Work Text:
There may be some things you’d expect from the hosts on the famous Youtube channel of the production studio The Steambird, home to the viral web-series Teyvat Unsolved.
One of them might be about Diluc Ragnvindr looking like a bitter, lonely man that chugged about five miserable mugs of coffee as black as night every day to fuel his doubts about the unknown. Another one might be about his companion, who looked far too dignified for the amount of confidence he has in the existence of most conspiracy theories, except—
Well, you’d be half-right — but only if you were referring to the True Crime season.
Today, however:
“—this week on Teyvat Unsolved: Supernatural, we look into the history of Higi Village and the reputed existence of the Tatarigami as part of our investigation into the question: are spirits actually real?”
The camera pans to one of the two people at the desk, amber eyes flicking from the cup of tea in his gloved hands to make eye contact with the camera. It’s a running gag for the audience, for the people that had stuck around since the very start: Zhongli’s treasured tea cup seems like it never runs out of tea.
Zhongli subtly shakes his head over the rim, sips on his beverage of choice, before the camera cuts back to Diluc, who's nursing his own cup of coffee in hand—always light roast coffee, with a lot of milk to stave off the bitterness.
Grown man trying to hide his lactose addiction, Kaeya had exasperatedly told him once, before Diluc found himself cornered with an abomination of a latte shoved into his hands. What are you? Forty, balding and trying to keep it hip with the kids?
Unfortunately, Dori, their manager, had seen it go down in person, so he's required to hold a free drink of his choice every session in the office. At least it’s not a mug of cold milk with two sad scoops of instant coffee on top.
It doesn’t bother Diluc. It’s nothing more than a matching gag, after all.
Well – nothing more if you weren’t Diluc.
But if you did happen to be Diluc Ragnvindr and you had to sit right beside him as you recorded the same segment for every episode of the past seven seasons you've spent together, you could’ve sworn that Zhongli’s eyes had crinkled at the corners every time before he shook his head. You could've sworn on your own life that he had smiled right behind his cup of tea as he raised it towards his mouth, like he knew something everybody else didn’t. Like he understood something no one else could.
Maybe if Zhongli’s all-knowing gaze wasn’t a little on the side of amused instead of just being absolute in his conviction, he wouldn’t need to be suspicious at all. But it clearly wasn't meant to be. Zhongli just had to be partnered with a determined, miserable man fueled by spite and tempted by fate to be against whatever stance he had chosen on any particular subject.
It really was surprising to see the unprecedented boom in popularity for what started as a cheap iteration of the hundreds of ghost-hunting shows recorded before them. Maybe it was about the production value, or the variety of the locations they’d pick up—but if there’s one thing the internet and their many, many glowing reviews can agree on, it’s about their dynamic of being silly doddering fools that had worked wonders for their audience’s attention span.
Diluc slightly shakes his head to clear his mind, just before the camera cuts back to his part. Unfortunately, he doesn't pull it off as discreetly as he wanted to—if Zhongli's careful side-eye is any indication.
In the back of his mind, the thought lingers. Was it really that amusing to watch two grown men snipe at each other over subjects like ghosts?
Not really. He doesn’t quite agree with the consensus.
Especially since he's one of the two men. Especially since it’s his job.
Then, he thinks, irked, because Zhongli would’ve found his entire dilemma funny.
01. WATCH: The Horrific Tragedy of Higi Village
“I’m not touching it,” Diluc says.
Zhongli only hums, humoring him as they stare at the sword, tarnished and brittle, the tip of the blade buried in the ground in front of the tree. “I would.”
Diluc snorts. It’s never that simple with him. “There’s an if attached to that somewhere.”
“You know me so well.” The man flashes him a smile, almost teasing. Something about the audacity of it makes Diluc look away. “I offer you this deal: I will hold on to it for as long as you want, but only if you go first.”
“I’d take you up on the deal,” Diluc says as he pokes at the dull blade, rust spots eating away at the metal, and raises an eyebrow at the absurd bet that he knows he'd definitely take once provoked. “If I wanted to catch tetanus.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Zhongli exasperatedly says, and Diluc would’ve taken him more seriously if he had seen the man get sick once in the past three years they’ve worked together. Not even a common cold dares to make its presence known to Zhongli, no matter what unsanitized hellhole they’ve managed to find themselves in. “You needn’t touch the blade itself. The sword has a hilt.”
“And why would I touch the hilt of a sword that’s been out here for hundreds of years?”
["...now, one of the most active areas would be the sword hilt found underneath a massive maple tree in the middle of the village. It is said to be connected to a special cleansing ceremony that supposedly kept the effects of the Tatarigami at bay…"]
“Come on, Diluc.” Trailing behind them with the field crew, Mona, the lead writer, adds: “It's not going to kill you."
"If you're sure," Diluc shrugs. “I’d be honored to give you the opportunity to touch this sword first.”
“May I remind you that it is not part of my job description,” Mona helpfully points out, leveling a sharp smile in his direction. “It’s yours. And it's for the views.”
Zhongli solemnly nods beside him. “For the views,” he echoes, right hand clasped close to his chest like he sympathized with Diluc’s concerns. It would've been believable if not for the pleased, shit-eating twinkle in his eyes. "It is our job to make the viewers happy, Diluc."
"Alright, alright." Diluc throws his hands up in surrender, to the cheers of the entire crew, and marches closer to the blade like a condemned man walking to his execution. Bloodthirsty is what the field crew is. "Enough of that - I'm doing it. But mark my words: if anything happens to me, it's on your head."
"Sure." Zhongli allows, amused at the nonexistent threat leveled at him. “Nothing will happen to you.”
“Whatever you say.” Diluc dismisses. “With my luck, something just might.”
"Nonsense," Zhongli obstinately says. “Nothing would.”
"If something did happen, you’re personally in charge of Arundolyn.” Diluc shoots back at him as he slides his sleeves up in preparation of touching the hilt, opting to ignore Zhongli's nose scrunching up in what Diluc thinks is some form of offense; a little offended at the idea that Diluc didn’t believe him, which is absurd. Diluc can’t even count the number of times he hadn’t believed in Zhongli for less. “I'll make sure the insurance company goes for blood."
The crew collectively rolls their eyes. Like Diluc hadn’t poured his blood, sweat, tears and a sizable amount of his inheritance into growing this studio ever since he joined over a decade ago. Like he wouldn't do anything for Teyvat Unsolved — the Steambird’s magnum opus.
From the back, Lumine huffs as she stares straight at him. It's like staring into the eyes of a judge that knows both you and your worst nightmares inside and out. "Do your worst."
Despite it all, Diluc can feel a gaze burning a hole through his back. He can already imagine it—that certain glint in the other’s eyes, a gold brighter than the glitter of mora, as Diluc turns to face him, stubborn mouth set in a hard line.
He lifts his eyes to the heavens in a silent prayer, because archons. Sometimes it tends to go like this: Zhongli would say something blithe, say it so matter-of-factly, that Diluc has no choice but to argue against him because he's secretly twelve at heart, and then they'll be locked in a perpetual state of verbal combat for hours.
“Zhongli.” Diluc deadpans, back still turned to avoid the prospect of an argument. “I was joking.”
Somewhere out there, some gracious bastard eventually listens to his silent prayers, because Aether lets out a snort loud enough to be heard from where they’ve set up their makeshift set, and whatever it is that happens between him and Zhongli passes. "You meant Aru … as in Arundolyn? You named your pet tortoise after the national hero of Mondstadt?”
(A bastard of a god had answered his prayer, alright. Diluc indignantly turns to defend the last scraps of his dignity. He thinks: how does he know I have a pet tortoise, receives a revelation, and curses Kaeya's name out–all before his fingers grip the sword with held breath.
Nothing happens when he holds on to the hilt like he's at his first frat party, ready to let go of those questionable red solo cups at the first opportunity presented to him. After fifteen seconds pass with nothing still happening, he lets go with a sigh of relief.
