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The sting of it is the worst part, he thinks. The bittersweet as he watches his brother struggle with losing their … his father. He already makes effort to distance himself. Diluc notices. Kaeya brushes him off.
It’s fine, really, that they end up on separate paths. It’s for the best. There’s no way they could’ve made it through this, right? His decision is impulsive anyway, not giving himself time to consider the fact that other options exist.
The split between them is awful. It hurts in more ways than one, and the whole city notices. Varka gently tries to nudge them towards conversation, but they both repel like the same sides of a magnet. Fire and ice.
It’s for the best.
( It hurts to breathe past the pain of their separation, the guilt. He should’ve kept his stupid mouth shut. )
It takes a nudge from Kaeya for Diluc to go. ‘If you need to leave, just go.’ And so he does. Gone, and that just stings worse. The awful ache of loss seeping into every last bit of him, leeching from his heart to his wrists to his knees. Sometimes he can barely stand so he sits at the bar all day and laughs like he still has strength in him.
( Sometimes the bottom of the bottle is salvation for a godless sinner; he finds light and peace and forgiveness in the red of his wine, in the swirl of his sight. )
( Coward. )
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe, he misses what he had so much. Time marches forward, he knows, but now he sees why others cling so hard to the familiar, why this city is ever changing and stagnant at the same time.
The ache spreads further. Seeping into his fingertips, dulling his grip.
He puts in a request for a vacation, choosing to go elsewhere; a change of scenery would be good for him. ( No other reason. )
It’s accepted, and so he goes too.
The ache chases him across the grasslands and hills and valleys and rivers and lakes and - and -
Sometimes he sits and tells himself it’s for the scenery. His knees are weak, from the sight of it all, of course, and the strength to leave such beauty simply isn’t there. The tip of his blade dips.
Small little critters scramble in the sand and grass and across rocks, and he remembers chasing similar creatures in his youth. He’d stuck more than he’s willing to admit into his mouth, curious, wild, and Diluc would laugh or screech or copy him. The temptation to eat a loach or crab is distant from him now, barely there in the fog of the ache.
He meanders further out than he meant to, or at least, that’s what his excuse would be. The faded of his strength to match his mind, it’s easy to slip and let time flow away. To ignore himself, to ignore his surroundings.
Something smacks into his back, and he doesn’t register it as more than a firm slap, like one of the senior adventurers would do. Warmth in his chest at the thought; maybe it should be time to turn back now and head back to Mond.
Another smack as he turns, and even his shock is dull and far away as he sees a crossbow aimed at him. He barely registers the one behind it, instead looking down and staring at an arrow in his chest. It sizzles and burns against his skin and clothes, and the heat spreading across his back implies the same.
A hand raises to the wound in his chest, and he can’t take his eye off of it. In his peripherals, the scarlet around him brightens, and another arrow joins the first two. This one hurts more, punching the breath out of his lungs. Funny how easy it is for things to leave him these days.
The scarlet around him moves and somehow he manages to look up. Ahead of him is fire and flames incarnate, fury, outrage. The cool of Kaeya’s sword slips into his fingers as he summons it, pointing it at the man before him.
The tip of his sword dips.
He’ll hold out better this time. He will.
He won’t. He hears the wheeze in his breath already, and the shock of the sudden attack begins to seep through the fog. He can’t hold his straight posture so it switches to defensive, and the red before him pauses.
How quickly his breath disintegrates from a small wheeze to gasps.
The tip of his sword touches the ground. His knees join it.
Another sharp smack of pain in his back sends tears to his eyes, and the scarlet rips past him, roaring fury. It blurs in his vision, and then it’s gone.
Do something. Do something.
There’s warmth in his ear as he kneels there in shock, something he slowly realizes is a voice. Dark joins the crimson as it returns to his vision, and he looks up at it, just trying to breathe, trying to keep the warmth inside him from spilling. Mostly failing.
His ears are ringing but he still hears the bass of the other man’s voice, and another stinging pain stabs through his chest; guilt.
His name, again and again, trying to get him to focus, and pressure where the arrows rest in his body. It’s all a blur. Strength ebbs from him and his labored breathing only alarms the crimson further.
“Sorry,” the azure murmurs, letting his cheek rest against the crimson’s shoulder. “I bled on your clothes…”
Breathe in, and it’s shallow, and hurts. Shaky. It almost sounds like a sob.
Breathe out.