Chapter Text
[Ascension: 20]
Kaeya Alberich, in your esteemed opinion, is little more than a glutton for punishment sometimes.
It’s not as though you particularly dislike his presence. He’s a fine customer, if you could call him one—he takes his time weaving through the shelves of the Thousand Lives bookshop, his gallantry with the elderly customers knows no bounds, and at least he has the sense to put the books back where they belong when he’s done examining them. He’s cordial enough, too, which you’re sure is just par for the course with any Knight of Favonius. Especially the Cavalry Captain.
(What cavalry? All these years in Mondstadt, and you’ve never once seen a horse. The best you’ve got in town are dogs, cats, and those pigeons Timmie is inexplicably fond of.)
It’s just that his cordiality with you is a bit… particular. Sure, he doesn’t cross any boundaries when he speaks with you, but he certainly doesn’t make it easy to forget any interaction with him—right down to the knowing smiles he leaves you with before he turns on his heel. Right down to the first words he spoke to you before he requested, in his words, “the honor of knowing your name.”
“Well, now. I had no idea Lisa had hired a courier.”
Honestly. The nerve of him to call you something like that. It wasn’t your fault someone had accidentally left one of the library books in your reading area. You just had the decency to return it to its rightful home. Of course, that came with requesting an audience in the Knights’ Headquarters, and requesting an audience required an abundance of free time and patience. And apparently, Kaeya Alberich had a way of finding lonely people who had both of those in spades.
Apparently, he also had a way of happening upon where those lonely people worked. And complimenting them at every turn. And, for some mind-boggling reason, returning despite being shot down, and despite already having an abundance of the facilities you offer within the Headquarters itself.
Like you said. He’s a glutton for punishment. He has to be.
Today, for reasons that continue to be beyond you, is no different. He patrols throughout Mondstadt—just so happening to pass by the storefront every so often and just so happening to peek inside and just so happening to catch your eye every. single. time—and close to closing time he lets himself in, smiling faintly at the tinkle of the bell above the door and greeting you with a smile and a hand to his heart. As if that alone is supposed to sway you. But he’s still a customer, and you’re still the proprietor, so your courtesy is more than expected. You eyeball your inventory while he weaves through the shelves, and while you don’t proactively ask if he’s looking for anything in particular—because over time you’ve come to learn that he’s hardly ever looking for anything in particular—you do try to steal a glance every so often.
Because he’s a customer. And even if he doesn’t buy anything, you’ve never really believed in the concept of loitering anyway. If anyone’s looking for a place to post up and read for a while, your door is open.
(Maybe that’s why your finances take a dip every so often, but… ah, well.)
He’s been leafing through a novel—a classic epistolary one by the looks of it, but you have to squint at the title to get a better look—and after another moment or two he snaps the books shut and shelves it. It isn’t long after before he sidles up to your counter and congratulates you on “another hard day’s work,” even if by all accounts it hardly holds a candle to what he must have to put up with.
You sigh, blowing a lock of hair out of your face—maybe you shouldn’t use the ribbon from an old bookmark to tie your hair up, but it works most of the time, and it’s sentimental to boot—and you try to keep clipped but amiable. “Couldn’t find what you were looking for today, either, Sir Kaeya?”
Mischief sparks in his eye, and he leans forward, still mindful enough to give you your space but certainly teetering on the boundaries of it. It’s his way of doing things, you’re sure, to exude respect and somehow still make you deeply aware of his presence and intentions. “Must you be so formal with me?” he asks. “I’ve been stopping by for weeks now, haven’t I? Months, even?”
“Yes,” you deadpan. “I’m aware.”
He cocks his brow as if to say you’re welcome, though you’re not exactly sure what you ought to be thanking him for. It could be his company, but you wouldn’t be caught dead admitting to that—even if it is comforting, vindicating, to watch him pore over pages the way you’ve done on late nights. “You can drop the title,” he says. “I think we’ve moved past that point.”
“Maybe I’ll consider it if you put your mora where your mouth is.”
Kaeya chuckles and curls his hand under his chin, which you’re sure based on the frequency he does so around you is his way of saying, Touché. “You know, you never did tell me where the name of this place came from.”