Well, nothing except for the thin gleam of translucent gold that wrapped itself around the rust-spotted blade when he had gripped the hilt. Nothing except for Zhongli's heavy golden gaze on him, softened by something that can't be named just yet.
Too bad Diluc doesn't notice it.)
02. WATCH: The Haunting of Wangshu Inn
[...the ghost girl in wangshu inn?
you mean dusky ming?
well, someone seems
familiar with the urban legend
care to share with the class?
urban legend? what are you talking about?
dusky ming has always been a polite young lady.
i’ve been told that that's the usual form she takes but
miss dusky ming has got to be older than even you, zhongli]
The spirit box sessions are undeniably a fan-favorite segment. That’s why Dori had made it mandatory — she had underlined the section title twice in red when she went over their earliest plans for the video outlines, and ordered them the best spirit box there was in the business; she's here to make sure the entire thing generates money, after all. And fanservice, no matter how much of an inconvenience it is, does pay the bills.
Still, a spirit box is still a spirit box, regardless of Dori's intentions, and it's doing its best at what the previous versions of it had managed to accomplish before, which is slowly driving Diluc into insanity.
Zhongli is an entirely different story. Zhongli loathes the spirit box on a spiritual level, maybe even more so than he despised seafood. He had made his hatred for it clear during their very first session together, where Zhongli had loudly voiced how much he'd prefer it if they made these sessions quick, please. Something to do with having sensitive ears, he had explained.
It's why Diluc takes care to lower the volume as he fiddles with the knobs on the spirit box, even when Zhongli insists that his tolerance for the damned thing has gotten better. It's a routine long memorized from the amount of time they’ve spent together. Besides, it’s not like Diluc likes having to listen to the spirit box for extended periods of time himself, all while hoping the radio spits out something coherent for the sake of the audience.
He had been so sure that the spirit box was a scam. He never expected anything concrete to come from it.
So when the spirit box starts skipping through the radio channels and something coherent actually comes out, Diluc violently swears like a sailor and jumps, almost falling over their makeshift log bench.
Beside him, Zhongli blinks as they sit through the loud aftermath that followed a particular message, and leans closer to the spirit box like a madman. "I'll… find–" he frowns. "–you’ll find who, miss?"
It's not convincing enough to fool Diluc. Maybe it was to the audience, and maybe even to the crew, but not to Diluc. Diluc eyes Zhongli with his brows furrowed, while the man tries to avoid his gaze in vain.
He clearly wasn't the only one who heard that. Dusky Ming will come find you had been clearly said. So why would Zhongli leave that out?
Realizing he's still in front of a camera, Diluc opts to sit back down with whatever remains of his dignity and wait for Zhongli to break the silence, to say something about how Diluc scared easily, or how he fell for such an obvious prank.
But Zhongli doesn't do anything. He just stares intently at the spirit box, as if he'd make the damned thing talk through the force of his sheer will.
"Well, that–that was something.” Diluc lamely says instead. It’s a drastic understatement, but he makes do anyway. What do you even say to something so ominous? “We’re turning this off in ten seconds. Do you have any last words to say, Miss Ming?"
The giggle that comes right after is crystal clear, and the hairs on the back of Diluc’s neck begin to stand up. It’s shrill and girlish and awful as fear grips him. Even Zhongli, an absurd yet consistent skeptic of the supernatural, subtly squares his shoulders as the spirit box shrieks with static.
I want to play a game, Dusky Ming says, unnaturally distinct against the static. The words come out sounding cheerful, for some god awful reason, as she giggles for a few seconds more, and thank archons that Zhongli was quick enough to turn the damned thing off before the spirit box bursts into static again.
Diluc slowly regains eye contact with Zhongli, who he finds is somehow closer to him than he had been fifteen minutes ago, and stares at the space between them.
Or a lack thereof. Zhongli’s shoulders knock against his, his side warm with Zhongli's presence, body heat felt through all the layers of clothing he always wore.
This is it. Diluc's hysterical and he's lost his mind.
Nobody makes a noise. Zhongli looks like he’s weighing his words, about to come up with some irrefutable but absolute bullshit of an explanation—
“ ...hey, fellas. ” Xinyan, one of the sound engineers, coughs into the walkie-talkie, since the site the crew chose for the set was a couple of meters away from where they currently were. “Tell me, were those rocks behind ya glowin’ before, or…?"
Diluc whirls around.
“...it could be just LEDs within the rock,” Zhongli mildly offers as everyone stares at the faintly glowing symbol carved into rock, elegant strokes illuminating the darkness. Still, nobody makes a move to check, definitely shaken by the thing, the ghost—whatever it is they had heard through the radio.
Strangely enough, the symbol was etched in pale gold on three different rocks. They just so happened to be in the right spot to see all three pieces of the sigil as a unified piece.
Xinyan indistinctly mumbles a curse into the mic. “Well, I’ll be. This ain’t my area of expertise,” Then, fainter, like she'd leaned further away from the mic, “Hey, Albedo!”
“Yes, Xinyan - I saw it." The radio crackles as Albedo, the team researcher, calmly answers into his own mic. “I believe it's most likely something reflective to warn people off. It wouldn’t reflect well on the owners of the hotel if people could just vandalize or tamper with the rocks bearing a witness sigil, after all." A pause. "No, Zhongli. That was not an invitation to touch the rock."
Zhongli smoothly retracts his hand, looking about as guiltless as a toddler who fully understood what crimes it had committed. “Right," he says slowly, before standing up, clearing his throat. Upon further inspection, he doesn’t seem bothered all too much by whatever just went down—just resigned to finish the solo investigation segment. “I’ll be going first, yes?”
Right. They do need to get a move on, lest they fall behind the meticulously planned schedule done by their manager, Dori—and personally, Diluc’s too young to die in her hands.
Diluc nods, too slowly and too stiffly for his liking, in Zhongli’s direction—too out of it to bring his game face back, and hands over a flashlight. “Good luck.”
(Diluc kicks a piece of chaos circuitry away from the foot of what Zhongli had called the remains of a long since defunct Ruin Hunter. “This is suspiciously recent.”
“How do you say so?”
“One of the components is sparking, Zhongli.”
For a good amount of time, he doesn't respond. Diluc taps on the mic of the walkie-talkie once again to catch the other’s attention.
“...that can’t be," Zhongli’s belated reply comes to the radio. "It’s been there for longer than Wangshu Inn itself has been built.”
"Sure.” Diluc side-eyes the Ruin Hunter in front of him. “You also said it was a defunct Ruin Hunter, not a wreck of one."
There's another delicate silence, though shorter than the last. "Perhaps somebody finally had the foresight to disassemble an old relic of war."
Disassemble. Yeah, right.
Disassemble makes it sound like it was a LEGO set taken apart by a small, gentle child. But there's long gashes running down the side of the tarnished metal, the iron sheet ripped open to reveal its charred insides. The poor thing looked like it was mutilated to pieces.
Diluc stares incredulously into the walkie-talkie, as if it would reveal the secrets behind Zhongli’s nonsensical train of thought. Did they even look at the same thing? "Disassembled with what? A murder weapon?" )
03. WATCH: The Wretched Wreckage of Seiraimaru
[...the Seirai Rebellion of more than seven hundred years ago was led by the bandit king of Seirai Island — Ako Domeki. One of the most noteworthy events in this rebellion happened in the middle of its last battle, where a sudden violent storm was said to have broken out and devastate both sides. The cause of this storm is unknown, but many former locals believe it was accomplished by a nameless shrine maiden in the belief it would assist the war effort. One of the many casualties of this skirmish would be Seiraimaru, the flagship of Ako Domeki’s fleet…]
Yae Miko is a ruthless woman.
She's terrifying enough that she has Zhongli close to fidgeting, or whatever habit he has in equivalent. Diluc thinks he’s witnessed maybe two people who have had Zhongli in this exact state of fear in his short, meaningful life—which are Lisa Minci, after a brief tour in the Favonius Library, and Lady Ningguang of the Liyue Qixing—and makes a quick prayer in the hopes the three never cross paths.
