111 » your lips have a taste of their own

[ironwind]

[Every now and then, the "Darknight Hero's" activities take him farther afield than usual. It's not a problem for him to be far from home, but it's a problem for his servants, who know his secret and would keep it with their lives. They never know when he means to return; they fret and worry until their young master comes home.

In days past, he would arrive home via his balcony or any of the windows, but these days, as a courtesy to his butler, who always waits in the foyer by candlelight until he's returned from his midnight vigil, Diluc comes home normally, by stepping through the double doors to his manor where Adelinde greets him with a weary smile. It's no use telling them to sleep; they won't rest until they know he's safe and sound. That's the type of loyalty money doesn't buy.

(The problem is this: none of them are battle-trained. Oh, Elzer may have once been trained in some school of martial arts from Liyue, and Adelinde may keep a knife strapped beneath her skirt, but besides those two, few people at the Dawn Winery know how to defend themselves against any kind of attack. Why would they, when their enemies would surely target Diluc himself, and their Master Diluc is so very strong?)

Perhaps he lingers in the kitchen for a midnight snack. Perhaps he takes a bath before retiring to his quarters for the night. In either case, there's no need to rush. With his foes suppressed and the safety of Mondstadt secured for one more night, Diluc surely has no immediately pressing concerns as he takes the stairs and opens the door to his bedroom —

— where he will find a complete stranger sitting at a little-used table in the corner of his room, lounging in one of Diluc's chairs like a king upon a throne.

The stranger smiles.]

Diluc Ragnvindr.

[Blond hair. Golden eyes. It's not the right shade of blond, and there's something angular and cold in his gaze that she doesn't have. But it's not hard to think of it, if he thinks of it at all. He's surely seen the missing-person posters pinned to the bulletin board in the Angel's Share, and they have the same soft jaw, the same suspiciously attractive face. Mondstadt's hero, that wayward traveler with the flowers in her hair — didn't she say she was missing a brother?

Lumine's brother presses a gloved finger to his own lips before Diluc can say a word.]

Shh... Keep your voice down. You wouldn't want to wake Hillie and Moco downstairs. They nearly stayed up all night waiting for you to come back, you know.

Comments

[falke]

[ For a moment he stands there, illuminated in the backsplash of the lanterns from the hallway; for a moment he stands there, in the doorway, wearing the tired weight of a mission that's not even really imposed on him so much as determined by himself to be necessary, to protect Mondstadt from both the risk outside of it and, of course, the risk inside, wearing a jacket that's a little dustier than it would be normally, hair that hangs back, loosened in its usual band. A gloved hand, resting on the door handle, may be the only telltale sign that he's agitated; his face is as impassive as always, silent as he takes in the details of someone who, he honestly thought, they might never find despite efforts. Fingers tight, he sighs, takes a step closer, and twists the lantern on just above the inside of the room.

Illuminated, Lumine's brother does not seem to pose as much of a threat as he may want to: he's small, short and slight and lithe, certainly, but not so imposing. He looks like he's been waiting there for some time, comfortable as he is, and that is a disappointment; he doesn't want to think of how he might seek to strengthen the security around the manor, doesn't want to think of how he feels a pang of guilt at having left at all. Then again--if things were better, easier, if the Knights of the damn city could actually do what they should, then he wouldn't be left to these nighttime excursions, would he? For a moment, he studies the man they've been searching for, the reflection of cold amusement in his gaze; then he steps in further, and shuts the door behind him.

He's not afraid of taking care of his own problems, but he also doesn't want to involve any innocent lives if he has to. Whatever the business is, here, it will be taken care of, solitary, in his room; or beyond it, if he can tempt this person out of the manor entirely. That's something that only time spent conversing with him will tell. ]

As did you? [ Casual and calm, he moves towards the mirror set above a luxurious wooden dresser--it's there that he takes a glance at himself, reassures his own lackluster expression, and then starts to shrug out of his jacket, letting it slide down his arms and off entirely. ] A proper gentleman would introduce himself before waiting in the bedroom, of all places.

