Work Text:
Venti had lived a long time.
Long enough to watch empires rise, forests die, and the biological abomination known as rut season become something society politely called "Spring" so no one had to admit it was three weeks of public orgies, property damage, and emotional trauma.
It was the smell.
He couldn’t smell it—he was Beta, after all—but oh, could he feel it. Spring hit the air like a wet sock to the face. Everyone turned weird. Even people who normally used their words.
Alphas got sweaty and tense and overly territorial. Omegas started singing to inanimate objects or biting strangers. Betas?
Betas were expected to “stay inside” or “don’t wear anything that makes you look like an unattended steak.”
So Venti—immortal Beta, former god, survivor of eight centuries of annual Spring madness—did the only logical thing.
He disappeared.
---
STATUS: MISSING IN ACTION (OR IN THE CEILING)
The Angel’s Share hadn’t seen Venti since Day 2 of Spring.
Kaeya had gone looking on Day 5, mostly to prove a point.
He found what remained of a blanket fort in the Cathedral belltower, a half-drunk bottle of dandelion wine, and an insulting note written in treble clef:
> “Gone to somewhere not dripping with hormones. Try not to rut on the piano. —V”
He hadn’t expected to hear from Venti again for weeks.
So imagine his surprise on Day 17, when he heard coughing from inside the Angel’s Share ceiling.
“Venti,” Kaeya said, looking up at a ceiling panel suspiciously ajar, “is that you?”
A pause.
“No.”
“Then who the hell is singing folk songs to the wine barrels?”
“A ghost.”
Kaeya sighed.
He knocked on the ceiling.
And then, a curly head of teal hair flopped down through the panel, upside-down.
Venti.
Dusty, sleep-deprived, vaguely feral. Wearing three cloaks, fingerless gloves, and a look of someone who’d seen too many things.
“You’re supposed to be hiding,” Kaeya said dryly.
“I am hiding,” Venti snapped. “This is a strategic retreat.”
“You’re hiding in the ceiling.”
“Because everyone else is hiding in each other’s pants.”
Kaeya tried not to laugh.
He failed.
---
They moved to the cellar—Kaeya convinced him with bribery (grape juice, not wine) and the promise that Diluc wouldn’t walk in shirtless again.
“You know,” Venti muttered, curled into a barrel corner, “I think being Beta is some kind of divine punishment.”
“You are the divine, technically.”
“Exactly.”
Kaeya sat on the floor, a respectable three feet away—neutral zone between "vaguely trustworthy Alpha" and "possibly terrified Beta."
“You’re not afraid of me,” Kaeya said, watching him.
Venti snorted. “Please. You’re the only Alpha I know who apologizes before opening a door.”
Kaeya tilted his head.
“Should I stop?”
“No,” Venti said quickly. “That’s what makes you tolerable.”
A pause.
“You haven’t bit anyone this Spring, have you?”
Kaeya raised an eyebrow. “What do you take me for?”
“A well-dressed disaster.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
---
It wasn’t that Venti didn’t like Kaeya.
He did.
Too much.
But Spring made everything complicated. Alphas and Omegas walked around in clouds of pheromones, twitchy and territorial and always on edge.
Betas? Betas just watched it all like civilians at a goddamn monster parade.
You couldn’t smell if someone liked you. Couldn’t tell if they were staring at you because they were interested or because you looked conveniently fragile. Couldn’t scent consent or attraction or danger.
You just had to guess.
And if you guessed wrong—
—you ended up in the hospital.
Or worse: in a relationship with an emotionally constipated Alpha who couldn’t tell the difference between protectiveness and possessiveness.
Venti had seen it. Too many times.
So he didn’t guess.
He just hid in ceilings.
---
ESCAPE ATTEMPT #7
Venti tried to slip out that evening, quietly.
Kaeya stopped him at the door.
“You’re limping.”
“I sprained my ankle escaping the Church basement. It’s fine.”
“You need help walking.”
“I have a stick.”
“That’s a flute.”
“Same thing.”
Kaeya leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, looking equal parts smug and concerned.
“I could carry you.”
Venti made a choking sound. “No thanks. I’m trying to survive Spring, not die from shame.”
Kaeya’s eye glinted. “Is it shame, or is it fear?”
Venti glared.
“You know what?” he said, poking Kaeya’s chest. “You’re annoyingly calm for someone whose entire body is probably vibrating with alpha chemicals.”
Kaeya’s smile widened. “I medicate. And I suppress. And unlike some people, I don’t crawl into church crypts when I get anxious.”
“That crypt was safe and had wine.”
“It also had nuns.”
“Listen, Sister Rosaria owes me favors.”
---
They ended up outside on the roof.
It was raining. Kaeya held an umbrella. Venti stood just close enough to avoid the drip but just far enough to avoid touching.
“I don’t want to be scared of you,” Venti said suddenly.
Kaeya blinked.
“You’re not,” he said.
“I don’t want to have to be. Not of you. Not of this.” He gestured vaguely. “Spring. Pheromones. The whole ‘you could break me with one arm’ thing. It’s exhausting.”
“I’ve never hurt you.”
“You could.”
“I won’t.”
“You say that.”
Kaeya looked down. Then he held out his umbrella, a little further.
Venti stared.
“What?”
“I’m offering cover,” Kaeya said. “Literal. Metaphorical. Choose.”
Venti hesitated.
Then, slowly, he stepped under it.
Close.
Very close.
“Still scared?” Kaeya murmured.
Venti rested his head against his shoulder.
“No. Just annoyed.”
---
By the time the blooms faded, the air cleared. People stopped biting each other. Klee was let out of the cellar.
Venti showed up at Angel’s Share with only one cloak and a full bottle of wine.
Kaeya looked at him from behind the bar.
“You're late.”
“Spring’s over,” Venti sang. “And so’s the restraining order from the Knights.”
“Did you write me another insulting song?”
“Yes. It rhymes with ‘you’re emotionally repressed and your hair smells like angst.’”
“Touching.”
Venti winked.
Then he sat down, ordered grape juice, and leaned his head on Kaeya’s shoulder again.
And stayed.