Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diluc hated many things.

He hated paperwork. He hated inefficient city planning. He hated being invited to banquets where he was expected to smile politely at nobles with the moral backbone of wet parchment.

But this?

This was new.

Diluc hated knowing.

Now that the Stormterror situation had been resolved—chaotic winds settled, giant dragons dealt with, and the skies blessedly quiet for once—another mystery had also quietly fallen into place. Diluc found himself thinking back to a scene from months ago. Venti and Dahlia, seated at the corner table, heads close, their voices hushed but light. Venti had been humming something ancient, and Dahlia had been looking at him with that quiet, soft expression that made no sense back then.

It made far too much sense now.

Diluc had assumed it was just one of the bard's many flirtations or one of the deacon’s unshakeable habits of treating people kindly. But now? With everything he knew about Dahlia, about Venti, about the divinity braided through every second of that conversation, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop seeing it.

The way Venti had touched Dahlia’s hand—not casually, but like he was checking to make sure he still existed. The way Dahlia had smiled—not like a man amused, but like someone remembering an entire era all at once.

Of course, he hadn't understood it then. Of course, it had looked like nothing. That was the kind of performance only immortals could pull off: quiet, devastating, and hidden in plain sight.

And now he knew.

Unfortunately, he knew.

He scrubbed at the bar countertop with a vengeance, even though it was already spotless. Every pass of the cloth felt like an attempt to erase the memory of what he had witnessed only months ago. The rag squeaked faintly against the polished wood, an undignified soundtrack to his mental breakdown.

Venti had walked into the tavern like a gust of trouble on a quiet day. That was already a bad sign—he was never early, never quiet, and always up to something. Worse still, his arrival had carried the faint scent of windblown apples and mischief, which meant he was in an especially meddlesome mood. That alone would have made Diluc sigh.

But then Dahlia had fallen off his chair.

That was alarming. The deacon was composed, eternal, and had the aura of someone who’d stared down centuries without blinking. Chairs were not supposed to defeat him. Seeing him startled—genuinely startled—had felt like watching a cathedral crack at the foundation.

What followed had only cemented the sense of unreality. The two of them talked—not with the comfortable rhythm of old friends, but with the simmering intensity of something older, something unspoken and long overdue. Venti had said, "Even the Herald of Barbatos approves," with a wink, and Dahlia had just nodded like that was a perfectly reasonable thing to be called.

Diluc had tried, truly, to pretend it was just more bardic nonsense. But the longer he watched, the more everything clicked into place. And once it did… There was no going back.

And the worst part?

Diluc had felt it. Heard it. That terrible, soul-crushing realization:

'Oh, Archons, it’s real. That was not a metaphor. That’s not just bardic exaggeration.'

Now every glance between them was loaded. Every quiet pause was full of hundreds of years of repressed eye contact. And every time Venti laughed, Dahlia smiled like it was the first sun after winter, and Diluc—

Diluc wanted to throw himself into a wine barrel and never come out.

He paced behind the counter, muttering to himself.

"They’ve been around longer than any of us have, and they act like they’re the only two people who’ve ever known longing. I didn’t sign up to play barkeep to a centuries-old soap opera."

He grabbed a towel. The counter was clean. He wiped it again anyway.

“Why do I know this? Why did I have to witness it? I didn’t ask to be an unwilling spectator to some ethereal, ancient love story with metaphysical implications. Everyone with eyes knows Dahlia isn’t exactly mortal—and now I have to live with the knowledge that he and Barbatos exchange looks like they invented the concept of yearning.”

The door creaked. He froze.

Please not them. Please not—

“Oh! Master Diluc,” Dahlia greeted politely, too composed for someone who had fallen in love with their patron god. His coat fluttered faintly with the evening breeze. “Good evening.”

Venti peeked in from behind him, wearing that infuriating grin like it was sewn into his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or two immortals emotionally reuniting in your bar after five centuries of yearning.”

Diluc stared at them both.

He considered his options. Violence? No. Divine retribution was likely.

Or worse—something subtler. Something personal. Would Barbatos even bother with smiting anymore? Or would he find some irritatingly poetic way to exact divine justice? Diluc could already imagine it: the wind nudging open windows just enough to scatter paperwork across the floor, mysterious pages of graffiti showing up on the cellar walls featuring exaggerated caricatures of him brooding beside wine barrels. Small, annoying, relentless things—Venti-style retribution in its purest form.

