
“Is that so? You would make for a rather cute duck, I admit!” He places a hand on the dock, using it to propel himself very far into Cecil’s space. He bats his eyelashes at the bard, and while he does, his tail comes up to brush underneath Cecil’s chin, the tip tapping at his jaw when he grazes past it. “Scoop you right out of the water, all fluffy and feisty..”
“Stop that,” Cecil hisses, snapping his left hand out to snatch—rather firmly—at his tail, stopping it completely in its flailing. As Dahlia feels a sharp jolt travel up the entirety of the limb, settling deep into his bones, his right hand is reached out towards Dahlia’s face, where fingers grip at his jaw in a tight grasp, and pull him close to Cecil; if he were to focus, he could feel how the nails are biting into his skin. “And stop doing that with your face.”
Dahlia blinks down at the hand squishing his cheeks. He, then, attempts to tilt his head the best he can in this position—pressing said cheeks further into Cecil’s palms. “Doing what with my face?”
“That!”
“Blinking..?”
“No,” Cecil sighs, “Fluttering.”
Oh? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You—” his fingers grip grows tighter, “—have an awful poker face. How anyone has not been able to see through your lies, is truly, quite confounding!”
Caught, red-handed! He lets the cheshire-like grin overtake his features, the ivory of his fangs glittering brilliantly in the light as they’re bared fully, and his eyes curl into crescents from how the smile pushes up on them. Those crescents soon droop, and his eyelashes flutter to half-lidded, as he levers his weight into Cecil’s grip, forcing the man to retreat by centimeters to adjust. “Is that so?” He murmurs, ears pinning, “And how, exactly, am I lying now?”
“I can see that uproarious joy clear in your gaze,” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath ghosting over Dahlia’s lips, “and it is irritating, how lovely you look with it.”
Then, he presses his mouth over Dahlia’s.
And oh, oh, oh—!
He throws his arms out, swinging them around Cecil’s shoulders, and folding them behind his head as he urges the bard closer into him. And move closer he does, the hand gripping his chin dropping to, instead, slip beneath his shirt, and clutch at where the waistband of his shorts meets bare skin. The other hand doesn’t remain idle, either; loosening its hold around his tail to trail its way upwards, until it slides its way into the strands of bangs that frame his jaw, the ones hung loosely over his ear.
Dahlia’s grin does not lessen nor fall from his mouth, no—in fact, the more that Cecil insistently presses, the more that it grows; something of which earns him a sharp bite to his bottom lip. A bout of giggles bullies its way out of his throat, and he can’t help himself from falling back to slump solidly onto the docks’ platform, dragging Cecil down on top of him. It earns him a slight gape, then a momentary parting of lips, where he rushes to return the bite given to him. His fangs gleefully sink into the flesh, nibbling, drawing blood—tiny dots of red swelling up over the chapped skin, and dripping downwards in a languid flow.
In a halting jerk, as if debating, Cecil pulls away; just enough to level him with a glare—the indignation behind it is ruined by the dark flush riding high on his cheeks. Red streaks across his lips, and a bead of blood leaks onto his chin.
“You—” he starts, voice rasping, “are trying to eat me—”
“You bit me first!”
“Because I was trying to—get that grin off you—!”
“Take what you dish out,” he tells him, pausing to lick at the blood still on his fangs. He wonders if he could get away with canting up to catch the bead before it falls off the slope of Cecil’s jaw, and lands onto his vest (and hm, maybe, if it managed to be caught by the crimson stoles strewn over it, he might not have such a time trying to wash it out.) Though, with the way Cecil’s nose scrunches up, and his hands tighten their grip, the idea seems to be thrown out the window—he’d just be batted back onto the platform again if he tried now..!
He makes an attempt, anyhow. His stomach flexes, and he leans—
“You are so—inconceivably—augh! By winds, I ought to have pushed you in the lake,” Cecil grumbles, and just as he thought, the hand over his waist digs its nails into him, before it's soon joined by the other hand.
“You wouldn’t. You likeee me,” he jeers, loud gusts of laughter leaving him in-between each word, his tail thudding wildly against the planks. “You like me so much!”