“You never asked.”
He’s still smiling. Knowing. If you could wipe it off his face somehow, you would. “I’m asking now.”
You shrug with one shoulder, turning your attention to one of your regulars and their haul for the day. (You’re pretty sure they either devour books at breakneck speed, or they’ve developed a habit of collecting books without necessarily reading them all in between purchases, but you know how it goes.) “It’s from a novel,” you tell him once you bid the regular good night and start making the rounds to close up. “‘A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.’”
Remarkably—or perhaps unremarkably by this point—Kaeya follows a few paces behind, as if he feels the need to keep watch. Or keep close. “Pretty honest man, living only one life. Unusual, if you ask me.”
“Yes, well.” You toss a glance behind you. “Not all of us go around keeping secrets.”
To your chagrin, you linger long enough to catch the incline of Kaeya’s head, the glint in his eye that says he at once doubts you and knows more than he should. He hums, soft but curt, and every footfall behind you is purposeful yet deafening. “You run an awfully tight shop around here,” he comments to change the subject.
“I think the phrase is ‘to run a tight ship.’”
“Do you see any oceans around here?”
A grin tugs at the corner of your mouth; half of you is thankful he can’t see it. “In some of these pages, I do.”
Kaeya laughs again. You think he has half a mind to call you clever; you hate that you might not mind it. “And which life is that?”
You feign consideration, tapping your chin. “Five hundred seventy-six.”
“Have you made it to a thousand already?”
“Would you be surprised?”
“Not surprised.” Out of the corner of your eye, Kaeya runs reverent fingers along the shelves, over fresh spines. “Impressed.”
Flatterer. He must have a line like this for everyone. There’s a reason half the town thinks he’s so personable, and the other half thinks he’d be the perfect grandson, and it’s not just because he’s one of the Knights’ Captains. (Again—of what?) You’re not sure if they’re foolish for letting him be the keeper of their life stories, but you won’t lend him yours so easily.
To his credit, he has the courtesy to wait by the door while you finish up. He does this sometimes, waits for you to lock up as though it’s part of his duty. It certainly isn’t; no other captain has ever stopped by—not that you know any other captains by name except Lady Eula—and while other Knights and Miss Lisa have occasionally visited on an errand or for some respite from the bustle outside, none of them have visited quite so… consistently.
“You work awfully hard, you know,” he says after you’ve counted the till and put on the final touches for tomorrow. “You ought to take a break every now and again.” He doesn’t bother to look at you, instead opting to study his nails; you’d consider it a blessing if not for that mischievous twitch in his brow. “I know a tavern nearby.”
Your expression sours—of course that’s what he wants—and you give your satchel a pointed tug from its hook. If he’s really been paying attention during his visits, he’d know you don’t care for alcohol, have never even touched the stuff. “What are you getting at, Sir Kaeya?” you ask with a sigh. If it’s truth he wants, he only has to ask. Not that you’ll tell him most things, but at least you can tell him if something is classified.
You get the feeling hearing that would amuse him. Make him come back.
You haven’t quite decided if that’s a good thing. But then, you haven’t quite decided if it’s a bad thing, either.
The corner of his mouth quirks, like he wants to challenge the formal title again but judges that it’s better not to. “Can’t a customer extend his gratitude?” he says; it sounds a lot more like, Can’t a man indicate his interest?
“Of course,” you say to both, slipping out the door, completely unsurprised by how he follows a few paces back. “But someone of your status ought to consider his position, shouldn’t he? What do you think the townspeople might say if they saw a Knights’ Captain in the dark corner of a tavern, talking hushed with the bookkeeper? What do you think the other knights might say?”
“Well,” Kaeya shoots back, thoughtfulness and honey holding equal footing in his tone. “I imagine they’d say, ‘Yes, sir.’ You know. As they’re meant to?”
You roll your eyes. If he were a friend, you might have playfully pushed him. But he’s not a friend, he’s… actually, you’re not sure what he is. He’s just… Kaeya.
No. Sir Kaeya.
The distance is necessary.