He’d almost prefer a lightning bolt.

Faking his own death? Tempting, but messy.

He settled on the most reasonable response.

“I’m going to go scream into a barrel,” he said flatly, walking away. “And for the record,” he added over his shoulder, “there is a policy about public romantic gestures in this bar. This is a tavern, not a stage for celestial melodrama.”

“Don’t bruise your vocal cords!” Venti called cheerfully. “Your voice is lovely when you’re praying.”

Diluc froze mid-step.

Of course, he said that. Of course, the so-called bard, the chaos incarnate, would say that. As if Diluc didn’t already spend far too much time trying not to think about the fact that Venti—Barbatos—was technically his patron deity. And now he had the gall to compliment his prayers?

He resumed walking, stiffly, as if sheer physical motion might shake the memory loose.

"He's not my god," Diluc muttered under his breath. "He's a walking headache with a lyre and a god complex. And unfortunately, actual godhood."

The problem was: he was his god. And Diluc could try to forget, but Venti never made it easy.

Especially when he said things like that.

“I have tea recommendations,” Dahlia offered, tone perfectly polite with just the faintest glimmer of mischief. “Something soothing for divine crises. Chamomile, perhaps?”

Diluc didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. He could hear the smile in Dahlia’s voice. That awful, serene smile that said, I’ve seen the rise and fall of nations, and I still have time to mess with you personally.

“Or I could brew something that improves memory,” Dahlia added thoughtfully. “Since forgetting doesn’t seem to be going well.”

Diluc slammed the cellar door behind him.

From the bar, a soft laugh followed. Wind stirred through the tavern, carrying with it the scent of apples and secrets. The lanterns flickered briefly—less from draft and more, Diluc suspected, from divine trolling.

Somewhere deep down, Diluc was beginning to suspect this was karmic punishment for not attending church more often. He could practically hear some divine voice going, "You ignored the hymns, so now you get front row seats to them performed live—by the source."

It would almost be funny if it weren’t happening to him. And the more he tried to ignore it, the more it kept circling back—every passing glance, every cryptic comment, every breeze that seemed far too deliberate. It was like the universe, or perhaps one overly meddlesome Archon, was reminding him with a pointed laugh: You’re in this now.

Of course, once he’d admitted that, it was impossible not to notice everything else falling into place. All the odd behaviors. All the strange shifts. Even Kaeya’s inexplicable interest in visiting the Cathedral started to make more irritating sense.

Diluc had begun to notice—only once, and very briefly—that his brother had started dropping by the Cathedral with suspicious frequency. Not for worship. Never reverently. But just often enough to be unsettling, like someone watching a comedy unfold and refusing to spoil the punchline.

Kaeya had laughed the first time Diluc had asked, genuinely laughed, like the thought of Venti being anything close to the solemn, saintly figure immortalized in cathedral murals was the best joke he’d heard in years. "Can you imagine him in robes? With a sermon? I'd sooner believe the sun’s a Vision user," Kaeya had said, eyes sparkling with too much amusement and too little innocence.

Diluc wasn’t sure what unsettled him more: the idea that Kaeya might be onto something—or that he agreed with him.

Or maybe it was just Mondstadt.

Either way… he knew, and now he couldn’t unknow.

And no amount of wine was going to fix that.

Chapter Text

Jean wished she didn’t know.

She had just finished a stack of correspondence—requests from Springvale, an agricultural appeal from the Adventurers’ Guild, two small reports about unusual wind activity, and, curiously, a thirdhand note about Deacon Dahlia spending a suspicious amount of time in Windrise with a bard.

At first, Jean had dismissed it. Dahlia was known for his piety and eccentricities. If he was meditating in the glades with a musician, so be it. He had earned a strange sort of reverence over the years, and even her more pragmatic instincts couldn’t deny that Dahlia was… older than he looked. Far older.

But when she received a second report—this one from a Knight-in-training with too much curiosity and not enough self-preservation instinct—she paused. The note had been breathlessly enthusiastic:

“They were singing together. No, not just singing—harmonizing. The bard was floating, and the flowers moved with the melody. I swear I saw the wind spiral around Dahlia’s hands.”

Jean had frowned.

Descriptions of the bard followed quickly and consistently: "petite green bard," with a cheeky grin and eyes too old for his face. Cecilia flowers were pinned to his hat. A lyre was always at his side. He moved like a breeze given form, and his voice was described with increasingly flowery language—"like sunlight caught in a windchime" was one that made Jean visibly cringe.

