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The Prime 8’s aren’t good, exactly, but that’s not really the point.
Diego’s not musically inclined like Vanya, just picked up a cheap bass and guessed at it while Vanya tried her best to guide him, and Vanya’s not as good on guitar as she is the violin and neither of them can sing all that well.
But they’re pissed off and that matters more than talent. Punk doesn’t demand masterpieces, it demands rebellion. Diego’s pretty damn good at rebellion.
To his surprise, Vanya is too. When he came to her asking if she could help him figure out how to play, she had narrowed her eyes suspiciously, like she wasn't sure if this was a trick or not, and then agreed on the condition that she could join him. He was reluctant at the time, but he’s found out rebellion is even sweeter when it’s shared, when you have some beside you, ready to take on the world with you. He never figured it would be Vanya, but he’s grateful for her nonetheless.
Diego never even realised how angry Vanya was until now. He gets the vibe she hadn’t either, judging by her bewildered joy when they go backstage after a gig, grinning wild and terrified like a cornered animal waiting to be attacked and put down. She rips on her guitar and sings herself hoarse, borderline screaming, and the force of her rage feels as though it could start an earthquake. Diego knows that it’s because their amplifiers are set too loud and that’s what makes the bottles behind the bar tremble, but once Vanya sung a line so viciously that Diego imagined that the glasses that shattered were because of her.
He’s never been close to Vanya - Vanya’s never been close to anyone, never been allowed to - but now they share something, a bond created through teenage rebellion and punk rock records and poorly written teen angst-laden lyrics. Diego wonders if this is what being a normal teenager feels like - normal teenage rebellion, fingers raw from playing too fierce instead of fighting criminals, eyes black from smeared eyeliner instead of bruises.
Vanya takes up smoking and looks good doing it. Diego tried it once but ended up coughing and wheezing while Vanya politely tried not to laugh.
“Not as tough as you pretend to be, huh?” she muttered, somehow shy and daring at the same time, and when Diego punched her in the arm, it felt like, for the first time, they were a family.
They get good at applying eyeliner, with some help from a confused Allison and Klaus, though they find out the messier the eyeliner, the better, at least in the crowds they get involved in. Diego cuts Vanya's hair with a pair of kitchen scissors one day, cropped short just beneath her ears, and helps her dye it jet black later, encouraging her when she falters and gets anxious. Dad doesn't pay enough attention to Vanya to question it, though the others seem thrown off by Vanya's change in attitude and style. Luther eyes her judgmentally, but looks away when he catches Diego glaring. Klaus, at least, thinks it's cool. Dad raises an eyebrow at breakfast, but doesn't dignify her makeover with a response. That almost pisses off Diego more than if he had, but he's relieved for Vanya's sake.
They hide it best they can from Dad, but Mom knows - she caught him climbing out his window to a gig one night, stared at him with a mix of disapproval and fondness, then sighed and told him to be back by breakfast. He’d kissed her on the forehead, yelped cheerily, “Thanks mom!” as he crawled out the window and imagined in another universe her coming to see them, out of place in a crowd of pierced and tattooed misfits, confused but proud. It was a stupid daydream, but he loved this band and he loved her. The thought of combining the two was… unrealistic, yes, but it made him smile.
They created their own corner of the world where they could be free. It’s not surprising that it couldn’t last. Dad doesn’t like freedom, he likes control; he doesn’t like chaos, he likes order.
He doesn’t like his children stepping out of line most of all.
After the lecture, the cold disapproval and the caustic disdain and their feeble resistance, Diego lies on her bed sulking while she perches at the end smoking, more out of spite than anything. Paris, away from the Academy, to focus on her music - proper music, respectable and not a smear on the Hargreeve’s reputation.
A year ago, she would have gone gladly. Like Dad said, she has nothing to contribute. She doesn’t belong here. At some fancy school in Paris, she’d have a purpose; in the Academy, she is nothing more than a shadow.
But she’s found her purpose now. Guitar doesn’t come as naturally to her as violin, but punk comes to her more naturally than classical, rage coming to her more naturally than elegance, her heart pounding loud and in-sync with Diego’s bassline. She loves playing the violin, but on the stage, stomping her feet and yelling her throat sore and watching the chaos of the mosh pit in front of her, she feels real, alive and human in the best way.