[ And just because her brother may not seem dangerous, doesn't mean that he isn't: Diluc's eyes move from the mirror to the man, and with a sigh, he approaches the table, pulling out a chair so that he can sling his jacket onto the back of it and sink down to face him. ]

What do you want?

[ironwind]

[Diluc is calm, which is good, all things considered. It would be worse if he were on edge, or reached for his blade to dispel his unwanted guest. Still, while he may not be on edge, he's certainly on guard. Rightfully so, and the former traveler doesn't fault him for that. He wouldn't trust himself either if he were in Diluc's shoes.]

Should I have waited for you in the bath, then?

[It's gentle and teasing, but it sounds faintly hollow even to Aether's own ears. After all these years, he can't quite manage to be as charming and whimsical as he once was; there's a dull, weary edge to his voice, like a coat of tarnish over some metal that once shone as brightly as gold. Still, he presents himself as being coldly amused, and he is coldly amused. It amuses him that Diluc immediately takes a seat to speak to him, though any number of more angry reactions might have been perfectly justified. So polite, so obedient. Such a good boy, even though he fashions himself as the kind of man who stalks the streets to keep them safe.

Suddenly weary — old in a way that has nothing to do with his small body or his youthful face — Aether closes his eyes, resting his cheek on his knuckles before opening them again.]

Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not much of a gentleman. I would have knocked politely if I wanted to be seen.

[So he came through the windows because he doesn't want to be seen — and presumably, what he really means is that he doesn't want to be seen by Lumine. It would explain why she has yet to find him. What good is there, after all, in searching for someone who doesn't want to be found?]

You can relax, though. I'm not here to have a violent evening.

[He ought to do something to indicate that that is the truth. Slow and deliberate, Aether reaches out and taps the air over the table they are now effectively sharing; the motions conjure a variety of ordinary-looking bottles, two pristine glasses. None of them contain wine, but by the ingredients, he's making virgin cocktails. The bottle closest to the outlander contains a sweetly carbonated beverage from Fontaine; he lifts this by its neck and unscrews its cap.]

I'm sure this is news to you — [he pours them both an equal amount of the stuff, careless and graceful as a bartender at the start of his shift] — but we have business, you and I.

[He hasn't answered Diluc's point about introducing himself.]

[falke]

[ If he's been told to relax, it means of course that he won't. He had no intention of doing so to start with, anyway, because he has the sinking feeling he knows where Lumine's brother has been, knows that by the provided confession of essentially breaking into the manor through unconventional means, he doesn't want to be seen, or worse, found; yet he's found himself here, in the warm glow of the lantern-light seated at a table where he doesn't belong, telling someone who doesn't want to listen that they have business, and that much, at least, has him scoffing. ]

I don't usually attend to business matters in the middle of the night.

[ He's half-expecting it to be a weapon that emerges, with the way the brother conjures up something over the table, but then that would be a night of violence, wouldn't it? So instead it's a night of drinks he's not sure he's going to trust, in glasses that look too clean to be real, with a hand that looks too practiced at this to be doing it for the first time. Narrowed, his gaze goes from them to the bottle that makes a sound, soft but distinct, and then up to the face that bears it all. The ruse is, of course, that while he's watching him make these ridiculous cocktails, he knows everything being put into them--in theory. He can't test the validity of the bottles from here, and he's already certain he doesn't want anything to do with them.

With a sigh, he reclines back in his chair--more like he slides further into it, spine aligned with the comfortable backing, and draws his hands, from where they link together in his lap, up onto the table. It's another ruse, of course, showing that he also has no means of conjuring up a weapon, when the former traveler can see his gloved hands: but the lace of his fingers is tight, and he's more than prepared to draw back, cut right through the table if he has to. ]

Let's hear your proposal and be done, I'm not particularly in the mood for entertaining.

[ He's exhausted. He wants to be in bed, not sitting with all of his muscles tense, ready to strike, but he also can't leave this alone. Not when it's like this--not when he has the very person Lumine has been looking for, seated and dawdling with trite pleasantries. ]

[ironwind]

So touchy! That's all right. I have places to be, too.