She wished, not for the first time, that the other Knights would stop using poetic metaphors in their reports. It made everything sound like a tragic opera. Unfortunately, every account added another piece to a puzzle Jean was no longer willing to pretend didn’t exist.

Wind affinity. Musical prowess. A distinct tendency to cause localized atmospheric disturbances that no Anemo Vision should be capable of. Officially, the bard carried a Vision, but Jean—who had overseen the registry herself—knew it wasn’t real. It was a clever fake, yes. But not that clever. Not to her.

She pressed her fingers to her temple.

“No,” she whispered to the empty office. “No, no, no.”

But it was already too late.

Because Jean knew. Knew the name Venti. Knew the voice. Knew the Archon behind the smile, and the legend behind the lyre.

And, more pressingly, she knew exactly who Dahlia was to him.

Jean put the reports down carefully and stood in silence for several long moments. The kind of silence that stretches taut with the weight of things no mortal was meant to carry.

Then she sat down again and stared blankly at the far wall.

She had enough responsibilities as it was. She coordinated trade routes, diffused diplomatic tensions, quelled Hilichurl attacks, and babysat Klee's alchemy experiments. She did not need to add “tracking divine entanglements between Mondstadt’s secret immortal clergy and the literal Anemo Archon” to her already nightmarish to-do list.

Still, now that she’d seen it—the patterns, the reports, the timing—it was obvious.

Of course, Dahlia wasn’t just an ordinary priest. Of course, he never aged. Of course, the bard who only showed up during crises just happened to have an unreasonably close relationship with him.

And now they were apparently serenading each other under ancient trees while flowers danced and junior Knights fled the area, emotionally scarred or emotionally invested.

Jean pressed a hand to her mouth and muttered, “I need a drink.”

Then she paused.

“I can’t go to Angel’s Share. Diluc knows.”

She hesitated.

Actually… Diluc was probably handling this better. He was composed, steady, and emotionally distant when it suited him. Surely he’d processed the divine melodrama by now and moved on with grim acceptance and a bottle of wine.

…Right?

She blinked slowly.

Then remembered who she was talking about.

No. No, Diluc was absolutely not handling this well. He was probably in the wine cellar right now, hiding behind crates, muttering about church policies and emotionally repressed gods.

She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.

Jean sighed and pressed her forehead to the desk.

"Oh, Archons," she muttered. Then immediately regretted invoking them. There would be no help there—not when it was an Archon causing her stress in the first place. She couldn’t exactly pray for strength when the one responsible was probably composing a ballad about it as she spoke.

There was no escaping it. She knew. Diluc knew. The Cathedral probably knew. Lisa definitely knew. Venti almost certainly knew they all knew—and likely found the entire thing hilarious.

The worst part wasn’t even that it was true.

It was that it was poetic.

And now Jean might actually have to add a clause to the Knights’ Code forbidding overly detailed reports of romantic entanglements—especially when they involve prominent public figures and overly poetic descriptions. Not for operational integrity, or decorum, but purely so she wouldn’t have to keep reading formal paperwork that indirectly documented her Archon’s love life under the guise of field observations.

She exhaled slowly, her face still pressed into polished wood.

“We all know,” she whispered, resigned. “And none of us are okay.”

A few people knowing was already too many. Diluc knew. She knew. The Cathedral had likely pieced it together in their quiet, unspoken way. But what truly kept Jean awake at night was the thought of others finding out. Lisa would absolutely revel in the drama. And Kaeya—Archons forbid Kaeya—would never let it go. He’d find a way to bring it up during meetings, missions, and random hallway conversations with a smirk and a suspiciously well-timed metaphor.

Jean shuddered. That was a disaster she wasn’t ready for.

Chapter Text

Kaeya knew something was up.

It had started months ago, shortly after he and Diluc had finally stopped treating each other like walking ghosts. Things hadn’t gone back to the way they once were—not completely—but there was a quiet effort now. An understanding. One that made Kaeya linger a little longer in Mondstadt rather than vanish with the next assignment to Dragonspine.

Though, to be fair, as a Cryo Vision holder, Kaeya had always handled Dragonspine better than most. Something about the biting cold didn’t quite sink into his bones the same way it did for others. Geo users fared well too—solid and steady in the frost—but everyone else needed layers, warming bottles, and prayers. Kaeya, on the other hand, could practically nap in a snowbank. He’d once done so just to make a point. It had not been appreciated.

