Once in his entire life with you, Diluc absolutely would.

He never sought comfort in wine — not since the night his world burned. He swore it off, swore he’d never drown in the same silence he watched consume others. But that night, when the argument cut deeper than either of you meant it to, something inside him cracked in a way he didn’t know how to mend.

It hadn’t been about something big, not really — but the words came out sharp, edged with exhaustion and misunderstanding. He said things too cold, you said things too raw. And when the door closed behind you, when your footsteps faded, he stood there for a long while — gloved hand resting on the table, knuckles pale from the grip.

That’s when he went to the tavern. His tavern. The Angel’s Share was empty, candles burned low, and the fire in the hearth was quiet — too quiet. He didn’t even turn on the lights. Just sat at the counter, coat still on, and poured himself a glass of his finest red.

The smell alone brought memories back — old nights, old regrets, his father’s laughter. He lifted it once, stared at the way the liquid caught the light, and whispered to himself that it was just to think, not to feel.

But when he took that first sip, it hit differently. Not the burn of the alcohol — but the weight of realization. The way the taste felt empty without your voice filling the room, without your laughter somewhere in the distance.

By the time you found him, the glass was still half-full, untouched for hours. He wasn’t drunk. He never even made it that far. He was just sitting there, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed against his temple as though trying to think through the ache.

When you stepped closer, he didn’t look up right away. Just a quiet exhale — the kind that comes after too many thoughts and not enough words.

Finally, he said, voice rougher than usual,

“I thought it would help me forget how much I miss you.”

And that was all it took.

You crossed the space between you, took the glass from his hand, and set it aside. He didn’t resist. He just let you. The next second, his hand found yours — hesitant at first, then steady. His forehead pressed against your knuckles, and he breathed in like it was the first breath he’d taken all night.

He never reached for wine again after that. He didn’t need to. That night taught him what he’d always known deep down — the only thing that steadied him, that brought him peace, wasn’t in a bottle. It was you.