He kisses you, always, like he’s afraid it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.
It’s strange, too; because you can remember at the beginning of your courtship, when Diluc was still aware he was the only Ragnvindr left to carry on the name, and he was unsure of everything. That he had left Mondstadt at eighteen and spent the years after battling through harsh climes and conditions, with nothing to warm him but the blaze of his conviction. When he had first come back to the place of his birth, when he had squared his shoulders and breathed hard through the mantle of fear, and he had once more taken up the post of Master of Dawn Winery.
Those days of careful courtship, Diluc had treated you like he could not believe your existence; like you were a butterfly perched on a cecilia, or a particularly skittish horse. Like something easily breakable, that could at any moment decide he was not worth it. His hands had shook, when he had given you beautiful bouquets he had gruffly informed you he had cultivated himself. He had not quite been able to look you in the eye, when he had taken your hand that first time - his own so hot, even through his gloves, you had covertly tried to see if his vision was glowing without him realising it.
An awkward clash of tongues and teeth, of Diluc almost seeming like he wanted to pull away until you had wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, to reassure him that the kiss he was partaking in was something that was very much wanted.
He has gotten better at kissing. He has been like some prince in a fairytale, you think, though you’d never express the thought aloud to him; Diluc would flush violently, would demur the comparison, and somehow you know it would get back to Sir Kaeya what you had said and the Cavalry Captain would never let him live it down. Now, he takes your chin in his hand - his crimson eyes meet yours, and a smile tugs at the very corners of his lips, and he leans in so close you can smell the scent of smoke and lampgrass that clings to his person, the cecilia oils that suffuse his shampoos and conditioners.
And if the kiss is as you’d said - like he worries it will be the last time he will be able to kiss you - you do not say a word. It is not so much that it is a fight, nor is it that Diluc is clumsy with the way he touches you. It is merely that desperation leaks through in every movement; the echoing beat of his heart seems to say please do not leave me, please, please stay with me forever. He wants to learn the feel of your lips, the shape of your mouth, the sensation of your waist against his palm when he holds you against him.
And you know why, too. You know about the middle of the night - Diluc stirring beside you, kissing you on the forehead when he thinks you are still asleep. Diluc’s quiet dressing, the sound of your bedroom door shutting - and the knowledge that Mondstadt will be safe tonight, even if Diluc is not.
You know about the whispers that follow Diluc; about the things he was doing, when he was not properly tending to the Winery. You know about the shadows that fall over Diluc’s face when he dwells too long on memories of Crepus Ragnvindr, that seem to cloud over happy memories of his father. You do not know about Diluc, landing the killing blow on his father himself, if only to save him the suffering - but you know there is more to the story than anyone but he knows. Diluc thinks you would hate him for it - of course, you wouldn’t, but it is hard for him to marry the thought of sword slicing into the man who raised him and the knowledge that when his father looked him in the eye, he wanted Diluc to do it.
You know about the bounty on his head, if he were to ever set foot on Snezhnayan soil again. You know that he has brought himself the ire of powerful enemies - and though he may be the uncrowned King of Mondstadt, though your little pastoral nation would stand beside him, it is nothing really compared to the finances of Snezhnaya, the churning war machine of the Fatui.
So when he kisses you, as fiercely as anybody has ever been kissed, you kiss him back. You let your arms wrap about his neck as they once did what feels like a hundred years ago; you let your fingers tangle in the crimson strands of his hair. You try to commit him to memory; the feel of his muscles shifting beneath his jacket, the way his breath warms your lips, the soft grunt of surprise and pleasure if you tug on the hair, just a little bit. The taste of fruit juice that lingers in his mouth. The sensation of being his; beloved of Diluc Ragnvindr, of knowing that the man you have joined your life to would die for you and kill for you and love you in a hundred different worlds.
And if he kisses you, like it is the last time he will ever get to--
Well. With Diluc, it always may well be.
But even so . . . it would be worth it.
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