Still, even Dragonspine hadn’t pulled him away as often lately. Something had shifted—internally, perhaps, or simply in the way he no longer felt quite so inclined to run. The mountains could wait. What mattered more now was understanding the strange faith that surrounded him every day—faith in a god he now saw lounging at taverns, playing songs that twisted history into melody.

That curiosity—and that desire to understand the pieces of Mondstadt he had once distanced himself from—was what led him to the Cathedral. Not immediately, and not publicly. But one evening, when the streets were quiet and the sky was starting to bleed into dusk, Kaeya found himself stepping through its doors.

That was when he started visiting the Cathedral more frequently.

Part of it, admittedly, was curiosity. He wanted to know how Mondstadt worshipped Barbatos—really worshipped him. Not the drunken praises during a festival, but the soft reverence that lived in the prayers of the faithful, in the flicker of candles, and the quiet songs sung when no one else listened. It fascinated him. The contrast between that Barbatos—the distant, painted god—and Venti, the chaos incarnate in green and grins.

The other part... well. It was more personal.

Sometimes he would sit in the pews after everyone else had left and just breathe. Not pray. Not quite. But he liked the stillness, the quiet. The way the wind seemed to settle around the stained glass as if listening. There was something grounding about it, and Kaeya, who had lived much of his life in masks and shadows, found a strange kind of peace there. And if, occasionally, he left offerings—an extra flower, a bottle of better wine, a carved feather—well, no one ever questioned it.

Regardless, Kaeya was sure something had happened. What? He didn't know, but he had suspected something was going on for a while now. Sadly, no one had given him anything solid—just sidelong glances, awkward pauses, and Jean’s increasing tendency to press her fingers to her temples like she was developing a permanent headache. That alone was suspicious.

But then he overheard two junior Knights whispering about “the deacon and the green bard serenading each other in Windrise.”

That did it.

Kaeya had stopped mid-stride in the hallway, nearly doubling over in laughter. He'd leaned against a column, biting back a delighted grin behind one gloved hand. “Oh,” he whispered to himself, “oh, this is better than I hoped.”

Now, like a man on a mission, he strolled into Angel’s Share with all the confidence of someone who had just unearthed the juiciest secret in Teyvat.

Diluc didn’t even look up when Kaeya entered.

“Whatever it is, no.”

“Oh, come now, I haven’t said a word.” Kaeya slid onto the nearest stool, lounging like a cat with a canary. “I just came in for a drink. And maybe… a story.”

Diluc set a wine glass down with more force than necessary. “No.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kaeya said brightly. “So. Our dear Deacon Dahlia. He’s been very popular in the reports lately.”

“Kaeya—”

“And I couldn’t help but notice,” Kaeya continued, “that the bard he’s often seen with is remarkably familiar. Petite. Green. Infuriatingly smug. Wind follows him like a lovesick puppy.”

Diluc's jaw tensed. “You’re reaching.”

He knew where this was going. He’d seen that look in Kaeya’s eyes before—mischievous, calculating, far too amused for anything good. Part of him, the rational part, hoped—prayed, even—that Kaeya would stop there. That maybe, just this once, he’d let the thread drop.

He wouldn’t. Diluc already knew it. Just as he knew that Kaeya’s next words were going to make this exponentially worse.

“Am I?” Kaeya grinned. “Because I’ve connected the dots. And you, dear brother, are the dot in the middle of a divine romantic opera. You poor thing.”

“I will ban you.”

Kaeya steepled his fingers in mock gravity. “Diluc. You’ve been pouring wine for Mondstadt’s literal god while watching him flirt with an immortal deacon who may or may not be older than the cathedral’s foundation stones. That’s not a love triangle. That’s a historical romance finally reaching its conclusion.”

Diluc groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate you.”

That was a lie. Or at least no longer true. Their relationship had settled into something strange but stable, wary mutual tolerance with occasional flashes of the old brotherhood. Still, Kaeya couldn’t resist the easy target.

“I just think it’s incredible,” Kaeya said, practically glowing. “All this time I thought you were brooding over weather patterns or wine stocks. But no. You’re brooding over godly romantic eye contact.” He leaned forward slightly, the glint in his eye sharpening. “You know, ever since you came back to Mondstadt, I’ve realized something about you—you brood, Diluc. Not just the brooding silence kind, but the dramatic kind. The 'staring pensively into the middle distance while polishing a wineglass' kind.” He smirked. “And now I finally know what was behind that look last week. It wasn’t taxes. It was them.”