[He tips the bottle back once the appropriate amount of liquid has been dispensed; he sets it back upon the table, where it makes the soft sound of weighted glass upon wood. He unscrews a second bottle, pouring a small amount of flavored syrup, and then picks up a third, to add a dash of juice. Stir and let sit. It doesn't particularly matter to him if Diluc refuses to drink or has the liquid disposed of later; it's something to do, really, something to keep his hands occupied. It reminds him of the days he traveled the world with Dainsleif by his side. I mixed him a drink at the end of the world, and he said it tasted of me. He's not sure, now, which of his memories are real and which are things he's only dreamed.]

Very well, then. Here is my proposal, Diluc: stop killing my servants, and I will show you where your real enemies are.

[He finishes the last of his movements, then lifts his glass to his lips, and drinks deeply of it. It isn't poisoned. It wouldn't bother him if Diluc expected it to be poisoned.

Aether doesn't elaborate upon what he means by servants; he doesn't say anything so cliché as I am the leader of the Abyss Order or I've lost twelve good mages to you this week alone. Perhaps he expects Diluc to come to that conclusion on his own; perhaps he is simply too modest to admit his involvement without being prodded to do so. But the only other possibility is that he is a Fatui Harbinger, and he doesn't match the known descriptions of any of the Eleven. So it goes.]

It's not as though I don't understand. [He closes his eyes briefly for another moment, perhaps as though he's dealing with some lingering eyestrain, or some other form of stress on his body.] I think it is entirely logical for you to act in defense of your homeland. But if I have not misunderstood...

What you truly want is not the protection of the city... but vengeance upon those who wronged you and your father. Am I wrong?

[falke]

[ A rare sight, in front of those he knows well, and an impossible sight, in front of those who are strangers--but is this person really a stranger? The longer that his eyes study him, the more he can see the resemblance. Their faces are similar enough, but the eyes are different, the hair a slightly different shade, and there's a determination, a freedom to Lumine's features that he's always quietly appreciated, a gentleness that isn't here in the face that sits before him. There's the same fatigue, though: that quiet hopelessness, buried deep down in the depths of those eyes, though Lumine's brother seems quick to relieve him of his ability to look at them.

In any case, he actually smiles himself, despite it all: he smiles, as he reaches to take the glass that's supposedly his; he's been around drunkards and regulars and Kaeya enough to know how to pretend to drink without actually having any at all, how to hold his fingers carefully around it like the thing is an extension of his arm. He doesn't trust the liquid inside, even as the former traveler takes a drink himself. It proves nothing.

He wants to pursue that line: stop killing my servants, the other says, and he wants to argue that really, if his 'servants' weren't so typical, weren't so terribly stupid in their movements, it wouldn't be so easy to be rid of them. Lumine's brother says he understands, that it's logical, and there's a small scoff, almost a laugh, under his breath, as he tilts the glass to look at the way the drink shifts inside of it.

But it's the mention of vengeance that has his fingers go tight, a minute loss of his practiced facade, a swallow before he looks back up at him, across the table. ]

If I truly sought vengeance, then why would I do anything to help this city at all? Why wouldn't I just stand back and watch it burn to the ground? [ Not that he thinks of himself as some grand savior, but more--that he can't really trust the Knights to do anything like they're supposed to, not even with Jean's steadfast determination to do right. It's impossible to fix something that's already rotten to begin with. ] You are slightly off your mark.

[ But there's an inkling. A small, small inkling, when he continues-- ]

What do you know of it, anyhow? You wouldn't be able to help me.

[ironwind]

[Aether meets Diluc's smile with one of his own, though he can see that Diluc's is a facade, and his own is almost genuine — almost, if only because he lost the ability to truly smile ages ago, centuries ago, when everything like innocence and wonderment was stolen from him by the cruel gods of this world. It isn't as though he wants to have it back. Why long for ignorance, after all? But Diluc's vehemence makes him smile. It's charming, in the sense that it's impulsive. It reminds him of the better days, of youth.]

