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Cold.
It’s all Diluc can remember at the moment, feeling cold.
He’s not supposed to feel cold. He has a pyro vision. Where did he leave it? It’s always hung off his hip, on the chain his father gave him. It’s supposed to be there, but instead it’s missing.
No, it’s not missing. He left it at the Winery after his father- after the Delusion- after Kaeya, his brother-
There’s blood on the snow. Diluc can’t tell whose it is anymore. His own, the Fatui soldier’s who lies dead on the ground, or Kaeya’s.
No. Kaeya isn’t supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be back in Mondstadt, working as a knight. But his body is splayed upon the snow, blue hair surrounding his head like a halo. The gaping hole in his chest is from Diluc’s own sword. His brother is dead at his own hands, the cryo vision wasn’t enough to save him. He collapses forwards, trying to grab Kaeya, but the red blood on the snow is steaming. The puddle spreads and spreads until it’s a void swallowing him up and he’s falling into it and he’s screaming and-
Diluc wakes with a start. Waking might be too gentle of a word, actually. He snaps to consciousness, mouth parted in a gasp that never escapes his lips. The feeling of cold, of sticky blood hot on his hands, lingers. It’s something he’s never going to get rid of. If he looks closely enough at his hands, he can still see the blood crusted under his nails. He blinks a few times, and then it’s gone.
His head drops into his hands as a long, punched-out groan escapes his chest. Over a year has passed, and the nightmares haven’t ceased. A three-year rampage against the Fatui and a year-long recovery in the far north has left him tired. The scars on his back twinge in cruel mockery of the memories. The cold always makes them ache. He shouldn’t be cold. He has his vision again, right on his bedside table. As a pyro wielder, he should be warm. There must be a draft in his room.
Fighting the urge to groan loud enough to wake the rest of the manor, Diluc gets out of bed. Once the nightmares start, they don’t stop for the night. It takes just a bit too much effort for him to pull on a sleep shirt. The scars are pulling again, tissue knotted and tight. A storm was rolling in during the late hours of the prior night. It’s likely left a chill settled over Mondstadt, just enough of one to cause him a touch more misery than usual. With a grunt, he steps out of his bedroom and goes downstairs. A glass of water will do him good.
When he reaches the ground floor landing, a familiar sight catches his eye. A gaudy vase. Red, with disgustingly vibrant blue and green accents. That stupid “apology gift” from Kaeya upon his return to Mondstadt that he can’t ever make himself get rid of.
Kaeya’s hair is so, so blue. It’s almost black in the pouring rain but it’s so blue when that burning phoenix rushes towards him. The cryo vision doesn’t appear in time and he’s killed his brother, he’s killed his best friend, there’s blood all over the snow-
Diluc has to fight the nausea welling in his stomach. Unsteady feet lead him to the dark kitchen where he stands over the sink, fighting the bile rising in his throat. Kaeya’s alive, he reminds himself. The visions his mind makes up for him of what could’ve gone wrong that night, paired with the images of the men he’s killed, try to convince him otherwise. Kaeya, the traitor of their family, is alive and well. He’s sleeping in his little apartment in the city, probably trying to sleep off the wine he drank at Angel’s Share. He’s alive and he’s not dead by Diluc’s hand.
His musing is interrupted by a knock at the front door. It’s surprising enough that Diluc looks up, blinking at the heavy oak. Another knock sounds, and he groans to himself. It’s not a night that he wants company. But when does he ever? The heavy winds howl outside, and he finally becomes aware of the rain splattering against the window. As comforting as his solitude is, he can’t, in what counts to him as good conscience, leave a passing traveler outside. So, he trudges over to the door, heaving the heavy oak open with a less than enthusiastic greeting. “It’s quite the late hour. How may the Dawn Winery-”
Instead of a passing member of the Adventurer’s Guild, instead of a lost and soaked traveler, the doorframe is filled by a familiar tall, slender frame. Blue hair soaked black by the pouring rain. A barely-visible eyepatch. Bright flashes of lightning illuminate Kaeya’s soaked frame, and the blood coating his side. One hand is pressed over the wound he’s suffered, and he manages a smile.
“Master Diluc,” Kaeya croaks, his voice lacking its usual suave tone. “I don’t mean to impose, I just so happened to run into some… trouble. The Dawn Winery happened to be close by.”
Diluc blinks at his adoptive brother the bloodied man. The scene is like something out of his nightmares, fresh on the doorstep. He hasn’t called Kaeya “brother” in a very long time, but this reminds him of a moment in their youth. A younger Kaeya, running up to him with bloodied knees and demanding he make it better. He could always make things better.
