[ when was the last time they'd needed their vision to know the lay of their boundaries, the divots of flesh and blood and bone? since when, diluc thinks, he has he needed to find with his eyes the narrow of kaeya's waist, the flare of his hip? perhaps when this began again in earnest — turned over to each other palms, known and unknown. known, once again, in the bracket of arms and the parting of legs. how stupid they'd both had been. how foolish, to think that the angle of the stars should ever release them from each other's threads. sewn together from the start, no matter the way they pulled and rallied and seethed — what would he be, diluc, without him? nothing.
nothing, in the way an empty room is. nothing, in the way of a cage door left open. nothing, in the way he dreams of the blood that runs sweet beneath skin — the warm, darkened shadows he bites into the curve of kaeya's throat.
he knows the game kaeya's keen on playing. all the evenings he wakes diluc in the dead of the night, seeking for an ember of reminder. a fragment of light. how bitter it is, that kaeya knows not at all that diluc is an ashen thing. he can give him no more than kaeya himself owns, the silver moonglow made for his skin.
and so: ]
I don't need one granted, [ diluc heaves out, eventual. pulled up from the draw of kaeya's warm body, the subtle press of his hip, the depth of his "agitation" rests more in the furrow of his brow and the curl of his lip. put upon, he hopes. incredulous. he does not lean into the touch kaeya gives, but how can he resist? no more than he might resist the way he seeks out the lidding of his lone eye, the tuck of his palm against kaeya's flank. an easy sort of pet, wolf teeth and snake venom. a willing hand, nonetheless.
how could he even ask? diluc would once have thought this. young as he was, naïve as he was, gentled in the ways of the world — he's not ignorant anymore. he knows. knows, as he knows the hatred that burns in his blood for all that he himself is. diluc ragnvindr — a joke, a residual stain of a former existence.
but, even so: it isn't as though kaeya hasn't dug into the tender recess of his breast. it isn't as though he hasn't dug out the heart that long ceased to be his. diluc can't remember when it last beat without ache of him. he cannot recall a moment without the rot of his love, the loam of his wanting. rolled through the corpse dirt, dredged up from the bogs, he'd long worn their childhood as a noose about his neck. how could he ever be without him? who was diluc, if kaeya did not exist? ]
You're already here. [ for all he has hardened, for all that the world has made of him something foul and free — there still exists that brazen sincerity. there still exists, diluc knows, a world that kaeya was never once lost to him. once upon a time, in the fragile shell of their reality, in a country called mondstadt. there were only two boys, he thinks in the quietest parts of himself, who knew nothing of the machinations of the world.
but, with kaeya laid beneath him as he is, perhaps they can pretend. just for a little while, as though the dagger has not cut already through softest parts of them. as if the scar he runs his fingers across now, a mottling of flesh, was not once inflicted by him. as if he has not marked the one he'd chosen, in fire and iron. as if —
heat burns up the back of his neck. it colors the apples of his cheeks, stains him as red of the wines he spares in the hours after closing. the dangerous cut of kaeya's upturned mouth. ]
If you want to be a tree, be a tree. [ he scrapes along the border of that scar a nail, feels the lurch of guilt and sickness in his chest. does it again, regardless. ] I don't care.
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nothing, in the way an empty room is. nothing, in the way of a cage door left open. nothing, in the way he dreams of the blood that runs sweet beneath skin — the warm, darkened shadows he bites into the curve of kaeya's throat.
he knows the game kaeya's keen on playing. all the evenings he wakes diluc in the dead of the night, seeking for an ember of reminder. a fragment of light. how bitter it is, that kaeya knows not at all that diluc is an ashen thing. he can give him no more than kaeya himself owns, the silver moonglow made for his skin.
and so: ]
I don't need one granted, [ diluc heaves out, eventual. pulled up from the draw of kaeya's warm body, the subtle press of his hip, the depth of his "agitation" rests more in the furrow of his brow and the curl of his lip. put upon, he hopes. incredulous. he does not lean into the touch kaeya gives, but how can he resist? no more than he might resist the way he seeks out the lidding of his lone eye, the tuck of his palm against kaeya's flank. an easy sort of pet, wolf teeth and snake venom. a willing hand, nonetheless.
how could he even ask? diluc would once have thought this. young as he was, naïve as he was, gentled in the ways of the world — he's not ignorant anymore. he knows. knows, as he knows the hatred that burns in his blood for all that he himself is. diluc ragnvindr — a joke, a residual stain of a former existence.
but, even so: it isn't as though kaeya hasn't dug into the tender recess of his breast. it isn't as though he hasn't dug out the heart that long ceased to be his. diluc can't remember when it last beat without ache of him. he cannot recall a moment without the rot of his love, the loam of his wanting. rolled through the corpse dirt, dredged up from the bogs, he'd long worn their childhood as a noose about his neck. how could he ever be without him? who was diluc, if kaeya did not exist? ]
You're already here. [ for all he has hardened, for all that the world has made of him something foul and free — there still exists that brazen sincerity. there still exists, diluc knows, a world that kaeya was never once lost to him. once upon a time, in the fragile shell of their reality, in a country called mondstadt. there were only two boys, he thinks in the quietest parts of himself, who knew nothing of the machinations of the world.
but, with kaeya laid beneath him as he is, perhaps they can pretend. just for a little while, as though the dagger has not cut already through softest parts of them. as if the scar he runs his fingers across now, a mottling of flesh, was not once inflicted by him. as if he has not marked the one he'd chosen, in fire and iron. as if —
heat burns up the back of his neck. it colors the apples of his cheeks, stains him as red of the wines he spares in the hours after closing. the dangerous cut of kaeya's upturned mouth. ]
If you want to be a tree, be a tree. [ he scrapes along the border of that scar a nail, feels the lurch of guilt and sickness in his chest. does it again, regardless. ] I don't care.