“I am not involved,” Diluc muttered, clearly straining for patience.

Which, of course, only encouraged Kaeya.

Diluc hated that Kaeya had pointed it out—hated that he was right. He did brood. He brooded professionally. He brooded with such precision and focus that even the vines in the Dawn Winery fields seemed to lean away when he was in a terrible mood. And now Kaeya, with his smug grin and knowing tone, was dragging it out into the open.

Worse still, Kaeya was teasing him. Not with venom. Not with cruelty. Just with that old, infuriating mischief that had once been familiar, back before things had cracked between them.

And that’s what made it worse. Because despite the annoyance, despite the sharp words and flushed face, Diluc… didn’t mind. Not really. It was maddening, it was humiliating—but it was also honest, and strangely comforting.

He’d take being teased over being ignored...or lashing out. Even if Kaeya was absolutely insufferable about it—

“You’re involved by proximity,” Kaeya said, cutting into his thoughts, entirely too pleased. “You’ve been witnessing. That makes you a firsthand observer. You should publish a paper. ‘Divine Romance and the Emotional Stability of Local Bartenders.’” He paused, tapping his chin. “No—wait. Jean probably beat you to it. And if you ever did publish something like that, I think she’d attempt actual violence. Not just because it would blow Venti’s cover, but because it would completely obliterate what’s left of her sanity.”

“Stop talking."

Kaeya laughed, full-bodied and delighted. “Oh, Diluc. You poor, emotionally tormented man. Just think—if you’re lucky, they’ll immortalize you in a ballad.”

Diluc, now visibly red from either rage or secondhand embarrassment (Kaeya suspected both), gritted out, “Get. Out.”

Kaeya stood with a flourish, hands raised in mock surrender, still grinning. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But just know…” He paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “If they ask me to sing at the wedding, I’m accepting. After all, even deacons are allowed to marry under Church law.”

He tilted his head, clearly enjoying himself now. “You know...I always wondered why Varka was so adamant about getting that rule added to the charter. Seamus thought it was for Barbara’s sake, poor man. But I think our old Grand Master just knew where the wind was blowing.”

The cellar door slammed shut before he could hear Diluc’s response, so he could only hear a muffled sound that sent birds scattering.

...

..

.

Kaeya liked to believe it was a dignified scream—short, sharp, and filled with the kind of restrained frustration only someone like Diluc could manage.

Probably muffled by a wine barrel.

Definitely not dignified.

But in Kaeya’s imagination? It had gravitas.

Chapter Text

Diluc had seen this look on Lisa’s face before.

Once.

It was the same look she’d had right before telling Kaeya, with perfect casualness, that the south storage shed at the winery was “probably haunted.”

(She’d said it over tea, one leg crossed over the other, her tone just light enough that Diluc couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or deliberately baiting Kaeya.

Kaeya, naturally, had taken the bait. He’d smirked, made some offhand comment about “brave men investigating in the name of public safety,” and vanished outside with a lantern before Diluc could even open his mouth.

And Lisa—Lisa hadn’t lifted a finger to stop him.

Instead, she’d gone right back to sipping her tea on the balcony, settling into her chair with the quiet satisfaction of a cat who had pushed a vase off the table and gotten away with it. The rain had started about ten minutes later, a slow drizzle that turned into a proper downpour, soaking Kaeya to the bone while he poked around the shed. From her perch, Lisa had simply adjusted her shawl, humming to herself as she watched him work through the sheets of rain like it was free entertainment.

When Kaeya returned—wet, muddy, annoyed, and muttering about cobwebs—Lisa had merely handed him a towel, smiled like spring sunshine, and asked, “So, was it haunted?”

It had taken Diluc three days to get Kaeya to stop complaining about “mysterious librarian pranks.”)

And that was exactly the look she was wearing now—bright-eyed, faintly smug, and carrying the kind of calculated patience that meant she’d already decided she was going to enjoy whatever was about to happen.

“Ohhh, Master Diluc~” she sang, stepping into the winery’s front hall like she was making an entrance on a theater stage. “I do believe I’ve solved a little mystery.”

Diluc, still bent over the ledger, didn’t even glance up. “No.”

Lisa’s smile widened. “Oh yes.”