Any words fall flat on his lips. He reaches out and grabs the wounded man’s wrist. It feels like he’s running on memories, reacting how he would when the only problem in the world was if Adelinde would find them sneaking snacks before dinner. He guides Kaeya to the couch in front of the fire, pushing him to sit down. Right now, it doesn’t matter that the furniture is wet. He just doesn’t want any more blood on his hands. Can’t handle it.
“Move your hand,” he orders, pulling Kaeya’s hand aside. The hiss from above makes something in his chest seize. Diluc doesn’t let any emotion show as he examines the wound, having to ruck up Kaeya’s vest and shirt to get a proper look. “What caused this?”
It’s a deep wound. The blood and gore hides the gouge until he squints at it, his eyes adjusting in the dark. The skin and muscle torn apart in Kaeya’s side is bleeding heavily. A pained laugh brings Diluc back from the stained snow of his memories and crashing back to the floor of the Dawn Winery.
“Treasure Hoarders don’t get any kinder during storms,” Kaeya says, voice tight as Diluc probes the wound. There’s very little of that familiar sarcasm and sass. “One of them decided to greet me with a knife, instead of any kind words, or an offer for shelter.”
Another strained laugh comes from Kaeya’s lips. Diluc spares a glance up. The wounded man’s face is a touch too ashen. Too pale. His tan skin looks almost ghostly. He doesn’t let the sinking feeling in his gut reflect on his face. His focus returns to the wound. There are no reliable healers nearby, and it’s too deep for stitches. He can’t have another death on his hands. He doesn’t want any more blood to drip from his fingers.
“I’ll have to cauterize it.” The words sound distant to his own ears. After facing death so many times, Diluc knows when to act. This wound could mean Kaeya’s death if he keeps bleeding. His hands warm with the flame of his vision, and he spares a glance up.
It’s a mistake. Kaeya’s expression is pinched. He’s sure he knows what he’s thinking about. That night, all those years ago, in a similar storm. The burning phoenix rushing off his blade, ready to burn a traitor to a crisp. The burst of cryo energy that stopped his death, and the wind blasting the two brothers apart. His mind twists and throws him into another blur of memories.
Kaeya is dead at his feet. He killed his own brother the same day their father died. The snow is red and there’s so much blood.
“On a count of three,” The world is underwater, and he’s watching his body from the outside. A small flame appears in a red-haired man’s hand, and he holds it to the wound on the blue-haired man’s abdomen. “One, two, three-”
Kaeya has enough sense to bite his own hand to muffle his pained sounds. Diluc watches from a distance as the small flame burns off any blood vessels, stopping any further bleeding. Kaeya jerks under his hand, and he brings his arm up to brace it against his hips. He holds Kaeya still while he burns the wound shut. When he stands to retrieve supplies to clean the blood, he doesn’t feel his body. And then he’s pressing gauze to Kaeya’s wound, and words are leaving his mouth, but he doesn’t hear them.
The smell of burning flesh and fabric. The pyre he built to burn the bodies of those he killed. Kaeya’s on top of them all, his star-shaped pupil, the symbol of his betrayal, staring blankly, dead in Diluc’s direction.
The wound is wrapped. Kaeya is laid down on the couch. The blue-haired man’s lips move, and sounds escape them. He laughs. Diluc hears none of it. He brings over water and a blanket. Some medicine he found under the sink. Kaeya takes it without complaint and lets his eye flutter shut.
The world slowly returns. The sound of the fireplace behind him. Kaeya’s gentle breaths. The rain pattering outside, the song of the wind.
Diluc doesn’t know when he took Kaeya’s hand. Warmth emits from his body, slowly heating the other man back up. His head comes to rest on the arm of the couch. He’ll keep vigil for a while. Make sure that Kaeya doesn’t get feverish and sick while he rests. He’d be a bad host if that were to happen. Father always said to be a gentleman.
Slowly, his eyes grow heavy. He’s present, but barely. His fingers interlock with Kaeya’s, just like they would when they were little. The fireplace is warm behind him. The rug beneath him is soft. When his breathing evens out, matching the slow rise and fall of Kaeya’s own, he lets it happen. His eyes slip shut, and he falls into memory.
“Luc, c’mon! We’re gonna get caught!”
A small hand is holding his, just a little cooler than his own. The boy being pulled laughs, racing after his brother. Crystalflies flit between the grapevines as the brothers attempt to evade the housemaids. It’s late summer, and the evening is warm. The sky is painted gold and pink.
“Kae, slow down!”
They disappear into the grapevines before tumbling into the manor. Their father stands at the dinner table, scolding them with a smile for being tardy. The blue-haired boy won’t let go of his brother’s hand until he has to.
The red-haired boy’s hands are clean. For now, the only blood on his hands is his own from a scrape on his palm. For now, he is warm, and he is happy, and his brother is by his side, and his father is wiping the dirt from his cheek. For now, all is well.