Morbidly, the entire crew watches the ensuing mental death match as the two engage in a silent conversation. Yae sits comfortably in her chair, legs crossed, slowly fanning herself with an exquisitely crafted folding fan, in contrast to the stiff line of Zhongli’s shoulders, his neutral gaze tight with something.
Home base or not, most of the crew bets in favor of Zhongli’s impending loss—Diluc included.
Zhongli does end up looking away first, uncharacteristically flustered. Diluc is in the process of raising his eyebrows to make fun of him a little, as everybody else in his position would do, when smug eyes the color of lightning shift away to land on him.
Suddenly, Diluc can see his life flash before his eyes.
Ah. Now he can sympathize with Zhongli.
“I understand your crew has a certain arrangement for the solo investigation segments, Mister Ragnvindr." Yae Miko says as the fan snaps shut. "But I believe it would make for a better experience if you went first.”
She phrases it like a suggestion, when it is anything but. When he glances at the rest of the on-field production staff for their opinion, Lumine simply shrugs. There's no room for a counter argument here.
So Diluc acquiesces, in the name of peaceful resolution and an instinct to survive. Armed with one of Yoimiya's headcams and with all the fear of God both Lisa and Lady Ningguang have instilled in him, Diluc follows as she stands, and gestures for a cranky Zhongli to come with.
It’s a long, tense trek to the actual site of the shipwreck.
"Well, I certainly won't pretend to understand what possessed you to look at old Seirai Island when you could have seen a much more beautiful sight in Chinju Forest instead," she huffs, breaking the silence. "Surely, you must have known there would be nothing much to see here."
"The Asase Shrine is one of Inazuma's most popular tourist spots, Guuji Yae," Zhongli tightly says. “I’m sure you’re well-aware of that. ”
"But you're not here for the shrine, are you?" Yae counters, as they walk past the viewing deck - the designated spot for tourists. “You're here for that old shipwreck."
It's true. Only hikers with masochistic tendencies and cat lovers come to Seirai Island for Amakumo Peak and the Asase Shrine, respectively. Seiraimaru, on the other hand, is a shipwreck rammed into the side of a hollow cliff on the coast. It's literally a tourist death trap.
The viewing deck was intentionally placed far from the shipwreck after all. The Yashiro Commission hasn't allowed a tour for ages, and yet…
"We've been to Seiraimaru's sister ship on the Haar Islands before," Diluc answers as they approach the hulking wreck. Like Higi Village, Seirai Island is a place just as full of ghosts. "Sentiment got us here, I suppose. I thought it would have been respectful to visit Seiraimaru after we went to see Kosekimaru."
"Of course." Yae's gaze does not soften, but there is something vaguely approving in it as she stares straight over his shoulder to look at Zhongli. "I did tell your companion that Kosekimaru's in much better form than old Seiraimaru, but you're already here, aren't you?" She sneaks an unreadable glance over his shoulder. “Funny how you mention sentiment. It's always been about some form of bringing him home with you, isn't it, Morax?"
Diluc doesn't notice Zhongli freezing in his tracks. What he does notice are the hairs on the back of his head prickling as he stares up at the entirety of Seiraimaru's remains: the hollow cabins, dead barnacles hanging on to the rotten hull, the rusting metal smelling of sea salt, the stillness of the air.
"Guuji Yae," Zhongli hisses.
Has the temperature dropped…?
"Morax? Like Liyue's archon?" Diluc absently remarks, inspecting the hull, damaged beyond repair. Once upon a time, the Seiraimaru was unparalleled – its full, untarnished glory once marking the pages of many history books. It’s a somber realization; for all he’s complained about the shipwreck, it’s still a momentous piece of history for other people. "Is that your middle name?"
It takes Diluc an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that none of them have answered him.
Somehow, it feels much more painful to face them.
Yae Miko's too graceful to be caught dead with anything resembling a cackle, but this one is close enough. She hides a delighted smile behind her fan, eyes alight with something he’s not privy enough to know. In delight of what, exactly? "I like him."
For reasons he will not admit out loud, her bizarre expression of delight pales in comparison to Zhongli's stony expression. Painted in the pinks and gold of the dying light, Zhongli looks like a man snatched from a master artisan’s oil painting, forlorn and lost in the modern day. The dusk casts shifting shadows across his face and silhouettes him in gold, the sea breeze sweeping his hair.
In a tone that absolutely does not match the words he says, the man asks so gently, as if not to scare Diluc with the revelation that comes with the next seven words he would say: “Do you have a problem with it?”
Diluc slowly blinks once. And then twice, for good measure.
“Why would I have a problem with it?” Diluc frowns, deeply baffled by this turn of events. “It’s just your name.”
(Yoimiya, the technician in charge of both the camera and lighting, stares unbelievingly at Zhongli, currently rendered too stunned to speak.
Under her gaze, Zhongli resembles a dejected, miserable cat left out in the rain, coat hung over his arm, covering a suspicious bundle of cloth.
The thing is: shaky footage of the solo investigations are kind of Diluc's thing. No amount of etiquette classes taken inside of the airy, picturesque memory of the old Ragnvindr Estate can replicate the grace that Zhongli naturally carries with him. His steady, calm gait offers a great perspective of his experiences, which is much more valuable in post-production compared to Diluc's tendency to jump at the smallest change in his general vicinity.
Diluc has mostly made his peace with it.
But today is a strange day made even stranger by the fact that Zhongli's solo investigation footage is in shambles. Diluc would be impressed by the absolute chaos Zhongli managed to capture inside the shipwreck if not for the fact that he's a bit concerned.
“I think he might be having a bad day,” Yae breezily chimes in as she watches over Yoimiya’s shoulder as Zhongli’s footage plays, slowly fanning herself.
What an understatement. It's a cold week in hell.
"Mister Zhongli, what did you even do in there," Yoimiya whispers in disbelief, cradling the chipped helm cam in her lap. It's the one he brought to the solo investigation–which is technically not a solo investigation since Yae had to lead them around by the nose. "There's almost no usable footage that post-production can get out of this."
She clicks through the helm cam, head in her hands. It's Yoimiya’s job to make sure post-production has good enough footage to work with, especially since she can't accompany them on their solo investigations. There's a good reason for her to be absolutely horrified.
Yae offers her an embroidered napkin in comfort. Diluc watches as Yoimiya–despite her state of shock–takes the offered item, sets it down in her lap and replies with a polite thank you, Lady Guuji.
Zhongli coughs into his fist, embarrassed. "I deeply apologize, Yoimiya. Would you want me to redo my part of the investigation?
"While I agree that a redo would be priceless, you were offered a limited, one-time tour inside," Yae drawls, punctuating it with the loud snap of her fan drawing shut. "I'm afraid the Yashiro Commission can't grant you another tour, with how much damage you've managed to accomplish during your short time inside."
At that, Zhongli stills.
"Zhongli." Diluc says, bewildered. Doesn't matter if the waiver they signed stated it would not hold them accountable for causing damage to the interior of the ship, in exchange for not being held liable in the case an exceptionally unfortunate soul falls through one of the worn planks and fucking dies. "What did you do."
The silence is shifty.
"I may have," he says through his teeth. "fallen through the floor."
The two recoil in alarm, while Yae doesn't even bat an eyelash.
It's just that… Zhongli doesn't even look injured. No sign of any traumatic head wound, or an aching back. Diluc supposes that if you hadn't witnessed it personally, you wouldn’t even be able to tell at all.
"...thrice," Zhongli admits, to Yoimiya's growing horror, clutching the suspicious bundle of ruined cloth hanging on his arm closer. "As Guuji Yae has generously told me, I may have heavy feet."
Heavy feet? Diluc narrows his eyes at Zhongli, who avoids his gaze like his life depends on it. Heavy feet and Zhongli? What nonsense is he spouting?
Yae rolls her eyes. "I'm sure that's what you meant to do, Morax," she says, uncaring of the tortured plastic case of the helm cam creaking in his hands. It turns out Yae's really fond of using Zhongli's middle name, having been acquaintances for a long time.
