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It doesn’t happen how Diluc had been told it would. In the slightest.
The stranger’s hand brushes his wrist in an attempt to land a hit, and Diluc feels it immediately. The bond, trying to settle, to take up space. His first thought is not, surprisingly, oh, my soulmate is fatui scum.
It’s oh, my soulmate is a ginger.
“Hey, I heard that,” says the boy, and—it should surprise Diluc, maybe, the youth or the recklessness or the fact that a mere few seconds ago he’d been more than eager to slice him in half and now he’s veritably pouting.
“You were supposed to,” Diluc says.
They’re pesky things, soulmate bonds. Diluc had hoped, after Jean, that it simply meant he wasn’t bonded to anyone. Most people met their soulmates in their youth, after all. It was supposed to happen naturally, the mental bond giving away to the emotional one.
Diluc can’t picture ever trusting this murder-happy child enough for the bond to stick.
Well, at least you’re kind of pretty, his soulmate thinks. At him, Diluc realizes. Deliberately and appraisingly and with a smugness that makes him grip his claymore tighter.
…
Their first meeting ends in singed grass and sweat making Diluc’s clothes cling uncomfortably to his back. He’s faintly aware that he’s probably not supposed to try and actually murder his soulmate, but in his defense said soulmate seems to be giving it his best, too.
When Diluc falters, when he doesn’t dodge fast enough, he braces against the impact, the final blow. It doesn’t come. Instead, he opens his eyes to find a hand extended towards him, and the boy—youngest of the Fatui Harbingers, he reminds himself, dangerous and bloodthirsty—stretches and smiles and says, “That was fun, we should do it again sometime.”
…
It’s—less horrible than it could be, probably.
Kaeya laughs and laughs and laughs, and Diluc stands there and waits it out, because nothing is going to change the fact that his soulmate is part of the thing he most despises. Diluc would laugh too, if the irony didn’t sting.
The worst part of it is that the boy—Childe, a moniker as fitting as it is unfortunate—seems set on getting to know him.
“Why?” Diluc asks.
Childe stares at him. Blinks once, twice. “Because you’re my soulmate.”
“You’re fatui.”
Childe shrugs. “And you have horrible taste in clothing, but you don’t hear me complaining.”
Kaeya stifles laughter behind his palm. “I like him,” he says, and Diluc loosens his grip on the glass he’d been wiping, because neither of them is worth enough to justify accidentally breaking it.
…
Being inside someone else’s head is—odd. Diluc doesn’t have another word for it. Unless the thoughts are intended for him, it’s hard to make out anything much, but sometimes, certain things slip.
Bits of darkness. Memories of childhood. A boy, sitting by his father’s side, waiting with a fishing hook in hand. A boy, falling into something he doesn’t understand and coming out of it forever changed.
Diluc’s sure it goes both ways. That’s the point of a soulmate bond, the part that takes the most getting used to. But Childe doesn’t mention it, and he is grateful for that, at least.
…
“Why do you care so much about soulmates?” Diluc asks, because it has been weeks and the mental bond hasn’t gone away, and it’s starting to feel like he might actually have to try.
“I was terrified of dying, as a kid.”
“So you joined the fatui.”
Childe laughs. “Yeah, well, you can’t stare directly at the things you’re scared of without coming out of it a little—different.”
It strikes Diluc, right then, that they’re probably more similar than he’d guessed. More similar than he’d like.
“It—the idea of having a soulmate was—” Childe rubs at the back of his neck. “It seemed less horrible, I suppose? Dying, as long as there was someone out there who would make the parts before that mean something.”
Ah, well. You must be rather disappointed now, Diluc thinks, almost without meaning to.
“Not yet,” Childe says. “I’m pretty stubborn, Master Diluc, in case you haven’t noticed.”
It’s teasing, and Diluc has realized, over the past few weeks, that that’s just how Childe chooses to exist in the world, but it’s also the first time that it makes him feel like it means something, directed at him.
Diluc tries not to think too much about it.
…
“Please?” Childe says.