“Suddenly, I am having regrets.”
“Ah-ah,” Dahlia slinks an arm off of Cecil, bringing it to his chest to wag a finger at the bard. “The line’s already crossed, I fear! You’ve let me into your space, you let me feed you without thinking I poisoned it, and now, you’ve kissed me. You just signed yourself up for a lifetime of Deacon Dahlia, no take backs.”
“That could easily be changed,” Cecil says, darkly. He sits on his haunches, and positions his hands to roll Dahlia off the dock’s ledge—
“Wait, wait!” Dahlia laughs, breathless. Proudly, and petty, he scurries to wind his tail around Cecil’s legs, followed by a frantic scrambling to latch his hands onto the frilly sleeves of Cecil’s blouse. If he’s going down, he’s absolutely bringing this bard down with him. “I’ll be good!”
“Mhmm.”
“Cross my heart—I’ll be good! A perfect angel! No tricks!”
“No tricks, he says. As though he does not covet them,” Cecil mumbles. The hands leave from their place, and lay themselves over his waist once more. “Will you allow me t-to… kiss you proper, now?”
He thinks if he mentions the stutter in his words, Cecil might genuinely throw him into the lake. So, clacking his mouth shut, he sends a bright smile up at him. It has Cecil settling more comfortably on Dahlia’s calves, leaning over to return his right hand into the pink strands of his hair (which have become tousled from their little scuffle). Whilst he does so, the long, draping fabric of his cloak swoops across his form to follow after his arm, all but blanketing the two of them.
Distantly, he hears his tail thump again.
The sound increases tenfold when Cecil slots his lips against Dahlia’s.
——
(“Oh,” he breathes, head turned towards the water as Cecil nuzzles at his neck, “we dropped the apples into the lake.”
Cecil pauses. Lifts his own head, to swivel it, and stare at the scene unfolding in front of them; just as Dahlia said, two of the ducks—the ones who had nearly gotten into a fight earlier—are tentatively pecking at the skin of the same apple slice. The others, trailing a little behind them, are watching with a visible curiosity in their eyes.
“Ah.” Suddenly, that red scarf flutters over his face, as Cecil quickly pushes himself up from the docks. “That is not good—I thought—please, shoo, shoo! You cannot eat it like that!”)
——
Later, when the ringing of the Church’s bell echoes all around Mondstadt City, and he’s forced to scamper out of Cecil’s hold, forced to sprint out of the docks, then down the streets, he runs past an equally fleeing Rosaria. Except, when he passes by her, his sprint slowing from a full blown run to a brisk jog, thank you very much, he notices how she glances over at him, before doing what seems to be a double-take.
“Good god,” she exclaims. “What the hell went and mauled you?”
“Eh?”
“There—” She grimaces, her shoulders hiking up. Claws clacking as she gestures to her chin, she points to him, and drawls, “Blood everywhere. You might wanna cover that up, unless you want Barbara fretting.”
Dahlia lifts a hand to his chin, lightly touching the tips of his fingers at the area. He had, beforehand, hastily scrubbed a gloved hand across his face—and yet, something distinctively wet spreads onto his hands, revealing itself to be a mixture of dried and freshly spilled blood (some of which he knows for certain isn’t his own) when he pulls his hand back. He tilts it sideways, the blood shimmering, and out of the corner of his eye, he can spot how Rosaria slumps.
“Aouh..”
Would it be weird if he licked it up now? Rosaria has seen him worse, right..?
He holds it up to his face, flicking his tongue out to press against the closest bloodstain. Her expression has, somehow, gotten flatter. Well, he thinks mournfully, closing his hand into a fist, there goes that.
“Aha.. um. Oops?” With his non bloodied hand, he scratches at the back of his neck, brushing at the baby hairs there. “Me and—”
“No, no. Stop. I don’t want to hear it.” She jerks a thumb in the direction of the Cathedral, the metal of her claws tink-tinking, and busies her other hand in carefully pulling at the bottom lids of her eye (the one not hidden away behind her bangs) in a quiet despair. “Just... go.”
Dahlia giggles at her, mentally shelves this away in things that Rosaria is 100% going to hold over my head one day, and turns to leave.