And for some reason, Zhongli hates it.
Diluc cannot fathom why, but he makes a valiant effort to snatch the case away from his grasp before Yoimiya looks up and witnesses Zhongli's poor treatment of her modified equipment yet again.)
04. WATCH: The Haunted Halls of Dar Al-Shifa
Dar Al-Shifa is not only a haunting relic from a period of time long gone, but a notorious paranormal investigation site.
Notorious as in it would be usually on the first result of a simple Google search looking for a list of the ten most haunted places in Teyvat. It’s notorious enough that it boasts a reputation for the many witnesses insisting that the ghost sightings within its walls were real–reported by hardcore skeptics and spiritual mediums alike–and the abnormal amount of paranormal activity that had been recorded within the area.
Part of its demand comes from the ruins' strange charm: Dar Al-Shifa, not only offers its guests the very low, low chance of encountering the supernatural, but it also offers a poignant perspective into the horrific past.
Too bad only lucky people get to witness it.
Now, lucky in this context means you’re either rich, influential or possess enough connections to secure a spot in Dar Al-Shifa’s exclusive waiting queue. Unfortunately for them, it's notorious enough that even Diluc, heir of the renowned Dawn Winery, and Dori Sangemah Bay had to fight tooth and nail to book a single night there.
Even then, it was exclusive enough that they had to book it three seasons ago. It’s been long enough that Diluc had forgotten about it until Dori showed up with the paperwork, and mentioned something about Zhongli calling in a favor from one of his old acquaintances back in college who currently served as a high-ranking scribe within the Sumeru Akademiya, and now—
Now, they’re here.
For a location so notorious, a place notorious enough that Diluc has had half a mind to sneak holy water (courtesy of his own connections with the Church of the Favonius) into Zhongli’s travel bag, and even Zhongli didn’t vehemently protest at the idea like Diluc expected him to, Diluc—
Diluc finds himself yawning.
“Sit down,” Zhongli tells him, frowning, except it is less of a suggestion and more of a command. Diluc also belatedly comprehends that whatever it is that’s keeping him from advancing forward isn’t a ghost masquerading as a brick wall, but rather Zhongli himself. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
The answer is none. Naturally, he’s not going to admit that.
Diluc squints at his vague silhouette, momentarily halted, with that stupid black cashmere overcoat of his blending into the dark of the night. Zhongli, of all people, should know what happens when Diluc is given an order he does not want to follow. “What are you talking about.”
Unlike the crew that opted to hit the hay as soon as they could, he had made the dumb decision to explore Dar Al-Shifa a bit more and take a closer look at some points of interest that caught Diluc’s attention earlier. Zhongli, meanwhile, is only here to make sure he doesn’t die falling into a ditch, having muttered something about Diluc and being unreasonable as he grabbed his overcoat on the way out.
Diluc hadn't even asked for his company, but the gesture makes him feel warm, despite the bite of the roaring winds. Maybe it's why Diluc had chosen to tune him out during their walk in a rare moment of grace.
This up close and personal, though — Zhongli is much harder to ignore.
“You’re yawning,” Zhongli says, brows furrowed, like it's not normal to be yawning at this ungodly hour of the morning–a quick glance at his wristwatch indicates that it’s somewhere around two a.m. “Really, Diluc. We won’t be able to progress any further if you refuse to take a break.”
Diluc slowly raises an eyebrow, making the bold decision to ignore the heat of Zhongli’s steady, warm hands on his shoulders through the thick fabric of his duffle coat. Is that really his only concern? “Sure.”
“ Sure. ” Zhongli parrots underneath his breath, gaze darker. He looks like he’s severely tempted to shake Diluc up and down like he’s one of the Angel’s Share’s cocktail shakers. “At this rate, you’ll fall asleep on the floor. ”
Diluc’s gaze flicks towards the roughly hewn stone floor—permanently stained by dirt, sand and other questionable things, and dented by the footfall of the many generations it had witnessed in these halls before. “I just might,” he muses, inches away from the other’s face. “But you wouldn’t let me lose that much of my dignity, would you?”
A corner of Zhongli’s mouth twitches against his own will, and his eyes soften a little. “Maybe I should,” he mildly replies, his grasp on Diluc’s shoulders a touch more gentler. “Maybe then you'd start listening to me. ”
“I listen to you plenty.” Diluc backs away, shrugging off Zhongli’s hands, until his back hits a wall and opts to slide down; until his point of view shows him endless sand, crumbled sandstone and the precise lines of Zhongli’s slacks at the edge of his eye. “See?”
“You are such a stubborn, stubborn man.” A huff of air, before Zhongli’s pristine dress shoes show up in his line of sight. “Do you enjoy being this difficult?”
“Why are you surprised,” Diluc shoots back, barely able to hide his yawn this time. Every beat between each blink drags on as he leans his entire weight against the wall. “Just—just give me a few minutes.”
A hum, before a warm, comforting presence presses against his side; gentle, careful fingers threading through his hair. Caught in the haze of sleep, Diluc turns towards the source of heat, leaning into him, like a sunflower seeking out sunlight. “Of course. Good night, Diluc.”
“Just five minutes.” Before the darkness comes to snatch his last moments of clarity away from him, Diluc keeps one eye open to stare critically at the man beside him. “And—really? You’d let me nap on the floor?”
A sigh, deep and all-consuming. If Diluc was delusional enough, it would have sounded fond. “I suppose not,” Zhongli wryly says, and Diluc witnesses the moment stretching on for what seemed like eternity, the other’s lips curling up in a smile that’s barely there, and—
And the rest fades to pitch black.
(Diluc does not remember that night. It’s a reasonable thing to assume: after all, he was pretty much out of it—doesn’t even remember filming anything after ten p.m, and anything else that happens before five p.m. the next day is a blank slate. The huge nineteen-hour gap is something that Diluc frankly does not want to remember.
It's not until he organizes all available footage and pictures for post-production to use, ready to go all over it with Lumine and piece a coherent narrative from it, that Diluc stumbles on the picture.
The picture appears to have been taken somewhere around midnight, judging from the horrid lighting. It looks like it had been taken in a hurry, the subjects of the picture smudged by motion blur, like somebody had sneaked out a camera from their bags, snapped a picture, and hid from sight immediately.
One of the subjects is a dark-haired man, broad shoulders at ease and sleeves rolled up to the forearms, like the lump of dark duffel cloth in his arms didn't weigh much. The lump of dusty duffel cloth in his arms, on closer observation, is a man–a man that had another coat draped over his shoulders on top of his own. There are fine gold accents woven around the collar of the black cashmere coat, glinting in the dim light, as the sleeping man turned his face away from the camera.
Diluc stares at it for a couple seconds longer than he should, brain refusing to recognize the obvious silhouettes of the subjects; their identities made all the more clearer by one of the subjects' hair color, vividly obvious against the dark fabric of the cashmere coat, and about as red as a fucking clown's nose.
Insanity possesses him for a moment, visceral enough that it would have made Diluc an absolute believer in the idea of supernatural possession if he was a lesser man, because—because his first thought isn't to get rid of the evidence. His first thought isn't some sort of violence; not the mental image of a paper shredder and meticulously feeding strips of the photo into it over and over again, not the thought of blackmailing whoever took this damn photo to make them take this moment to their graves, not the thought of embracing the long-held assumption of his arsonist tendencies.
His first thought is uncharacteristic. It is something along the lines of wanting to take it home, to print it and hide it in the bottom of a drawer, somewhere nobody else but him could look—his first thought resembles something like longing.
He gives up then and there, opting to let Lumine drag him for all he's worth once she hunts him down. Diluc resolutely walks out of the room without a second look back, the picture erased from the database and scrubbed clean from the storage card like it had never been there at all.
Whatever. Diluc's fingernails bite crescents into his palm; the picture burning a hole in his pocket. To hell with this bullshit.
So if anybody had ever asked, Diluc—
Diluc definitely does not remember that night.)
