𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 ; diluc ragnvindr

𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 ; of change and arrivals

DILUC RAGNVINDR HAD CHANGED.

There was no question to it.

No mysterious aura around him, no what had happened? It had not even taken a long time, like those novels had: like Darcy had changed his demeanor completely after meeting the flamboyant Miss Elizabeth. It was not as though he had turned back on himself and started singing along to bards' songs, nor was it as obvious as his face changing to a permanent smile.

Yet... everyone knew, and all too well: Diluc Ragnvindr had changed.

And then, there was something else that had changed; not just his demeanor, but the entire way he seemed to be. The first was when he wore something else for his night out, not just the same black clothes and the same thick coat that seemed to suffocate him but something else. A vest he'd last worn too long ago that fit snugly over his chest- a bit too snug, Kaeya snug- and no coat. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Helena Saturnalius had called him handsome that day.

Then there was his face. Jean Gunnhildr noticed it, too, from so far away; after all, he had never passed up on a chance to call the Knights of Favonius inefficient.

Look on the bright side, she'd said. That was what she always said.

Not just that. Just... everything- his frequent trips outside, his lengthening time away from the workplace which he secluded himself in. He bought flowers from shops and took them to god knows where, and Marjorie gaped at him when he'd asked for a pair of earrings. There were too many rumors, too; that, what?

That his father had come back to life? That he had found a girl? The latter had made its way into every ear in Mondstadt within a week of forming this new relationship with her, and as Diluc Ragnvindr had strode the streets, he knew how many still seemed to find this so surprising, after two months of the storm that had struck his life.

And... well, to tell the truth, he did not know. He knew he could not mope in the shadow of his father's death forever, but he also knew that the very thing was what kept him motivated, kept him going forwards; he knew this girl, whoever she was, was bad for him because she softened him and she made him smile, and she made the blood on his hands taste a little less sweet.

Of course not, he thought. But the poetry that spilled from the lips he longed to kiss and the stories that escaped her ink-stained fingers which he held as delicately as flowers, was almost too much to bear. She was the exact opposite of him and that was what he liked about her.

The tavern was bustling: as it always was. His eyes were fixed on the door.

Was that a flash of pale hair he'd seen?

His breath felt shallow. No, not shallow. Too light. As though he would take a breath in, and out, and that would carry him away. Like he would be nothing but the faintest scent of flowers in the air, to be gone in the blink of an eye.

The door jangled as he opened it, and several heads turned as the rich young master Diluc Ragnvindr opened the door in a red apron.

"Helena!"

She turned.

"Afternoon, Master Diluc." She raised her hand, and smiled. "I like your apron."

"I like your hair."

She glanced at him in surprise. From behind her, Patton watched their interaction with silent fascination; he threw the man a glare before turning to his muse again. "You do? Timmy keeps telling me it's childish."

"No." He was certain his ears were red. "It's..."

Pigtails. She was in fucking pigtails.

"It's... appealing."

She seemed to smile at that, leaning herself against the wall. He let the door fall shut behind him; there was work behind him, and customers, but this was just for five minutes. Not too long. Never too long, for her. "I like it."

"When do you not?" She laughed and held out her hand. "Close your eyes."

"I would rather not-"

"It won't hurt, if that's what you're concerned about." She prompted, and poked him in his cheek. He was certain his face was the color of his hair now. After so long, he still found himself unused to the notion... "Just a second will do."

He relented; wordlessly closing his eyes. Something slid into the chest pocket of his dress shirt.

"Alright." Came her voice. "Take a look."

He looked; she would be the death of him, and he knew that more than certainly now that he spotted what it was. A single small lamp grass.

"You seemed to like them last time we went out." She noted. "I thought I would get you one... it obviously wouldn't hurt."

He gave her a single, small, smile. He could swoop down, pick her up with one arm. Nothing would be so easy, but so hard at the same time; this was, he thought, the curse inlaid upon him. "Give it here," He said, and pushed her hair back in one swift move, tucking the grass behind her ear. "I highly doubt the customers will be happy about having something from the wild in a sanitary workplace."

No, that did not seem to be right to him. Was it that he wished to see her like this, just this once?

"You seem to care about your customers so much," She mused with a smile, "Yet you leave your station unoccupied."

Right. Right. He had been so drunk in her, he had simply not noticed...

"I was just out to recruit another customer." His fingers itched to take hers. Just this once. "Come on in. I'll allow you to drink today."

"Really?"

"Just two glasses."

"Really. You're worse than my mother, Master Diluc, and twice as strict. There's a reason I still call you Master Diluc..."

♬ ♬ ♬

HE LOOKED UP AT THE CITY GATES, HIS HEAD TILTED, LISTENING TO SOMETHING THE WIND HAD BROUGHT HIM FROM NOT-SO-FAR AWAY.

"Ah." He said, and his lips tore out into a grin. "Well, this is unexpected..."