“Absolutely not.”
“You refusing is not going to help speed this along.”
Diluc knows that. Knows there are certain things supposed to go into establishing trust. And still— “How am I supposed to know for certain you’re not trying to poison me?”
Childe rolls his eyes. “Because I wouldn’t have spent an hour slaving over a hot stove if I’d wanted to do that. There are much easier ways to poison someone. Besides, what’s the fun in that? I’d much prefer a good fight.”
That’s—familiar, at least. It should terrify Diluc, probably. The sheer cognitive dissonance of Childe looming over him with a baby blue apron tied around his waist. The fact that Adelinde let him cook. But he dips his spoon into the strangely blood-like broth, blows the steam away, and brings it up to his mouth anyway.
Childe stares expectantly.
“It’s good,” Diluc says. “You’re—good at this.”
Childe huffs. “Of course I am,” he says.
Narcissist, Diluc thinks.
Childe hits him.
(Diluc should maybe worry about why it doesn’t feel all that strange.)
…
They settle. Fall into a pattern. They don’t talk about the big things and Diluc starts getting used to the sight of Childe’s smile, notices that when it’s genuine, when it takes even him by surprise, it’s slightly crooked.
And then—
And then.
Childe is gone, and Diluc tries not to think about it. Not to worry, because they’re not—there’s no reason to worry. He’s been gone before, and he’s been back, and they haven’t talked about it, because that’s how it works.
They don’t talk about the big things.
But Childe comes back with a nasty gash on his left cheek and bandages peeking out of the torn remains of his clothes and Diluc’s first thought is not what did you do? is not who did you hurt? No. Diluc’s first absurd, ridiculous, pathetic thought is why weren’t you more careful?
It aches in the strangest, most foreign way.
…
For someone so eager to fight, Childe is horrible at bearing the consequences.
“Hold still,” Diluc hisses.
“It stings,” Childe complains.
“Well, maybe you should have taken that under consideration before rushing in without any regard for your own safety like some kind of—”
“Oh,” Childe interrupts, with the most obnoxious smile Diluc has seen on him yet.
“What?” Diluc asks.
“You care.”
Sudden heat crawls up Diluc’s neck. “I do not,” he says, wrapping the fresh bandages tighter around Childe’s torso. “I am, however, aware that other people might.”
Childe hums. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Diluc says.
“Well, in that case, I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I left to run a quick errand—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Diluc says, reaching out to grab his hand.
Childe goes extremely still. They stare at each other wordlessly until Diluc lets go.
(Later, Childe doesn’t ask if he can stay and Diluc doesn’t tell him to leave, just sits by his side until he drifts off, and then spends way too long awake hearing him breathe in, trying to figure out why having Childe in his bed feels a lot better than wondering about where he might be.)
…
He doesn’t come up with a satisfactory answer.
(When she finds him poring over books in the library, Lisa laughs and tells him some empirical research might be better suited.)
…
Things Diluc knows:
- Childe is insufferable.
- Childe is his soulmate.
- Those two things are not nearly as contradictory as they sound.
…
When it happens, it happens quietly. Maybe it’s because the knowing, the parts of it they should still talk about—they’ve stuck. They’ve figured out a way to fit, strangely.
Diluc knows him, and it’s not even that terrifying of a realization.
“You always make that face when you think too hard,” Childe says.
“What face?” Diluc asks.
Childe moves closer. “You,” he says, “get these wrinkles right here.” His thumb brushes Diluc’s forehead, and it’s unexpected enough that Diluc stops thinking completely.
Because Childe—Childe flirts and he gets on every single one of Diluc’s nerves and he’s started semi-regularly making him food but—
They don’t do this.
Diluc swallows. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not sure,” Childe says. “Probably something stupid.”
Diluc leans in anyway.
…
Things Diluc knows, part #2:
- Childe kisses sloppily.
- He’s a shameless blanket thief.
- There are, definitely, worse things to be plagued by.
(He’s also maybe a little bit in love, but that’s not—that’s for later.)