05. WATCH: The Mystery Behind The Dragon-Queller
"What are you doing here?"
Diluc does not snuff out his flashlight as soon as he hears those ominous words. Like a horror movie extra, he swings his flashlight in the direction of the voice. It is then that Diluc realizes his mistake, except it's a little too late to take back now, and—
The lady does not flinch at the onslaught of sudden light. Wearing white gauzy robes with gold and navy blue accents, she stands tall and proud, grace making her and her companion’s sudden halt seem like something deliberate. Instead of surprise, she simply looks unimpressed at him. The lady raises one snow white eyebrow, contrasting with the red kohl sharply lining the corners of her eyes, distantly reminding him of someone. “Well? This one asked a question. Will you not answer?”
Her companion is less composed, clutching on to her sleeve, disoriented by the blinding glare of his flashlight. Diluc winces in sympathy, lowers the brightness of his flashlight and ducks his head in an apology. “I apologize for disturbing you.”
“Mhm.” Under her scrutiny, Diluc doesn't dare move a muscle as she looks over him with a sharp eye, as if not quite satisfied with his apology, and subtly readjusts her hold on her companion’s bag. “And what is your business in Nantianmen?”
Something tells Diluc that telling the lady he's here to film an episode for his bi-monthly night job of hunting ghosts is a horrendously bad idea. Thank archons he hadn't brought the camcorder along.
His next idea is a better one: apologizing again and inching away to grab Zhongli for an explanation. Liyue is his homeland, after all.
Nantianmen is one of the rare times Diluc is kept in the dark for a fresh perspective, while Zhongli takes care of the details. It’s usually the other way around – Diluc organizes everything, and Zhongli is left with the job of dishing out commentary on account of being unfamiliar with the place. It was him who had arranged this particular trip to Nantianmen—pulling strings with his familial connections, according to a rumor that may or may not be completely founded, before their request for a visit reached the Liyue Qixing, and had to be considered personally by Lady Ningguang yet again.
But what good is being uninformed in a situation like this?
"I'm sure he doesn't mean any harm, Cloud Retainer," her companion offers in defense of him in a surprisingly strong voice, waving off any concern from the lady as he secures the bag he’s carrying. "Anybody bearing Ganyu's personal Sigil of Permission surely wouldn't be unreliable."
At her keen, expecting gaze, Diluc presents the talisman, the glossy gold of the paper having been wrinkled and dulled despite being carefully preserved. Still, the bold strokes of the character faintly glitter in the moonlight - whatever’s been added to the ink from a bygone age still holds up against time. Diluc wonders how the man had known it was in his pocket.
“Ah.” The subtle crease between Cloud Retainer’s eyebrows smoothen just a fraction, before she straightens. “This one sees. Do remember to not stray so far off the path, lest you end up like Kun Jun here.”
Kun Jun flusters, apparent even in the dark, straightening his rumpled blue jacket. “I just got a little lost, Cloud Retainer. It’s been a while since I last set foot in Nantianmen, after all.” Clearing his throat, he shoots Diluc an apologetic look. “Do you have any other companions with you? Just so we’ll know not to bother you.”
“Just two of us tonight. His name’s Zhongli,” Diluc says, before he realizes that Zhongli had never given him a surname in all of his years working beside him. At the way the two people in front of him freeze like deer caught in headlights, Diluc does his best to clarify with his middle name. “Zhongli Morax. The one who arranged this trip with the Liyue Qixing?”
Kun Jun tries his best to blink his surprise away, but Cloud Retainer recovers quicker, staring straight through him, scrutiny coming back in full force. From the looks of it, they hadn’t been informed. Surely Zhongli isn’t that sloppy to not communicate properly with the guardians of such a sacred location, is he? “Are you well-acquainted with him?”
“Yes,” Diluc says, for a lack of a better way to phrase it. He’s been working with the man for the better half of a decade—he better be well-acquainted with Zhongli. “I’ve been working with him for a while on the Steambird."
“Just the two of you?” She questions, tone strange.
Diluc nods. “I’m his partner.”
A moment of silence before Cloud Retainer relents, and Diluc visibly relaxes.
Kun Jun coughs in his fist. “Sorry about that. We’re just… a little surprised, but we're honored to meet his partner,” he says, smiling like he knows it’s a massive understatement, and Cloud Retainer makes a sound of assent. “Zhongli didn’t tell us he’d be visiting.”
“Nor did he tell us he would be bringing home a companion, ” Cloud Retainer grumbles, before gathering her robes. "I see he's finally managed to live a settled life. Well then, this one shall disturb you no longer. Come on, Kun Jun. Let’s be on our way.”
Kun Jun nods. "It's always nice to hear he's been doing well." He tells Diluc as he hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. “Celestia knows just how much he's always wanted to do that. If it’s not too much, please tell him to drop by Mount Aocang when he has the time."
Diluc bows his head in a farewell, and briefly watches them go on their way – Cloud Retainer in resplendent robes, Kun Jun in something more casual as they navigate the land like it’s the back of their hand. And maybe they do. They’ve been walking around without any source of light aside from the dim moonlight, after all.
It takes him a long time for the words companion and partner, said in a particularly strange tone, like they’ve found the sentiment both baffling and unfamiliar when associated with him, to set in.
Diluc flicks his flashlight open. There’s no good dwelling too hard on words that are probably not that deep when he has a job to do, and makes to go back to finally retrieve his camcorder.
This time, he keeps his flashlight on the ground — just in case he shines a light once again on one of the guardians and makes one too many enemies with it.
(It’s somewhere around eleven p.m. when they leave Nantianmen, and Diluc resolves to get comfortable in this car while he sleeps, goddamnit. He slumps against Zhongli’s shoulder, and takes to watching the outside world go by in a haze.
He’s comfortable enough that it takes Diluc forty minutes of staring at the landscape of Liyue’s untouched open plains as their designated ride takes them through Tianqiu Valley before he remembers. By then, Zhongli’s already half-asleep, leaning against him too.
“Shit.” Diluc’s eyes close shut as he quietly swears. Then, remembering Zhongli’s presence on him, “ shit. ”
“Hm?” Zhongli slightly raises his head, and Diluc resists the urge to chase the warm weight of him as he speaks, voice still heavy with sleep. “What’s the matter?”
All Diluc can see behind his eyelids is Cloud Retainer’s stoic, pointed gaze, juxtaposed against Kun Jun’s mildly disappointed look. Diluc’s such a shitty guest. “I met two people who knew you when I was plotting out the path. They asked if I could tell you to meet them at Mount Aocang when you had the time.” He drags his hands down his face. “ Fuck. I forgot.”
"Ah." The car seat cushion makes a sound as Zhongli sinks back into it. “No worries. I’ll drop by tomorrow." A pause. "Did they, by chance, tell you who they were?"
Diluc has a suspicion that Zhongli already knows who they are, but he entertains the question anyway. "There was a lady named Cloud Retainer. She called her companion Kun Jun." He drops his hands to his lap as he turns to look at him. “Are they those extended familial connections you reached out to?”
Zhongli makes an aborted sound of laughter right in his ear. “No. But since when did you listen to office rumors?”
He shrugs. Part of the job, Diluc could've said, but something keeps him from doing so. He thinks Zhongli hears him anyway.
“They’re just old friends,” Zhongli clarifies, the aftermath of his mirth still evident on his face. “Did they tell you anything?”
“Cloud Retainer mentioned something about how you managed to live a settled life." A couple of other things come to Diluc’s mind, but he doesn't have the courage to voice it out loud. Like saying it out loud would make the strange sentiment tangible and real. "Kun Jun said you’ve always wanted that.” A pause, and something softer. “They’re glad you made it."
In the glare of the sparse lights set along the side of the road, Diluc can't tell very well, but Zhongli's eyes are crinkled at the corners, soft and pleased, smile even softer. "Did they, now?"