I wouldn't, would I?

[Diluc's words are slowly echoed back to him, so slowly that they could be menacing in spite of how they pitch up into a question at the end. I wouldn't, would I. I wouldn't. Would I. There's something latent in it, something dangerously close to a threat. The implication is this: Do you really want to test that assumption, and lose what you might be looking for?

Aether continues.]

...I've wondered about that myself, to be honest. What spurs you on to work so hard? I don't mean to criticize, of course. It just seems to me that this city failed you as much as its Knights of Favonius failed your father. I couldn't quite understand why you returned.

[The "prince" of the Abyss Order takes a long, indulgent sip from his glass, casual as a man enjoying the company of an old friend alongside the delicate bouquet of a rich cigar. He leans on one elbow, half-regal and half-lazy, as if he has by now grown too tired to support his own body.]

You've met him by now, haven't you — the Anemo Archon, in the flesh? Did you ever think about asking him why he didn't intervene when you needed it most?

[falke]

[ It's clever. He can see that, at least: Lumine's brother is damn clever, careful with his words in a way that makes them a less obvious manipulation, but still, a manipulation all the same. It's going to take more than a few pointed questions to work him down enough to ask for help, or even accept it; that doesn't mean that these pointed questions don't hit where they're supposed to, don't make him falter and stare down at his reflection, mirrored in a glass of liquid he doesn't trust. It's true, after all: how did he end up here? Why did he come back? Why bother at all?

Is it just vengeance? Or is it something brighter? He wants it to be that, wants so desperately for it to be that he doesn't want to see other people fall, like he had. Doesn't want to see the effects of poor leadership, poor control, poor everything piled onto someone who can't handle it as well, or as terribly, as he did. He wants to be good, wants to be a hero only by actions alone, a quiet force that comes in to fix the things that are rotten and breaking apart in the city.

But why do you have to do such a thing? is the voice, the quiet voice, in his head. Why are you forced to take care of things when no one else does? ]

Why would he? It's none of his business. [ Right? Isn't that the way he's supposed to feel, supposed to think? ] He isn't capable of rescuing everyone. That's asking for too much.

[ Or is it? Diluc's hand breaks away from the glass; it sits on the table, and relaxed, he brings his wrist down under the edge of the wood, rests his hand against his knee and clenches it into a fist, once, before letting it go. ]

But the people need assistance. It's the least that I can do. Someone has to protect the city from your servants, as it were.

[ironwind]

[Aether hums; he lets out a breath, watchful and wary. Even after all this time, he's still cautious at heart, and he won't presume to think that his questions hit where he wanted them to. Still, this is better. This is closer to the conversation he wants to have.

Unlike Diluc, Aether never wanted to be a hero — but he's grown so used to playing the villain over the years that the only honest thing he can be now is tired.]

True. Barbatos doesn't have the power. Even though those so-called arbiters in Celestia have given him the right to protect and rescue his flock, he doesn't have the power.

[It's about freedom. Barbatos says it's about freedom. What a laugh. What hypocrisy. The gods never gave Khaenri'ah that same freedom.]

...He doesn't have that power because he doesn't care enough.

[And for a moment, maybe — maybe Aether is honest. That smiling, sweet-faced boy who broke into Diluc's home to offer him a drink of something sweet — his smile fades for a minute, replaced with something ice-cold and red-hot at the same time. Diluc might recognize that expression; he's seen it on himself, after all. The fury and rage of someone who is still seeking vengeance for some age-old slight.

Or was that lapse in his act just another act in itself?]

My interest in Mondstadt has nothing to do with the city itself. In fact, now that Dvalin has been tamed again, the city holds no further interest to me. But I came to speak with you. About you. Because you...

[His voice turns soft, even regretful, as he looks bitterly at Diluc through the pink liquid in his glass.]

You didn't deserve to be caught up in this game between cruel gods.

[falke]

[ Didn't deserve it? And why not?