“No,” he repeated, closing the ledger and setting it aside with the precision of a man trying to maintain some control over a situation already spiraling. “I’m not involved. I don’t want to know. I will remain uninvolved.”

“Mmm, but you are, darling,” Lisa purred, leaning forward on the polished counter. “You see… a few weeks ago, our dear Acting Grand Master introduced a rather curious new rule. Something about omitting speculative or personal observations from the Knights’ official reports.”

Diluc gave a faint frown, failing and trying to understand what Lisa was getting at. “…And?”

“And at the time,” Lisa continued, tapping a painted fingernail against her cheek in mock thought, “I thought, ‘How strange. What could have prompted that?’ But then Kaeya started showing up in the library with some very pointed questions. Things like, ‘How long can someone live without aging?’ Or, ‘What does divine favor look like in a mortal’s day-to-day life?’”

Diluc’s knuckles whitened slightly against the countertop. 

...

He had hoped she was getting at something else.

But apparently, he was hoping for the impossible.

Lisa tilted her head, her smile sharpening. “Normally, I’d chalk that up to Kaeya fishing for conversation… but then I remembered the rule change. And the timing. And then…” She let the pause hang, savoring it. “Then I saw you in the tavern a few nights ago, giving Venti and Dahlia that look.”

“I was looking at customers,” Diluc said flatly.

He had completely forgotten that Lisa had started taking her lunches in Angel Share, since the menu revamp added lunch offerings. It had been such a meaningless detail in the grand scheme of things, Diluc had taken notes of it in his vast list of information updates. Still, now that particular detail was suddenly very important...especially if this conversation went in the direction he was thinking.

“The kind of look,” Lisa pressed on, “that says, ‘I have just stumbled into a five-hundred-year-old divine romance, and I wish I could drink wine until the memory is erased.’”

...

And he was right.

Lisa was no doubt going to tease him for his past actions. She lived to tease him, and Diluc said as much.

“It’s not my fault,” He muttered. “They just—sit there, and talk, and… make eye contact.”

Lisa gasped theatrically. “Eye contact? In this economy? Scandalous.”

“It’s loaded eye contact,” Diluc growled. “Like they’re having an entire conversation without speaking, and I’m just standing there wondering if I should start charging extra for… whatever that was.”

She studied him for a long moment, curiosity mingling with mischief. “You know… I’m starting to wonder. Is this about romance in general? Do you have some deep-seated aversion to two people being smitten in your line of sight? Or is it just these two?”

Diluc scowled, just the edge of offended. He had nothing against romance. “I don’t care about romance.”

“Oh, but you do,” Lisa said smoothly, lifting one brow. “I happen to recall a certain helpful tavern owner giving another bard—what was his name? Ah yes, Lysander—all sorts of advice for his marriage proposal last spring. You even closed early that night so he could serenade his fiancée on the balcony with your best vintage waiting on the table.”

“That was different,” Diluc said quickly.

“Mm-hmm,” Lisa hummed, her grin creeping wider. “Different because it didn’t involve Barbatos and his eternally youthful herald exchanging five centuries’ worth of longing glances in your bar, perhaps?”

Diluc knew his silence was damning, but what could he say?

There was knowing his patron god was Venti, and then there was watching his patron god make love eyes at the infamous Herald in public. Even just knowing the first was several years of stress Diluc didn't need on his plate because now he needed to be aware of Barbatos' actions just in case, and then there was seeing his god act so...so humanly. It caused some whiplash. Maybe Diluc is being a bit unfair, but he has a strong feeling that anyone else in his position might feel the same. After all, not many humans tend to have a close enough relationship with their gods to see something like this.

Lisa’s eyes glimmered with triumph. “Oho~ I thought so. It’s not romance that ruffles your feathers, darling, it’s those two. Mondstadt’s own walking ballad and his devoted herald, sitting all sweet together over drinks and you—” she tapped a manicured finger against the counter, “—you can’t stand it because you know exactly who they are, and now you simply can’t look away.” 

“I can, and I will,” Diluc said stiffly, even though both of them knew Diluc was lying. More than likely, Diluc was either going to hide in the storage area or switch schedules with Charles.

Regardless, Lisa ignored his lies and continued. “It’s not every day you get to watch the divine equivalent of a slow-burn romance novel playing out at table three. I, for one, intend to enjoy it. Next time they’re in the tavern, could you maybe accidentally seat them under a nice beam of moonlight? I’d like all the details. For research purposes.”

Diluc’s glare could have peeled paint.