He’s laughing to himself, closed mouth, through the nose, as the two of you pause outside of Angel’s Share. Of course he “knows a tavern”—it’s one of only two in Mondstadt, and the one you’ve seen him frequent the most. (Not that you’ve been watching him. Certainly not.) “That bookish side of you is showing again,” he says. “Dark corners, hushed tones… quite the imagination you’ve got there.” His head tips to the side. “Unless, of course… it’s something you’ve considered on more than one occasion?”
You squint. He doesn’t need to know that. “Shouldn’t you be heading to your post?”
Kaeya’s eye flickers toward the heavy wooden door, then back to you. It shouldn’t keep you so rooted to the spot. It shouldn’t, but it does. “Shouldn’t you be living your thousand first life?”
To its credit, Angel’s Share isn’t rife with noise or the stench of alcohol. You have to hand it to Charles and Master Diluc (though he scowls whenever you call him that despite your insistence): most evenings things run pretty smoothly, and with its connections to the Dawn Winery, the mora flows in like water here. Or wine. Whichever.
You’ve been here a few times, partly because it happens to be so close to the bookshop, partly because the monotony of the cycle between home and work and errands gets to be a bit much on occasion. You haven’t done much—merely ordered something without alcohol, taken refuge in the corner, sunk into the live music that some bard or even Miss Barbara herself has in store. But it’s better than the deafening silence that always awaits you when you turn the key. At least there’s living around you this way.
You’ve never come accompanied, and for all his questions and the quality time he maintains during his patrols and other duties, Kaeya doesn’t know much about what you do when the bookstore is closed. Kaeya lets you in first and holds his place beside you, and from one of the tables, Charles raises a brow at you. You shrug and try to pass it off like it was pure coincidence. As far as you or he or anyone else is concerned, you two just happened to make it to the door at the same time, and he was merely being polite.
But, apparently, Kaeya is the master of your inconveniences this evening.
Maybe you ought to start frequenting Cat’s Tail instead. You may not be familiar with the menu, but nobody knows you there. It’s a dream sometimes, to never have to be perceived.
You’re about to duck into the first corner you can find—at least attempt to unwind and sink into some sort of daydream to the tune of whatever’s on Six-Fingered José’s setlist—but all it takes is Kaeya clearing his throat to remind you of his presence. He nods toward the bar, and with a sigh, you slide onto the high stool next to him. Part of you wants to tell him this isn’t your thousand first life, just to spite him, but you’re not quite used to being so prominently among the other customers, and there’s a sparkle in his eye that shuts you up besides.
(Regrettably, you remind yourself.)
Diluc is working the bar tonight, and he fixes you with an odd look in greeting; it seems he’s as unsettled by this as you are. The two of you don’t talk very much—actually, Diluc doesn’t talk much in general—but you’ve always gotten the sense that there lived a quiet understanding between you, and perhaps even a mutual feeling of having had enough with… well, most things. Sometimes you think you might get along well with him, but he makes more of a point to distance himself beyond transactions, and you don’t see the point in giving chase to someone who could well outrun you.
You offer him your usual cordial smile and a nod, leftovers from your shift. He returns the latter of these, at least; then his gaze flickers over to Kaeya, and a cloud passes over his face. It’s probably in your best interest not to ask.
Not that you would ask.
Diluc looks between the two of you expectantly, likely wondering what the two of you could possibly have to do with each other—a question you honestly still ask yourself from time to time. “What will it be?” he asks in the curt customer service voice you know too well.
Kaeya, to no one’s surprise, orders a single glass of Death After Noon. Drinks aren’t meant to be downed and ordered so mechanically, as though that means anything to you. They ought to be savored in conversation, laughed over between sips while they take their time to intoxicate, like curls of smoke or frost gathering on a windowpane.
(Oh, brother.)
“And for you?” Diluc asks, strangely refreshing among the buzz of the tavern.
You spare one regrettable glance next to you, then rest your chin in your hand. “Just grape juice for me.”
Diluc nods again—“Good choice”—and you swear his eyes sparkle. It almost makes you swell with pride.
Kaeya, for his own part, sighs in mild disgust and says something about how “impatient” it is, but you’ll take what little victories you can get.