It's something he's thought about often, something that's easy to ruminate on, during the long, quiet hours at the tavern in the middle of the day. Sometimes he just uses the work there as an excuse to be alone: not technically, of course, but patrons only care about the bartender as much as they care about getting their next refill, or their warbling rambles until their heads hit the counter. Most of the time he can be left to his own devices, his own plotting, his own thoughts. He's never necessarily doubted that there isn't some sort of design, to all of this: be that fate, or be it the layered decisions that lead up to some event happening; either way. But do bad things happen to good people, or do they just happen to people disillusioned with themselves enough to believe that? What could he have possibly done? What was it all in payment to?

Perhaps it's that Lumine's brother has hit on the precise weak point, the narrow hole in his armor, big enough to start to stretch and pull and tear into. He's quiet, for a long moment, staring in turn at the pink liquid of the other's glass, the liquid that mirrors his own, still untouched. He's forgotten the ruse of pretending to toy with the glass, rather than drink it; he's forgotten a lot of things. He should be the one guiding the conversation, and instead he's falling right into its traps. ]

And what do you know, about what I deserve?

[ Softly. There's a bead of anger in it, but it's so low and quiet it hardly comes out at all. ]

No matter your angle, no matter your skill, there is nothing that can be done now to take back what happened. Deserved or not. All that is left to me is to live with the ramifications. Do you intend to make that easier, somehow? Is there something you want to offer me?

[ Beyond stupid information and gilded threats-- ]

I don't accept pity.

[ironwind]

[Aether lifts the glass to his lips; he drinks deeply before he answers. He anticipated Diluc's anger, to a degree — it's always pretentious, after all, to claim that you understand someone else, or sympathize with them. Always presumptuous. If only forgiveness didn't taste so sour, perhaps the world would be less bitter, all in all.

He sets his glass back on the table.]

I want to offer you the Tsaritsa's head.

[The "prince" doesn't elaborate. The value of the prize — and its implications — should be obvious enough. Surely Diluc has realized by now that the Fatui, directly or not, are ultimately responsible for his father's death.]

[falke]

[ For a long moment--silence.

Mostly it's that he wants to laugh at something so incredulous, mostly it's that he has to dial back his own feelings. Oh, he knows that he comes off as decidedly cold at times, the emotion wiped from his face just as easily as he might wipe off the bar at the Angel's Share. It's something practiced, a skill honed over so many years of swallowing things down that now, there's no more room in the bottle of his emotions. They might bubble or boil over, spill from the top no matter how much, or with how much weight, he tries to hold it all down. The hand that's held against his thigh clenches again, fingers that curl in until his knuckles shake and he forces it back down again. But really, who is he angry with?

The creature in front of him? Yes, he may be responsible for a lot of the trouble--all of the trouble--that's hitting the city now. But the traveler's brother couldn't have been responsible for the rest. Wouldn't be. Couldn't be. Right?

So then what? The lazy, carefree nature of a god who says he blesses the city with freedom, and yet Diluc himself remains tethered, locked into a fate he didn't ask for? The brother--and that's a term he doesn't use anymore, never, not again--who couldn't do anything but cause more trouble to begin with, whose very presence sends him shuttling things into that contained bottle of emotion?

Or is he angry at himself?

Is this the only moment he'll have even a hint, a taste, a tiny grasp at revenge? Is it revenge, or is it redemption? Wouldn't the world be better off? ]

And in exchange... [ He says, slowly, though his gaze is on the table: on the glass, mostly empty now, and on the little bubbles that spatter from the pink liquid. ]

What do you expect me to offer you?

[ironwind]

Your cooperation, for one thing. Your resources, for another.

[For a moment, Aether allows himself a brief smile, one that stands out, incongruously, for its odd sincerity on his face. It might even be described as wistful.]

I used to travel, like my sister, with friends and companions. But nowadays, my friends and companions don't tend to have useful things like human names and handsome faces. And since Lumine has been so diligently making me a wanted man in every city of Teyvat...

