Chapter Text
Charles winces as he stares down at his ankle, which is looking incredibly not like an ankle at the moment. Perhaps the ankle of some deep-sea creature with inverted joints, but not the ankle of any living human being. He’d tripped on a wine spill sometime around lunch and had either been injured or triggered a supernatural transformation.
According to him, it’s the former. Which is why Diluc is standing there, awkwardly patting him on the back. It’s good publicity to show care for employees, he hears.
“I can handle the bar for tonight,” Diluc offers, even though it’s a weekend.
Weekends mean more people, which means he has to talk to more people. Who are usually highly inebriated and talkative. That is something he likes to avoid, for obvious reasons, but something he’d also like to avoid is being the type of boss who makes employees work while injured, or the type of boss who gets sued for making employees work while injured. All in all, his hands are tied here.
Maybe he should hire more than one bartender for his highly successful and busy bar. He puts it on his mental to-do list, where he’ll probably forget until it inconveniences him again.
“Are you... sure, Master Diluc?” Charles gives him a disbelieving stare, and honestly, fair. He’s probably seen how Diluc deals with customers, which is a fair amount of stilted conversation (for regulars and decent enough customers) and silent glaring (for assholes and Kaeya, not that the two weren’t mutually exclusive). “I’m behind the bar most of the time, so as long as I don’t put too much weight on my ankle, I should be fine for the night.”
He sighs. “It’s fine,” he says, trying to convince himself of the words as he says them, “and you’ll be on paid leave, anyways—”
“Paid leave?” Charles is already halfway out the door, all hesitation gone in a flash. He supposes he should just be glad that Charles had bothered asking. “Alright, thanks, Master Diluc! Everything’s where it usually is, good luck handling the place for tonight!”
That’s how it starts, and that’s exactly where his idea of a peaceful night ends.
—
He’s Diluc Ragnvindr, he reminds himself. The owner of the most successful bar in Mondstadt and famed wine tycoon with a chokehold on Mondstadt’s economy. The Darknight Hero (even though he fucking hates that name) who strikes fear into the hearts of criminals.
He runs a hand down his face, defeated. “I have no idea what this says,” he admits.
The object of his ire is a wine label. Not the usual type of dastardly villain he faces, definitely, but a great deal more annoying than any of them. With them, he has the excuse of being an amateur vigilante, but he’s known how to read for years. Why is his brain failing him now?
“It’s either grape juice or aged Grave Figeac,” he says to himself, trying to puzzle it out, “or Grange des Rocs, or Greywacke. Fuck, why do so many wines start with G?”
The only letters he can make out are ‘g’ and what seems to be an ‘r’ bu could also be an ‘n’ or literally any other letter. He makes a mental note to make Connor attend penmanship classes when he gets back to the winery. And maybe literacy classes as well.
“...Fuck it.”
What’s the worst that can happen? Even if it isn’t grape juice, he’s sure that he’s come a fair bit from the person who passed out for 3 days after one cup of alcohol.
Diluc pops open the cork of the bottle and pours himself a drink.
He deserves this. He’s about to interact with people. He needs this.
—
A knight, an alcoholic, and a probably-underage teen walk into the bar. It sounds like it’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s really just Diluc internally narrating to himself as things happen. That means that really, his life is the joke here, which does sound about right.
Still, he serves them their orders (except for the teen, who he pushes a glass of grape juice towards— he’s not looking forward to being served a warrant) cordially and, for all intents and purposes, thinks that tonight isn’t going to be so bad.
As if to prove him wrong, Kaeya walks in five seconds later.
“Hello,” he says.
Diluc doesn’t respond. He pretends to be busy cleaning the same glass that he’d been wiping the entire night to avoid conversation.
“Hello,” Kaeya repeats, the word painfully drawn out, as he waves a hand in front of Diluc’s unblinking eyes. Then, when that doesn’t draw a reaction, he loudly snaps his fingers beside his ears. “Anybody in there, Mr. Bartender? Or have you finally been fully converted into an android like Katheryne—”
He blinks slowly, making sure that every inch of his distaste is conveyed in the motion. “What do you want.”
“I want to order,” Kaeya says, like he’s explaining to a toddler.
“Then order.”
“I’m going to.”
“Then do it.”
“Don’t rush me.”
Diluc is suddenly hit by the urge to have a violent breakdown. But they’re in public and also it would probably only spur Kaeya on, so he just goes back to wiping the glass, only a great deal more aggressively than before. From ‘a bird shit on my window’ aggressive to ‘there’s a strange stain on my shirt and I’m about to have a meeting’ aggressive.
Just as he diverts his attention, Kaeya snaps his fingers in his face again.
The glass cracks. “What.”
“I want to order now,” he says, smiling innocently.
He counts to ten internally, then counts back down to zero.
“Okay. What’s your order.”
Kaeya’s angelic smile turns into a shit-eating grin. “Haven’t thought of it yet.”
Fucking shit.
“If you aren’t going to order anything,” he says, “then I have the right to throw you out. Are you going to order now or not?”
“Oh, you’re going to throw me out? Like you threw me out of the house?”