That’s why, to the surprise of everyone in the room, when their father revealed he was sending her away that evening, she, for the first time in her life, yelled at her father: “But we have a gig tonight!”
A glass on his desk wobbled and, steadying it with a hand, his eyes went even colder.
The pride on Diego’s face made it worth it, though.
It’s the antithesis of what her father wants her to be. It’s the antithesis of everything she is.
That just makes her want it even more.
But it’s not a battle she can fight alone. Not against their father.
So she sighs, her mouth twisting wryly, “Guess I’ll see you at Christmas.”
At this, Diego sits up to stare at her, his sullen resignation gone and replaced with a defiant glare. Vanya deflates even more; she’s just been snarled at by their father, she doesn’t need it from Diego, especially not after the last year of him becoming the closest thing she’s ever had to a friend or ally.
“Fuck that,” he says and she sighs again. “No, fuck that, Vanya. If you’re leaving, so am I.”
“Wait, what?! You can’t-”
“Says who? Says him ? Aren’t you tired of putting up with his bullshit?”
Vanya looks away and focuses on smoking, breathing in and out steadily. Diego goes silent for a moment and then speaks up again, more level but just as fierce.
“You don’t belong here, Vanya,” and she tries her best not to flinch, but judging by Diego’s grimace doesn’t succeed, “But neither do I.”
Their eyes meet then. She doesn’t know what her face is doing right now, her brain too muddled to keep her face blank like she usually tries to. Whatever he sees though, Diego’s face softens and he reaches out to grasp her shoulder.
“If you’re sure,” she says.
“What makes you think I’m not sure about this?”
“A year ago, you barely talked to me.”
It’s Diego’s turn to flinch now. But he doesn’t look away.
“A lot has changed. I’ve changed. You’ve changed. Think it’s time for a change of scenery too, yeah?”
Vanya takes him in, cross-legged on her bed with a hopeful gleam in his eyes and a plaster across his broken nose where he’d gotten into a fight during their last gig. He looked ridiculous.
She smiles slightly, ducking her head. “Well, when you put it like that.”
“Like you said, we got a gig tonight. I’ll ditch out on patrol tonight and meet you there. We’ll do the show, take the cash, pack the van and hit the gas. Never look back, never come back. You with me?”
He sticks out his fist.
“This is a terrible idea,” she says and bumps it anyway.
Allison is immediately nervous when Dad calls her into his office. She’s been on thin ice lately, having recently been caught sneaking out to see some boy.
She’s not expecting what he asks of her. It’s been a long time since he’s asked her to use her powers on one of her siblings.
“Why?” she asks and then regrets it when he scowls, those piercing eyes of his narrowing at her.
“Vanya’s a bad influence on Diego. She’s distracting him from his studies. I need him to be focused.”
The way he says it is clinical, as if it's the most rational solution, like cutting out a tumor.
Allison agrees. It’s not like she has much of a choice.
"I heard a rumor that you and Vanya aren't close."
Diego doesn’t turn up.
She defends him, tells everyone he’ll turn up, just cut one more song, just one more, the chants for the Prime 8’s getting louder and louder until the throbbing in her head matches the beat. Just cut one more song, until there's no songs left and they kick her out.
The worst part is that she didn’t even doubt him. They were a team now, they had been for a year and she was already planning ahead, scratching out lyrics for future songs on some scrap paper as the stage was being set up.
She wonders, as she wanders out the club and in no particular direction, if this whole thing had been a lesson constructed by their father; the lesson being don’t let your guard down, the lesson being don’t rely on anyone but yourself, the lesson being don’t trust anyone, not even the people you love.
Especially the people you love.
Well, she’s learnt her lesson. Trying to ignore the way her throat tightens and her eyes sting and her breath becomes staggered, she stumbles along lamp-lit streets in the rain, not knowing where to go but knowing she doesn’t want to go back.
So she waves down a cab and tells the driver to hit the gas.
Never look back, never come back.
She doesn't.