[He pauses briefly, leaning his cheek upon his palm. The hunger with which he looks at Diluc is convincing for a red-hot moment — one might think the remark about handsome faces a serious one and not just a joke.]

It really makes dealing with merchants and foreign dignitaries so difficult. But the Dawn Winery would provide excellent cover for the things we occasionally need.

[It wouldn't be a takeover, Aether's soothing voice implies; it wouldn't be often. Diluc wouldn't have to think of himself as being in the employ of the Abyss Order. But then — functionally, what would be the difference?]

[falke]

[ Not wanted, he wants to say, not like a criminal - but decides against it. No, not until recently did he ever really think of Lumine's brother as a person who needed to be tracked down, or hunted, or pulled back for his own good. In the beginning, it had been just the soft, pleading of a young girl searching desperately for the only family she could remember having, and oh, the pictures she had painted of her brother had been so sweet, so quaint and sad, hadn't they?

Someone young, handsome in his own right, with beautiful long hair and striking eyes and a soft heart buried under a firm shield of moral good. And for awhile, yes, he had tried to aid the forlorn traveler how he could. But then she went to Liyue, and then things changed, and now, well--

Wanted is perhaps a good word for it. The double meaning. Everyone wants this brother gone, or at least sealed away, but he thinks Lumine still just wants her family back.

And isn't that what he wanted, himself? Hopeful and naive, at first? That he and Kaeya could go back and make believe and everything would be okay again? That begs the thought, then: which of them is the 'brother' that should be done away with, and which is the one that gets to stay the sweet, innocent object of everyone's affections?

He lets out a breath, but it's slow, and measured; he looks back up at Aether, and thinks that by some rights, they may be more similar than he would like them to be. Than is safe, to be. ]

Then let's give it a test run. I'm not entirely certain that I can be of as much help to you as you may think, so.

[ And he's not going to put the winery in anyone's hands, other than his own--that implication is made clear, by how he sets his gaze and then, in the same bored tone he uses for those business deals which he thinks with inevitably turn sour-- ] Is there anything you need, now?

[ironwind]

[Aether doesn't smile, but something like amusement flickers in the light of his irises as he peers at Diluc, taking the measure of him — and what little trust he may or may not have won — with a faint satisfaction. It's transparently cold and clinical; he hates that about himself. He misses his own soft heart. But that was a thing he had in days now long gone by, and if he has grown harder, plated with layers of steel and iron, he is hard and cold only out of necessity, to prevent himself from being hurt.

It's true that Diluc reminds him of himself in too many ways. That Lumine deserves a better brother, and that maybe, in some ways, Kaeya does, too. But it's too late for either of them to take back the things they've said and done, and so that leaves them both here, two men speaking of business, of things that should be logical and cynical even as they're plainly not.]

So eager to help? Or are you just in a hurry to be rid of me?

[There's more that Aether would say to Diluc, more that he needs to explain to him, but if this is where the conversation ends tonight, then that's fine. It's not critical for him to know everything right now, anyway.

The "prince" of the Abyss tips his head back and drains his glass, then lets it fade away, empty, into stardust.]

...One thing you might help us with. [He gestures loosely.] We need building materials. Stone, mortar, brick, granite. Lumber of all sorts.

The hilichurls are capable of primitive stonework, but mining and quarrying is a little beyond them — we've tried. [There's a wry, pained smile on his face. They were people, once. He might have known them, once.] That's where you might come in.

A few deliveries to certain locations. Nothing more. And if your couriers wonder why there isn't anyone to receive the materials at their destinations... Tell them not to ask.

[falke]

[ The request is curious, but like always, his expression doesn't change: his gaze simply moves from Aether's face down to his hands, where the empty glass disappears into a glimmering pocket of stardust, there and gone again. It gives him the moment he needs to not immediately demand answers for questions he thinks, at this point, he's better off not asking. Instead, he considers the still-full glass in his hand, turning it, twisting it slightly within his grasp before he sets it back to the table and gives it a gentle nudge. The edge of it skitters on the table, slides rather than dumps over, and hopefully the amount of force put into it is enough to propel the drink to Aether's hands instead of his own. If he's that thirsty, he can drink his share too, can't he?