For some indescribable reason, Diluc wants to tell him many things. The things they said, to ask him what it meant. Maybe it’s something about the spirit of the night, the careful stillness in Liyue’s usually bustling environment, or something to do with sleep deprivation, but he wants to say—say something absurd and unreasonable, something like—
Diluc turns away. Obviously, he isn’t stupid enough to say it. It’s almost midnight after a long day at work and he’s running off nothing but fumes and this is all so cringe.
Instead, he says: "Can't believe we've worked for three years just to realize you've never told me your surname."
Zhongli laughs once again in his ear, and like a man condemned, Diluc thinks he'd do anything to hear him laugh like that again.
WATCH: The Horrors of Wyrmrest Valley
Very rarely does a video get scrapped once they’ve started. Zhongli thinks it’s a shame that Wyrmrest Valley might be one of those tapes, left forgotten in the archives.
It starts when two of them arrive first at Albedo’s chosen encampment site, a small cave tucked into the hanging wall of Dragonspine's cliffside, and begin unpacking. Zhongli had been almost done with sorting through the crates they’ve brought up to see if any supplies had gotten damaged in the process of transportation, when he felt the imperceptible rumble of the mountain beneath his feet, and he stills in his place.
It takes him a few moments to name it — the beginnings of an avalanche. It hasn’t happened yet, but Zhongli knows it will.
But not if he intervenes.
As discreetly as he can, Zhongli fortifies the rock surrounding Albedo's campsite. If he alters the roof to ensure the snow slides off it instead of causing the opening to cave in, then it's his secret to keep. Nobody will be able to tell, anyway.
"Hey." Zhongli snaps back into reality as Diluc looks up at him from where he's sitting on the floor, having been placed in charge of starting a fire. He raises an eyebrow. "Is there anything particularly interesting about that crate cover?"
Zhongli looks back down at the crate cover in his hands, and looks once again at Diluc, covered head to toe in winter clothes, red hair left down and framing his flushed face like a corona. He entertains the notion of answering it, of wringing a sweet, sweet laugh from Diluc before he has to go deal with the nuisance, and banishes the thought. "No," he simply says, securing the cover back on the crate. "I just remembered something that caught my attention on the way up."
Diluc hums, turning back to grab something, before tossing it at Zhongli. He catches the dark lump of cloth, rumpling between his fingers as he unravels the two separate pieces.
Zhongli bites back a smile. On most days, he thinks he has a good enough handle on these mortal disguises, but on special occasions like this, he still forgets. Diluc's doing a much better job at maintaining his cover for him — he's attentive to the details. Truly, he’s the only reason why Zhongli has managed to keep this mortal disguise for more than half a decade.
(Sometimes, Diluc's the only reason why he bothers to maintain it. But that's a thought that needs to be kept hidden and locked away in a vault --- another secret to keep.)
Heartwarmed, Zhongli holds up the gloves in his gloved hand, and tells him the obvious: "I already have gloves."
"I know." Zhongli can hear Diluc resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he reaches for the flint and steel, having finished with building his pit of tinder with char cloth on top. "Those ones are there to make sure you don't freeze your fingers off."
He chuckles, dutifully putting them on. "Is that permission to go out?"
"Since when do you need permission to do anything," Diluc mutters. He handles the firestarter like the motion is familiar, deft hands striking steel against flint, once, then twice, before a spark lands on the char cloth. Then, louder: "Be back before the crew gets here."
Zhongli picks up his scarf as he passes Diluc, who has his own hands cupped around the embers. “I shan’t be long, then. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Diluc snorts, barely audible, but clear as crystal to Zhongli’s ears. He alternates between blowing and slowly feeding the fire more kindling, the beginnings of a flame illuminating his pale aristocratic features, tempered by his striking curls. “Don’t make it sound like I’ll miss you,” Diluc snarks as he turns away, and with something softer, he adds: “Come back as soon as you’re done.”
And if Zhongli lingers too long by the mouth of the cave to watch the fire grow—well. It’s just another secret of his to keep.
Instead of heading down, Zhongli climbs the mountainside, keeping the path in his line of sight. He shrugs off the bite of the wind, harsh and unforgiving, as the cold sinks right through his clothes. At least up here, Zhongli knows nobody can see him.
Eventually, he spots the source of all that rumbling roaming the ruins below him — the faint glow of energy cores, the quiet whirring of machinery, the heavy clank of its footsteps, echoing through the mountainside like the sound of a heartbeat amplified. The rusted top of the Ruin Grader sticks out like a sore thumb against the whites and dark greens of Dragonspine. At this height, it’s a wonder it hasn’t sensed him yet.
No matter. He’ll make quick work of it. Zhongli summons his spear in hand, and jumps.
Or at least he’d thought it would be quick work. This Ruin Grader hasn’t been active in a long time, given by the way it roughly lags behind him, jerking around like a broken puppet more than moving around with the precision expected from one of Khaenri’ah’s famed mechanical soldiers. It makes his job slightly harder — he’s meant to take down the Ruin Grader, not the entire mountain with him. Unfortunately, that means he can’t summon the Wrath of the Rock to end this quickly.
Zhongli rolls out of the way as it flattens a tree, absorbing the resulting shockwave with one of his stone steles. He allows it to close the gap — wrapping himself in jade as it reaches down, hands on either side of him. He changes his stance, crouching, his spear held in hand.
The Ruin Grader claps. At the last second, Zhongli jumps back, stumbling a bit as his coat catches on one of its exposed joints, and tears as the Ruin Grader braces itself against the ground.
Zhongli curses as his feet skid on icy stone. Just as it leans down to take aim with its laser, he scowls and kicks his spear a little too hard at the Ruin Grader’s eye just before it could fire off a beam of fire.
The force of his kick nails the spear right through the Ruin Grader, the resulting shockwave sending it staggering back into a stone pillar, metal groaning. Zhongli doesn’t even feel satisfied, like he’d done a job well, as it falls to the ground, only bending down to retrieve the torn piece of his parka from the joint. Red sparks run along warm steel as he pries it out carefully, tucking it into his coat pocket.
In the middle of taking down his stone steles, Zhongli hears him, barely audible, and his blood runs cold.
"Zhongli?"
Zhongli whirs around, and with a sickening sense of dread, sees a figure breathing too fast at the edge of the ruins just a few meters away, red hair billowing in the wind. His heart drops to his stomach. "Diluc?"
Diluc stands there in shock, looking lost and out of place in Dragonspine’s frigid cold. Zhongli's dark cashmere coat hangs forgotten in Diluc’s shaking hands.
He’s cold, Zhongli realizes. “What are you doing here?”
He wishes for anything, a sharp-witted reply, a scowl, an insult—anything. But there's nothing, and Zhongli finds that he hates the blank stare, this stifling silence more than anything else.
"Zhongli?" Diluc only repeats in a daze. He looks like he's swaying on his feet. He looks like he’s seen—some of it, if not all of it.
The frost in the air seeps through Zhongli's skin, piercing through his heart as he recoils back from the smoking Ruin Grader, like the action would clear him of his sins—like it would hide his secrets from his sight. "Diluc," he pleads, as Diluc’s eyes widen with horror. "I can explain—"
"Zhongli!" Diluc yells, body braced. Too late, Zhongli hears the high-pitched sound of condensed energy coming from— “Behind you!”
The Ruin Grader, in one last act of revenge, sets off its lazer, colored an odd, bloodthirsty scarlet instead of the usual yellows and oranges. But with Zhongli's spear in the way, piercing through energy cores and wires and machinery, all that power instead—
Zhongli, almost blind with panic, lunges for Diluc, too far away, but too close to his heart for pretenses to matter. He sheds his disguise as he reaches for Diluc, the motion almost inhuman and alien, just as the ground lashes at them with fire, searing skin and burning clothes.
It's been three days since Diluc woke up in a hospital bed, harsh cold lights blinding him. Three days since he's been told they've gotten caught in an avalanche. Three days since he woke up, wrapped in a cashmere coat that smelled like glaze lilies and something earthy and asked where is he? Three days since Kaeya had sat by his bedside, only looking at him with an unspeakable sentiment, and said not here.
