Chapter Text
There are a lot of scars on Childe's hands.
They don't look as if they come from that gleaming, black Telecaster he plays under the stage lights; the scars are far more jagged, like they'd been stitched together by an errant needle - likely without antiseptic - and then pulled apart again. That erstwhile kind of wandering that a wound does across one's skin when it doesn't quite want to heal quite right - Diluc knows it well. Although, he supposes the difference between him and Childe was that Diluc's stitches have been done by himself, lying on his back against the hot leather of a car seat or the prickly cushion of a bus bench, the thread clenched in his teeth as he pulled it taut. Fingers tacky with blood, he would lean back in that smoldering summer heat, knock his head against the window and sigh, the bloodied needle and tangled spool of thread in his crimson-palmed hands.
Childe probably had his wounds sewn up by a teammate of his - he was a boxer, he'll tell you, and conveniently leave out the illegal parts of competing in the ring where he loses blood and fractures bones for cash. Had a bag of frozen peas shoved against his face and shoulder sockets pushed back into place, still seeing stars from each sucker punch he took to the face. His fingers, permanently rough-hewn and shiny like satin in some lights, are used for violence and creating the most stunning melodies that Diluc has ever heard. Although he's unsure whether Kaeya helped him write those, or Scaramouche assisted him in blocking out the bassline that compliments them so well. Either way, he's still transfixed as the sweat shines on his skin like a shimmering veil underneath the stage lights. He watches from the bar, very still, and he waits for the crowd to start screaming as Kaeya takes his shirt off (idiot), fingers wrapping around the stand of the microphone, black nail polish shining like beetle carapaces. Childe, eyes darker than Charybdis, stares at him head-on, an inscrutable expression on his face.
There isn't anything to hold on to as Diluc spirals, his head clamoring from the noise and confusion as Childe smiles, and his chest is tight, and his hands are too hot, and there is something very, very wrong with him. Immediately, the lights cut out, and he shuts his eyes to the darkness, inhaling a wheezing sigh as he gets to his feet. All he needs is a breath of fresh air and a kilogram of Xanax.
He shouldn't feel that way when looking at Childe. He's not something attainable, and neither is he safe. He's an ornate knife, sharp-edged and made for wicked, wicked reasons, each of them as tempting as sin. Not only that, but Childe is off-limits because he's Kaeya's friend. That's a rule that has been there since Kaeya brought him home after school to sit on the floor and play video games, two spoons stuck in a tub of vanilla ice cream. After that, Childe was always there, as comfortable as a piece of furniture in their house. Diluc wasn't complaining when he was younger, though. At fourteen, Diluc thought Childe was an equivalent of a Greek god. He was perfect, with a bright smile, floppy hair, and he played the guitar. Diluc had stared at him for hours from the window of his bedroom as Kaeya pushed him, fully clothed, into their pool. The way his shirt had stuck to his skin and how his hands had carded through his soaked hair, drops of water glowing on his beaming face. That's the Childe that Diluc remembers. Now, he's older.
He grew into his hands, that lopsided grin looking softer compared to that cutting shape of his face, and now he's sinewy instead of gangly. Robust, lean, and sleek. Like a river otter, Diluc used to think when he was fifteen. Like a fucking demon, he used to think when he saw Childe in the ring, blood streaked across the dimple in his left cheek.
Fumbling with a pack of cigarettes, he pauses before he flicks the lighter open, staring down at the cardboard box in thought. In the time it takes for him to slide the lighter back into his pocket, the back doors he stumbled through are pushed open gently, and the scent of sweat, cheap alcohol, and saltwater washes over Diluc like rain. A scarred hand strikes a match against the rough surface on the side of its box and tilts Diluc's head to the side with nonchalant ignorance of how blood hammers heavily in the veins beneath the skin. Childe lights his cigarette, lets his gaze flicker down to Diluc's mouth, and takes the damn thing from his lips and places it between his own.
"You're not any taller." He states between a slow exhale of smoke and a long drag.
Diluc leans against the brick wall. "Sorry to disappoint."
Childe shrugs, then moves his hand close enough to Diluc's mouth that he can take the cigarette back, offering him a haphazard smile. "Never said I was. How's the wrist?"
Absently rolling the joint of his left wrist in his opposite hand, Diluc nods towards the pavement. It is slick with rain and glows gold from the streetlights, but beneath his boots, it's dark and inky, and he feels as if he'll sink into it at any moment.
"It's fine." Diluc replies. "Not much has changed since we last talked."
With a gentle nudge, Childe knocks his arm against Diluc's shoulder, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans. "No, no, a lot has. You're older, Diluc. You're not that cute little kid with the tortoise socks and the scraped knees anymore."
There is a gratifying feeling that comes with your childhood crush recognizing that you're not so young anymore, especially when they're older than you by three or so years. When Diluc was younger, he was the butt of all of Kaeya's jokes, so more often than not, all of his friends treated him like he was a lot littler than he was. Now, Childe is marveling at how much he's changed. The satisfaction that bubbles in his chest is something he assumed died a long time ago. Then again, he thought he would be fine when he agreed to go to Kaeya's show tonight.
There is a lump in his throat. "What's your aim here, tonight?"
"My aim?" Childe's smile falters. "Diluc, I'm not here to make a business deal or something. I just wanted to -"
"I'm not going to forgive you."
A beat of silence. Behind the ginger curls of his bangs, Childe's gaze falls to the floor. "I know. I'm still sorry, but I know."
As he shakes his head, Diluc's gaze falls to the puddles of rain around the cracks in the sidewalk, taking a short drag of his cigarette and flicking the ashes onto the dark stone. Next to him, Childe looks up, his head hitting the wall with a quiet thud, and he watches the moon paint the telephone wires silver.
The embers glow on the butt of the cigarette as Diluc takes another mouthful of smoke. "I used to think you were so incredible. A great brother, a good friend to my brother, someone so strong he could knock a jackass' front teeth out."
"What about now?" Childe turns his head to face him, a bittersweet smile on his face. The dimples aren't there.
"I don't know why I still do." He admits, but his brow furrows, and he waves his hand in disagreement. "You're a terrible person. You've done so much shit that hurt other people, you lie to everyone else about it, and I don't think you've ever seen yourself in the ring at your fights, but you're a fucking psychopath. I've never seen someone so thrilled to kick a person in the face so hard that they bite through their cheek."
With a heavy sigh, Childe shifts, and Diluc's skin prickles when he finds that the other has laid his head on his shoulder, breath tickling just above the neckline of his sweater. He feels Childe smile against his shoulder, and he hates that he can picture it so clearly.
He says, "It's okay. You're not exactly a saint, either."
Well, he's right. The redhead frowns, the smoke from the cigarette climbing into the air like bubbles rising from the depths of the ocean to reach the surface desperately. Diluc did the same thing Childe did. Fighting for the sake of it. But the difference between the two was that he did it alone and promised himself it was for his dead father, who would have been so proud to have such a strong son. The strength that he would have been looking for wasn't present in Diluc.
"What a pair we are, then." He mutters, barely above a whisper.
Childe beams wider. "Yeah. I'm glad you came to the show tonight."
"Why?"
"I wanted to see you."
They don't talk too much after that, but Childe doesn't take his head off from Diluc's shoulder, twining strands of red hair around his fingers like they're satin ribbons. Beneath Diluc's feet, the street only grows darker, inkier, and deeper. That his justification for why he gently holds onto the cuff of Childe's flannel shirt, fingers rubbing over the button in little circles.