It's an alarmingly simple request, but that likely means it's just one small piece to something larger, and nothing that he can even attempt to figure out now. Empty, his hand braces to the table, considering for a moment before he taps a few fingers to the wood. Weighing the options.

With a sigh, he looks up at Aether again. ]

Fine. Give me a list, and I'll take care of it.

[ He doesn't like the idea--even wants to volunteer that he carry out these deliveries himself; but he trusts that Aether knows better than to put his people in danger, and leaves it at that. ]

Will we meet again, after that? I'd prefer a different location.

[ The humor in his voice is rather bone dry. ]

[ironwind]

[Aether has no intention of putting Diluc's people in danger, of course. At the same time, he also doesn't intend for this to be the only thing that he'll ask the winery owner to "assist" with; it's just easier to ease him into the Abyss Order's activities more slowly, over time. And he has no intention of drinking any more — at least up until the Ragnvindr heir's glass comes sliding over to his side of the table with a bartender's careful precision.

Hm. Does Diluc want the "prince" to demonstrate that the glass was never compromised? Fine, easy enough — Aether lifts it by its stem, pressing the glass to his lips, his eyes locked on Diluc's in a silent challenge before he tips his head back and drains the full glass without hesitation.

No time to pull any tricks.

Kaeya would be impressed. It was non-alcoholic to begin with, though, so it won't have much of an effect on the outlander; he sets the glass down with a weary sigh after he's done, letting it, too, fade away into a constellation of stars.]

Oh? And here I was ready to make myself comfortable in your bed.

[The sarcasm drips from his voice. He shrugs.]

We can meet wherever you'd like, as long as you understand that I can't be seen in the middle of the Angel's Share. Is that fair to you?

[falke]

[ Curious that he downs the entire glass: it looks innocent that way, but how was he to know? Or, more pointedly, how could he know that nothing would happen to it the moment he took it to his own lips, versus the lips of Lumine's brother? It's not anything that he regrets or feels embarrassed for; it's the kind of precaution necessary when dealing with someone like this.

It's a joke--it has to be, he knows it is, and yet he doesn't laugh, doesn't even offer the hint of a smile. Instead, it's the weight of his gaze that bears on Aether, considering, wondering what else or where else they could possibly go that wouldn't be utterly conspicuous. He wouldn't have dared to bring him anywhere near the Angel's share; he would prefer to keep him off the winery grounds entirely. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, then? A soft sort of sigh escapes his lips, fingertips drummed on the table to consider. ]

Fair enough. [ A small wave of his hand in indication. ] How about the former capital? There are enough ruins there to hide anything, including talks with someone I shouldn't even be seeing.

[ His hands brace to the table--but it's so that he can stand. Nothing nefarious in his actions, but it should be enough to encourage Lumine's brother that his patience, and willingness, to entertain him has run its course. ]

I'll look forward to hearing from you soon.

[ A lie they both can recognize as one, at least. ]

[ironwind]

Old Mondstadt?

[Aether doesn't call it Stormterror's Domain, of course; those ruins precede even him. The expression that crosses his face is grim enough that Diluc might very well think he had something to do with it, though. The prince remembers well what it was like — that blissful journey with the wind in his hair and Dainsleif's blade by his side, the detours they took to hear the story of the wolf of the north wind... How long ago all that was, now.]

...Very well. That should suffice.

[He'd make more poor jokes in bad taste, but Diluc doesn't seem to like them, and thinking of Dain has put Aether in a sour mood. He doesn't rise to his feet. He waves his hand, and everything fades away — the bottle, the glasses, the pretense of something that Diluc was unwilling to entertain.

Aether hesitates a moment then, and in that moment, he looks strangely lonely. But that's nothing for a Darknight Hero to contemplate, and when his hand falls, his act is in place again, and there is nothing to question.]

I'll see you then.

[He, too, disappears like aurous dust on the wind, and then Diluc's room is empty, as if the boy with golden hair was never there.]