Three days since he woke up, and all he could remember was gold.
By the time he had the doctors convinced he wasn’t concussed or hiding a spinal injury, Diluc’s sure that Zhongli had been avoiding him. When he makes Kaeya drop him by the Steambird’s office in Mondstadt (because Kaeya refused to let him drive), he takes his time going up to the fifth floor, the long corridor filled with lavish decors the color of Mora, where he can hear her on the phone with Mondstadt’s Department of Public Works and Infrastructure. Diluc spends the next few moments composing himself in vain, trying to make himself seem like he hadn’t been winded by the journey of five floors up the stairs.
When the door opens, Diluc steps inside. In lieu of a greeting, the Steambird’s chief executive officer turns around in her seat, looking at him over the rim of her glasses. “ Sheesh,” Dori Sangemah Bay pulls a face at him. “You look like shit.”
Diluc pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a seat. “What else is new?”
“Sure.” Dori squints at him. “But you still look too good for someone who was on the edge of severe hypothermia three days ago.”
The suspicion is warranted, but Diluc bristles all the same. Even the doctors couldn’t believe just how fast he recovered, especially since it hadn’t been mild. “So I’ve been told,” he impatiently says. “Look, I’ll get straight to the point: do you know where Zhongli is?”
“Thought you’d be here to keep me company after that stunt you pulled, but oh well.” Dori shrugs, and turns back to the stack of paperwork at her desk. “What’s he got to do with me?”
The sound of frustration lodges in his throat. It’s all Diluc can do before he slumps on the luxurious armchair, head perched on his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. Gods fucking damn it.
Above him, he hears the slide of a drawer opening, followed by the sound of glasses softly clinking. In front of him, Dori sets down the fine bottle of vintage wine on the desk, the old Dawn Winery logo staring him in the face.
“Hold on, bucko,” Dori frowns, squinting at him, at his fidgeting hands on the edge of the desk. “What the hell? You never drink, Ragnvindr.”
“I don't." Diluc forces his hands to be steady as she pours one out for herself. “Why are you drinking on the job?”
Dori ignores him, leaning closer to inspect him. “Well, I'll be,” she says after a while, blinking in surprise. “You’re seriously asking?"
Diluc glowers at her scrutiny. “What made you think I wasn’t?”
Instead of answering, Dori slides open a drawer on her left, and rifles through its contents. In seconds, she procures a piece of paper, Zhongli’s distinctly neat handwriting flashing before his eyes, and before he knows it, he has the paper in his hands.
“A request for time off?” Diluc's jaw drops at the header, and turns to Dori with the paper raised. “But Zhongli doesn’t take time off.”
“Don't look at me.” Dori raises both eyebrows at him, as if to say what can you do? “Honestly, I thought you convinced him to take a break."
Diluc skims through the rest of the paper. Old-fashioned as ever, Zhongli writes like he’s writing to someone he hasn't been working with for years, formal but diligent in his word choice. Then, Diluc scans over his excuse for taking time off.
Diluc opens his mouth indignantly, but Dori beats him to it. “I checked," she helpfully supplies. "It’s not a forgery, and he confirmed it with me through an email and on the phone. It baffles me just as much as you do."
His mouth falls shut with a click, and Diluc grudgingly sinks deeper into Dori’s plush chair as he continues reading.
Zhongli doesn't offer any reason to ask for time off, but even Dori can’t deny him his request since Zhongli had never spent a single day off since he first started.
Diluc pushes the thought aside as he runs his hand over the indents Zhongli’s pen left on the paper. I’ll only be home, and nowhere else. A new paragraph. Don’t worry, Miss Sangemah Bay. I will be back as soon as the Steambird requires my presence.
Diluc sets the paper down, conscious of how his fingers crumple the edge of the fine paper with how he grips it. “Isn’t showing me this illegal?”
“Come on, Diluc,” Dori rolls her eyes. “It’s just a request for time off. Why’re you acting like he’s resigning?” She gingerly plucks it from his hand, and puts it back in her drawer.
Diluc looks down on his empty hands, and sighs.
She’s right, despite his defensiveness. Maybe he’s just overreacting, his franticness a result of his meds mixing in with the stress of Dragonspine’s events. Maybe Zhongli’s absence isn’t that deep. Diluc tries not to think too hard about it.
But he remembers waking up, gold behind his eyelids. He remembers the howl of the wind, of smoke curling through the treetops, sparks flying. Zhongli’s coat in hand, the dread in his amber eyes and the steadiness of his hands—but still, Diluc thinks bitterly. He could’ve said goodbye.
His left temple hurts. He braces his forearm against the desk, and sinks low.
Cool metal bumps against his forearm. Diluc slightly looks to the side to see Dori exaggeratedly pushing her phone towards him. He grimaces, making to push it away, when he sees the screen.
The moment stretches on for a while. Diluc can't do anything but stare.
“Well?” Dori asks, eyebrow raised.
“This—this is definitely illegal,” Diluc finally says, as he keeps his eyes on the phone. “Shit, what time is it?”
Dori shrugs as she hops out of her seat. “Not if he issued his plane ticket on the company card,” she easily says, and tosses a key to one of the company-issued cars into his open hand. “And you just might catch him in time. Try not to get in an accident today, lover boy.”
you have 5 new messages from kae !
kae: where are u and why aren’t u in dori’s office
kae: tf is she talking about
kae: tf did the illustrious lord sangemah bay intervene in
kae: oh be fucking fr.
kae: DILUC. ANSWER UR MSGS
Diluc pulls out of the elevated highway passing Stormbearer Point, and drives into the airport. Every atom of his being is aware of the time ticking, and the digital clock on his dashboard is all that keeps him from rushing every other car in front of him like an asshole.
But he pulls into the parking lot in front of the airport, thinks that if he really just—just ran for it, then maybe. Maybe he could reach the terminal on the other side of the airport, and make it in time before his flight left. Maybe he could set things right, even just for a moment.
Temples throbbing with pain like a bitch, Diluc slams his door shut, counts the remaining thirteen minutes in his head, and sprints towards—the doors—
Diluc slams into someone, and the pain in his head spikes as he staggers back, wincing. He mutters a vague apology as he sets his shoulders and turns towards the airport doors.
At least, he would've if the person he collided with hadn't kept him in place. So Diluc whips his head around at whoever's holding him back, ready to snap at a moment's notice, breathing heavy, manners be damned.
"Diluc?" Zhongli asks, strong arm curled around his waist, eyes slightly wide with surprise behind his reading glasses. "What are you doing here?"
Diluc raises one finger, as if to ask him to wait, and slips his phone slightly from his pocket to check the time. He squints down at it. "It's four forty-nine," he slowly reads the display out loud, and rereads it again for good measure, still rattled by the collision. "Why aren't you at your terminal yet?"
Zhongli blinks, slightly taken back. "I just got here."
Late as always, even for his flight home. Diluc manages a shaky laugh through his panting, and bites the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile. Draws blood with how hard he bites down. He's hopeless.
A sigh, deep and all-consuming, escapes Zhongli as he helps him get on his feet. "So I am."
"Hm?" Diluc asks, focused on staying on his feet.
"Never you mind," Zhongli murmurs, before the frown comes back in full force. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
“I–” All bravado slips from Diluc's tongue in an instant, and he’s left floundering for words he can’t seem to find. Shit. He didn’t think he’d make it this far in his plan. “Fuck. Give me a moment."
Zhongli’s frown twists into a look of concern, fingers brushing gently over Diluc’s forehead. “Ah,” he remarks, muted, as Diluc closes his eyes, and tries not to squirm. “You’re not feeling well.”
Try as he might, Diluc can't ignore how he feels himself turn red, skin burning hot with the shadow of Zhongli’s touch. “Yeah,” is all he can say, and curses himself for being hopeless. “I guess so.”
