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There's a sort of quiet in the city of Mondstadt. A quiet, barely-there whispering that hails close to the heart and leaves a raw kind of ache, but evades the brain and so, resigns, unknowable.
But maybe the ache isn't really there. The flare of pain in Childe's side is a harsh reminder of the present. Each breath is labored, rattling through his chest like it wants to break free. The sky is gray, or maybe it's the haze. Are the clouds in the sky? Or the fringed edge of exhaustion overtaking his vision. Wet spots appear on pale cheeks and Childe basks in the scattered drops of water, crystalline and cold.
A wondrous way to go out, surrounded in your element. It's fucked and it's ironic and he closes his eyes seeking respite.
"You couldn't even die inside the city? You had to come out here and be slain like some common vermin?"
Diluc.
"Diluc Ragnvindr." Childe coughs into the palm of his hand, rain dripping down his collar and pooling the cold feeling of something akin to fear between the ridges of his spine. Diluc's hair, though soaked and matted, burns a fiery color, bleeding out into the edges of Childe's sight, otherworldly.
"Tartaglia." Diluc breathes the name like a prayer. A prayer to a long gone god, dead to the delusions of its people.
Childe peers through waterlogged lashes, Diluc's face barely illuminated in this cold dead night. The bright crimson color of his vision, hanging at his thigh, seems like such an impossible luxury to have at this moment. The rain soaks skin deep but the cold always runs deeper. Scars of anger and confusion run across Diluc's expression and Childe wonders, briefly, what it would be like to touch them. Would the lines relax under his fingers? Would it smooth them off his face? Would Diluc look younger, boyish, at ease. Or was Diluc cursed to always show his burdens.
He sinks back against the cold gray stones of Mondstadts walls, scraping feeling into his brain one last time before, maybe, he would die. Cool air floods his lungs and Childe thinks, thats a luxury too. The only sound he hears is the soft patter of rain against the ground, the distant roar of waves against sheer cliffs, and then Diluc's heartbeat flush against his ear.
Childe curls in on himself, his body aching, and Diluc wraps him up in his arms, delicate. Graceful. It's almost funny. This man, wields a sword as long and heavy as he, but is almost dainty handling the person he very well considers an enemy. Though the fabric of his coat is thick with water, Childe feels heat radiating off of him. And if he turns his face into Diluc's body it's for that reason, and that reason alone.
"You're so stupid." Diluc finally grits out as he makes his way towards the entrance to Mondstadt's north. And Childe looks up at him then.
Diluc's face is carved from marble, moonlight makes his skin pale, and emotion clouds his face. Glowing drops of water fall across his cheeks, and though Childe knows it's rain, he hates himself for wanting them to be tears. Diluc isn't a man who needs any more reason to cry. Childe isn't a reason for gods to waste their tears on.
"Lets get you home."
It's a whispered condolence, not meant for his ears. Home. An overused word and a misplaced sentiment. Home is a tough and bittersweet memory. A lozenge left to the air and turned over too many times in the mouth, the residue sticking and leaving a sour taste. Home felt like family, like his brother, beloved. Home felt like the barren wastelands of Snezhnaya too. White snow packed to the ground, the permafrost running so deep there was nothing underneath. The snow could shimmer all it liked but a flashy exterior is a pathetic facade trying to hide worthlessness underneath the skin.
Childe wants to laugh. It's harsh and scraping and carries no mirth but he does, muffled against the collar of Diluc's coat.
He feels it when they climb the steps within Mondstadt's walls. He feels it when Diluc nudges his elbow against the door, calling Charles to open it. He feels it when Diluc drops him down onto his bed, wind knocked out of him, graceless.
"Strip." Diluc says as he tosses something soft and white on the bed beside him. A nightshirt.
And he actually laughs this time. Hilarity borne of relief and comfort tears through his body and agitates his wounds. He doubles over and sees Diluc's face go red through the blur of pain.
"Do you want to go back outside?" Diluc spits. He takes off his boots and looms over Childe on the bed, his face a mask of indiscernible emotion.
Childe grins and gingerly takes off his sopping clothes, pulling his shirt over his head and finding Diluc sitting on the bed behind him. Diluc's ditched the coat and vest and stiff collar and is wearing a thin creamy undershirt. It's large and soft and makes Diluc look so much younger. His eyes are glittering. Something burns in his chest and he looks away.
Diluc takes care tending his wounds. Childe watches as blood running down his chest is carefully soaked up in a linen, and his abdomen wrapped in cloth bandages. It's methodical and efficient, but it's intimate too. His nails bite moons into his palms and he closes his eyes to the feeling of calluses gently scraping his skin.
"You could have let me bleed." The words are out before he can rethink, and Dilucs hands freeze where they're securing what Childe hopes is the last bandage. The only sounds in the room are labored breaths, louder in this new silence he's created. And maybe he hates himself a little for it. He forces a laugh, disdainful. "Why did you bring me here?"
And he regrets that too. Gods of Celestia, fuck whomever let him open his mouth because maybe, maybe he's too scared of the answer.
"You'll die to my hand, or not at all." The words were whispered, almost imperceptible as Childe feels rough fingers trace the lines of his back, the marred skin of his mistakes, touching remnants of his pain.
"Is that a threat?" Childe laughs, hollow.
"It's a promise."
He turns to look at Diluc. Mere mortals gaze upon gods and wouldn't feel pain such as this. Childe feels like he's being burned, the weight of his flesh turning to ash and leaving pearly bone, cleansing. Diluc's face is a mess of worry lines and concern. And maybe embarrassment too.
Those eyes follow him as he watches his hand reach out to cup his chin.
Childe traces each furrow and crease, watching Diluc's face relax. His lungs tighten in his chest. How wholly unfair for such a man to grace Teyvat. How cruel. Leaving nothing for the plebians but ash and dust.
His arms fall to his sides and words die on his lips. Diluc's eyes are dark pools and maybe it's stupid to say he's drowning when all he sees is blood. But it's Diluc and his skin and palms on cheeks and calluses tracing the lines of his lips and Childe's never felt so raw in this hellish existence.
The rain falls.
Childe goes with it.