That is a blow so low his father could probably feel it in his grave, and judging by the unmitigated glee in Kaeya’s expression, he knows it too. Honestly, he isn’t quite sure how to react, if only because literally no other situation he’s experienced could have helped him prepare for this.
Diluc blinks again, to stall. His next course of action is affected by several factors.
There are several things to note:
- He’s drunk.
- It’s a weekend, and he’s spending it on customer service instead of beating someone up to release his pent-up rage.
- He’s drunk.
- Kaeya and he have a history of strained relations that have not gotten any better since they tried to kill each other after their father’s funeral.
- He’s drunk.
So it should come as no surprise that instead of ignoring him as he usually does, he fires back with a sharp, “I didn’t ask.”
Kaeya’s eyes widen, then his grin takes a sharper edge. “When you threw me out without a second warning? Of course you didn’t,” he croons. “Shouldn’t be a surprise that you want to engage in a little... historical re-enaction. How about I punch myself in the face to make it more accurate, hmm?”
“No need,” Diluc says, because he’s about five seconds away from doing it himself, “the exit is over there. I’m not looking to argue tonight.”
“Oh, really,” Kaeya says.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“For the love of—” The glass shatters completely in his grip, and he moves to outright glaring. “Just. Just leave.”
“And what if I don’t,” Kaeya says, still smiling. “What then? Do you really think you can do anything to—”
Diluc tunes the rest of the sentence out and pauses. Glares at the shithead sitting in front of him with all the rage in his body, which is a lot, considering that his father is dead and he dresses up as a vigilante at night to cope with the loss. Considers the risks (moral, psychological, and physical lasting repercussions) and the benefits (temporary satisfaction) of what he’s about to do. Decides that it’s worth it.
Fuck it. Time for retribution.
He launches himself over the bar, wrapping his hands around Kaeya’s neck. “Listen here, shithead—”
“Kinky,” Kaeya chokes out, even as he pinches a nerve that makes his arm go numb. “Have to say, I knew there was something going in with your title being ‘Master’—”
“Shut your bitch mouth, Kaeya, before I—”
Suddenly, there’s an arm shoving its way between them.
It belongs to Huffman, who looks incredibly alarmed. Diluc is reminded that not everyone is aware that their specific manner of resolving conflict is beating each other up and that they are in public, where someone could have easily gone outside and alerted a Knight of their fight. In that moment of post-fight clarity, he wants to die.
“I— what were both of you doing?” he asks, eyes wide.
“Foreplay,” Kaeya says.
Diluc attempts to strangle him again, which, in hindsight, doesn’t really help his case.
Once they’re ripped off of each other and handcuffed (Huffman had been very wary of getting within arm’s reach of him after that, so he’d had to put them on by himself), Huffman tries to interrogate them.
Keyword: tries.
Considering he can’t get through a full question without stuttering, it doesn’t go so well. Which gives Diluc the chance to step in.
“Look,” Diluc says, trying for a smile that likely comes out as more of a pained grimace because he really does not need this right now, archons why does this always happen on his shifts, “how about you take a few free drinks on the house, and we forget this ever happened?”
Huffman blinks slowly. “Master Diluc, are you... trying to bribe me?”
He is, actually. But he doesn’t think it’s working.
“If he is, he’s doing a very bad job of it,” Kaeya comments from where he’s leaned against the wall. He’s toying with the handcuffs as if they aren’t getting fucking arrested, and Diluc hopes he breaks his wrist. Both of them, actually, so he can stop making the metal clink against itself in a way that makes him want to rip his ears off or cut Kaeya’s hands off.
“Shut the fuck up,” Diluc says pleasantly, in the way one would refer to a bird that just shit on one’s head. In this situation, the shit is every single word that comes out of Kaeya’s stupid mouth.
“My, my, Master Diluc! What would your father say if he heard such language—”
“Oh, so you want to go there, huh? Well, why don’t you go ask him yourself after I’m done with you—”
A cough. “How about I take both of you to the headquarters,” Huffman interrupts. His voice is slightly panicked, probably because the most powerful tycoon in Mondstadt and his literal boss are not the usual people he arrests. Typical inadequacies of the Knights of Favonius, always unprepared for anything. “And then we can get this mess sorted out? Please?”
Diluc scowls. “I’ll sort out his face.”
“You can try.” Kaeya rolls his eyes. “You can’t improve perfection, Master Diluc.”
“I know,” he replies flatly. “My father learned that the hard way when he took you in after already having me.”
He lets out an exaggeratedly offended gasp, as if he hadn’t brought up the ‘father’ thing in the first place and as if he doesn’t have even worse issues regarding fathers. “Excuse me? I was never as much of a shithead child as you were, Mr. Daddy’s Boy—”
“You want to talk about being a shithead, look at yourself first. What the fuck are you even wearing, you look more like a pageant queen than a knight—”
“This is coming from someone who wears a coat in the middle of summer—”
“And that’s coming from someone who wears fur—”
They argue all the way to the Knights of Favonius headquarters. People stare at them as they’re led by Huffman like piranhas on a leash, constantly snapping at each other. Diluc doesn’t really care; at least it’ll probably make them stop trying to talk to him in the future, in fear of him calling them a ‘worthless fucking whopperflower-head’. The only reason he hasn’t done that already is the usual lack of alcohol in his veins.