Then: a hand on his waist, and another cupping the back of his neck, and the next thing Diluc knows is he’s being gently manhandled against the side of Zhongli’s car—another company-issued vehicle. Diluc blinks at him just as the hand cupping his neck moves, fingertips ghosting the line of his jaw.
Diluc’s throat goes dry, just as the pinks and soft oranges of Mondstadt’s dusky skyline halos Zhongli, broad shoulders held tight, face half-hidden by shadows.
Are you trying to kill me sounds too discordant, and Diluc can already hear himself, the awkward crack in his voice, pitch shrill enough to hurt his own ears. So Diluc doesn’t dare move a muscle, lips sealed shut, just as Zhongli leans in, eyes closed and—murmurs.
In a musical language that Diluc can’t hope to comprehend, Zhongli chants softly, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of something that could be as old as the sun itself. Diluc does his best not to stare—at the realization that he’s too close, that Zhongli’s not wearing gloves, that there’s a bright, bright gold staining his fingertips. The gold stands out from the obsidian of his arms, reminiscent of warm, warm gilded hands that held him safely in Dragonspine.
Diluc stays still, heartbeat pounding in his ears, something like longing lodging his throat. He’s—he’s just a man. Diluc stares, stares as sun kisses skin, something gentle and reverent, like he needs any more proof to recognize Zhongli for who he is. He stares, like he can brand this moment into his dreams, a man carved by some storied god, and thinks, for a moment, in the soft light of the falling sun; a thought unbidden and something so obvious you'd be blind not to see it, that—
Zhongli opens his eyes, the color of freshly minted Mora, hidden behind tinted lenses, but still so close.
You’re beautiful, Diluc thinks.
He feels lighter somehow. His next breath comes much easier, and Diluc welcomes the rush of air into his lungs as he finds his head clear of any lingering pain.
Zhongli watches him attentively, just before he lowers his hand, leaving a hand-shaped brand on the crook of his neck. Diluc’s suddenly aware of his own hand resting on top of Zhongli’s own. “Do you feel better now?”
Yes. Diluc knows it — whatever he did made him feel better. It’s the only answer that matters, and the only one he might want. Besides, Zhongli is three minutes away from missing his flight entirely, and knowing his propensity for luxurious things, the first class suite he bought for himself would be all for naught.
Except—if he lets Zhongli walk away right now, Diluc doesn’t know what would happen to them, to whatever it is that hangs in the space between them. And if there’s anything Diluc hates more than anything, it’s not knowing.
Zhongli grows more worried at his silence, and makes to lean away, to give him space. “Diluc?”
He has nothing. Not his bravado, not his wit, not his money, and not his charm. But if Zhongli’s already here and in front of him, then maybe—Diluc thinks that it could be enough.
“Zhongli, Morax—whatever your name is,” Diluc says, rough and graceless, reaching out to grip both of Zhongli's wrists. Clumsy as they are, Diluc finds the words flowing out of him, in beat with the stutter of his heart. “I might not know all your secrets, but that’s fine with me. I’m keeping a secret too.”
Diluc presses forward. Like everything else, he does it with the same intensity he pours into his work—he tilts his head closer, and steals a kiss.
He jerks back just as fast as he started, face burning hot. What the fuck, Diluc blanks, all too aware of himself, the taste of green tea lip balm on his lips an afterthought to his panic. What the fuck.
And because he hasn’t dug a deeper hole for himself yet, Diluc can hear himself distantly saying it, like something he’s longed to say for a while—I love you.
Zhongli, for his part, looks just as stricken as Diluc, if not worse. “Me?” he makes a painful sound, like Diluc just punched all the air from his lungs.
Diluc helplessly gestures at Zhongli's lips, and then his own, as best as he can while holding on to his wrists. Really, what else would prove it more? "Yes," he manages, blush still a furious, lovestricken red. "You."
“But I’m—” Zhongli cuts himself off, and Diluc is treated to a rare view of Zhongli losing composure, tips of his ears flushing red. “Diluc--you know I'm not human.”
Funny enough he says that. Diluc thinks he's sometimes more human than the rest of them.
“Should’ve known when you wholeheartedly supported the theory that Ruin Golems in Sumeru dropped out of the sky." Diluc says instead of something kind, something nicer, and watches Zhongli color beautifully, red blooming across the bridge of his nose. "Do you get some sort of satisfaction from getting a rise out of me?"
"I---" Zhongli looks away, avoiding eye contact. It's practically an admission in itself. If it were a less stressful time, Diluc can already imagine his defensive response -- it was funny.
“Also, Morax isn’t a middle name,” he continues, and eyes the other man in front of him critically. “What the hell, Zhongli?”
“You thought it was my middle name,” Zhongli counters, still adamant on avoiding eye contact. “I simply didn’t correct you.”
“Mhm,” Diluc nods. “Surely, it had nothing to do with how much you hate seafood. Or how you love expensive things.”
“Maybe I just like being comfortable." Zhongli wryly replies, for a moment brighter than the sun, before it falls. He slightly pushes back against Diluc's hold. "Diluc.”
“You literally wear Rex Lapis’ insignias everywhere,” he points out, ignoring his attempts to pull himself off him. Zhongli could wretch his wrists away and be gone from his sight before Diluc could even blink if he wanted to, and the thought of Zhongli fleeing terrifies him. He babbles on and on. "It's practically your fashion brand."
“Diluc.”
“I knew that time in Wuwang Hill was suspicious,” Diluc murmurs. “How did you even trick me into thinking I was hallucinating those wisps? You suck at lying.”
“Diluc,” Zhongli pleads against his ear, crowding him against the car. “Please take this seriously.”
“I am being serious.” Diluc can’t help it, the laughter that bubbles from his throat, as Zhongli looks at him like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has—maybe he’s delirious, hysterical or both things at the same time. “What are you so scared of? We’ll figure it out — you and me. Like we always do.”
A strand of hair falls across Zhongli's face, and Diluc resists the urge to tuck it behind his ear. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” he stubbornly says, and gives in to the urge, tucking the stray strand behind his ear. Underneath his hands, Zhongli runs hot. His hand stays on the other’s jaw, thumb brushing across the curve of his cheekbone. “And I told you—you’re a terrible liar.” A beat, then with as much gentleness as Diluc can muster: “Don’t worry too much--you'll get wrinkles. Besides, we have all the time in the world to figure it out.”
Zhongli looks at him, expression painfully wiped blank of any sentiment, and for a moment, Diluc thinks he’s damned himself to hell—before Zhongli closes the gap and kisses him—kisses him first this time: pressing closer against him, warm hands on his own flushed skin, the bitter tang of tea lingering in his mouth.
Diluc closes his eyes, and savors the taste of a prayer granted, of longing finding its way home, as Zhongli kisses him reverently, like something precious, like something to be treasured—like maybe he's wanted to kiss him all along.
[ bonus ! ]
donna | check pinned ! @dlcsolosurfaves
JUST FELL TO MY KNEES IN THE MIDDLE OF WALMART
the steambird updates ! @sbtwtupdates • 25m
Steambird host Diluc Ragnvindr posts the following pictures of him on his Instagram story!
[On the left is a picture of Diluc’s back, haloed by the flickering golds of Mondstadt’s dusk, hand caught with someone’s hand.]
[On the right side is a picture of Diluc facing the camera, hand snatched back and frowning as he holds an upturned middle finger at the camera.]
5:59 PM • June 29, 20XX • Twitter Web App
298 Retweets 387 Quote Tweets 1.1K Likes
donna | check pinned ! @dlcsolosurfaves • 13m
this cannot be happening to ME and MY babygirl ………. diluc ragnvindr pls PLS just give me a chance …… can ur girl fight……
Zhongli @lapisdei_
Yes, I can. Where do you want to meet?
donna | check pinned ! @dlcsolosurfaves • 1h
this cannot be happening to ME and MY babygirl ………. diluc ragnvindr pls PLS just give me a chance …… can ur girl fight……
7:03 PM • June 29, 20XX • Twitter Web App
10.6K Retweets 1,283 Quote Tweets 81.7K Likes