Lisa smiled her grin now a full-on tease. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you’re protective of Mondstadt’s greatest love story. Your secret’s safe with me… for now.”

Diluc stared at her like he was calculating the precise effort it would take to move to another country. “I hate knowing things.”

Lisa winked. “And yet, you’re so bad at hiding it.”

Lisa was still leaning on the counter, sipping her tea like she had all the time in the world, when the front door of the winery creaked open.

The breeze that slipped in was cold despite the warm afternoon, carrying with it the faint scent of snow and incense.

In walked Rosaria.

Her boots left faint specks of frost across the polished floor, her habit's veil hung slightly askew, and her expression was the usual blend of weary disinterest and “I dare you to make me care.” She didn’t bother with greetings, didn’t even glance at Lisa—just strode in, pulled out a chair with one boot, and dropped herself into it like gravity had personally insulted her.

“I need a drink,” she announced, her voice as flat as a nail in a coffin.

Diluc, mid-polish of a glass, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, already turning toward the shelf to select something strong enough for her temperament. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, well,” Rosaria muttered, pulling her gloves off with a sharp flick, “I just spent the last three hours trying to figure out if that bard—” she made a vague circling motion with her hand “—would make a suitable partner for Dahlia.”

Diluc froze mid-pour.

Lisa’s head snapped toward Rosaria so fast that her earrings caught the light. Her eyes lit up like she’d just been handed a particularly juicy romance novel. “Oh?” she drawled, drawing the syllable out like it was a fine wine.

Rosaria rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “The Church decided they should ‘quietly feel things out.’ I got put on the job because apparently I’m subtle. Which I’m not.”

Lisa pressed a hand to her cheek in mock surprise. “Subtle as a lightning strike, my dear.”

Rosaria ignored her, leaning forward just enough to plant her elbows on the table. Diluc set down the glass he’d been holding—just a little harder than necessary—and poured the wine with the kind of precision that said he was trying very hard to keep his voice level.

“So,” Rosaria continued, “I’ve been lurking around Angel’s Share, hanging out in the plaza, keeping watch in the Cathedral gardens… all to see if the two of them ‘have potential.’” She made air quotes with a scowl. “They do get along disgustingly well. I’ll give them that. But I can’t tell if it’s friendship, romance, or whatever bizarre bard-deacon rapport they’ve got going on.”

Lisa hummed into her cup, eyes glinting with restrained laughter. “And… what exactly are you supposed to do with this information?”

“File a report,” Rosaria said flatly. “To the higher-ups.”

Lisa tilted her head. “And what will you tell them?”

“That they’re wasting my time,” Rosaria said without hesitation. “But if I had to give an honest answer… there’s something there. The way he looks at Dahlia? Not casual.”

Lisa’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “And Dahlia?”

“Has that little half-smile that says he knows something you don’t,” Rosaria replied instantly. “Like he’s in on a joke with the wind itself.”

Lisa’s teacup paused halfway to her lips. “Poetic,” she murmured, clearly delighted.

Diluc, meanwhile, looked like someone had just asked him to stand trial for crimes he hadn’t committed. He silently set Rosaria’s drink down in front of her, the glass clinking faintly against the wood.

Rosaria took it, downed all of it in one go, and set it back on the table with a sigh. “Anyway. Thought you’d both like to know that your friendly neighborhood Sister is being used for the Church’s latest gossip project. I’m going to file my report, take a nap, and forget about it.”

She stood, tugged her veil straight, and left as abruptly as she’d come, leaving the door to swing shut behind her and the scent of frost lingering in the air.

Lisa watched the door for a moment, then slowly turned back toward Diluc with a grin so sharp it could cut glass. “Well, darling, isn’t this fun?”

“No,” Diluc said instantly.

Lisa’s smile only widened, her voice sliding into a teasing lilt. “It’s going to be so fun. Why, just think—Rosaria’s out there collecting data, the Church is compiling it, and you…” She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “…you already know more than any of them. You could probably write the definitive romance report yourself.”

“I’m not writing anything,” Diluc muttered darkly.

Lisa’s eyes sparkled. “Mmm, of course not. You’re far too dignified for that.” She gave him a little wink. “But I will be keeping an eye on you next time they’re in the tavern… just to see if you still get that look.”

“I don’t have a look,” Diluc said through his teeth.

“Oh, you do, darling,” Lisa purred. “And I can’t wait to see it again.”