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“What are you up to there?”
That startles Diluc. He jolts upright from the edge of the bathtub, then whips his head around, messy red hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead and neck. His scowling eyes meet the intruder’s serene blue ones.
“Who are you?” He asks, voice a hoarse whisper. The strange man only smiles, before nodding toward the knife in Diluc’s grip, its handle already slippery with sweat:
“That’s gonna hurt, you know.”
Diluc can hear his pulse in his ears, feel it thrum much too vigorously through his veins. His eyes flick to the door. He’s sure he’s locked it.
“Who are you?” He asks again, louder this time. His voice still sounds much too weak for his liking. The man bends down until they’re almost eye-level, then replies with a grin:
“The name’s Tartaglia, but you can call me your guardian angel.”
A frown is now added to Diluc’s scowl. He stares at the man wordlessly for a long while, before turning back around, letting his head hang over his bare hands and the glinting knife:
“Archons… I’m actually going fucking crazy.”
He presses the icy metal to his wrist, but before he can do anything the knife inexplicably slips out of his hand and clatters to the bottom of the bathtub. Annoyed, he straightens up to reach for it; his fingers have almost grazed the hilt when, once again, the weapon suddenly vanishes from his grasp.
Diluc turns around, pissed. That… that hallucination, whatever it said it was, is somehow twirling and flipping his knife with a disapproving expression on its face. Never thought death would be such a hassle. He rises up and lunges toward it with surprising strength:
“Give that bac—”
SLAP!
Just like that, Diluc is on the floor again. One side of his face burns. When he looks up, the man’s gaze feels as harsh as the dawning sun:
“Your father gave his life for you. Don’t be so foolish.”
He lifts his hand, and with one flick of his wrist Diluc’s poor knife jams so far into the wall behind him it may very well split it in two. The sound is enough to grab Diluc’s attention; when he looks back again, the intruder is gone.
He can taste metal on his tongue. Dazedly hauling himself up, he walks over to the knife — but try as he may, he cannot bring himself to touch it again. Even the thought scares him, now. He turns to walk away, but his body just collapses to the floor.
That was the first time anybody ever spoke of what really happened that night, since his father’s funeral.
“That is the truth.”
That man has said to him, that evening where baleful claps of thunder outlined a confession never to be forgotten by Diluc. That is the truth, the enemy agent’s fists seem to roar each time they collide against him, each reminder more painful than the last. That is the truth, even the silence seems to whisper when he finally manages to wrestle the other to the ground, choking them to death and thus putting a rather bland end to their fight.
Shoving the still-warm corpse off of himself, Diluc stands, his vision shifting in and out of focus as he looks around. Almost a dozen bodies, none of them the ones he wants to see. Blood seeps through his ruined clothing as he shuffles around the scene, forcing his bruised brain to keep score of who he’s fought. His muscles scream for rest. He feels alarmingly close to joining these people himself, physically and otherwise.
I’m close, aren’t I? These scums all have the logo of the Abyss Order somewhere on their uniforms. They weren’t small fries either, like the ones sent to deal with me last time. I’m getting closer. I have to be. I’m so close, I could just—
The truth of the matter is he’s so insignificant compared to the ones plotting all of this against him, that it becomes near impossible to tell how close he is, and it’s an actual miracle he’s ever managed to get this far. He is just as clueless, and unprepared, and weak as he was, when he first had his eyes opened to reality.
Diluc’s foot catches on an empty gun lying around, and his whole body veers toward the ground at alarming speed — but the moment of contact doesn’t hurt nearly as much as he’s expected.
“What’ve you gotten yourself into this time?” He has no idea when these strong arms have looped around his torso to keep him upright, and if he senses anything familiar from that voice, he doesn’t let it show. Diluc cranes his neck, and what meets his gaze is that pair of placid blue eyes again.
He tries to stand on his own, to no avail. He’s truly finished. Still, a vague anger clouds his mind when the man hoists him up like a ragdoll, looking him up and down:
“You look like death. Well, actually, you’re dashing as always, but you must feel like death. Stop testing the human limits, wouldya?”
Even opening his eyes now is giving Diluc an unbearable headache. “Who are you?”
“Tartaglia!” The other man exclaims, matter-of-factly at first, then turning the slightest bit offended. “Have you forgotten my name? Is that why you didn’t greet me?”
Diluc must have dozed off, because the next time he regains his bearings, he finds himself sat propped-up against a nearby wall. Tartaglia’s weird cape swishes loudly behind him when he returns from the murder scene and whistles:
“You really did a number on them. None of those souls are leaving quite intact.”
“Why are you here?” Diluc mutters. Any louder and he feels his skull might burst. The edges of his vision begin to turn black, and the last thing he sees is Tartaglia’s dangling earring as he leans close and whispers:
“Because I’m your guardian angel, remember?”
Angels don’t whistle when people die — but when Diluc awakens in a comfy hotel bed with all his wounds treated and a still-damp towel on his forehead, he doesn’t think Tartaglia is completely lying, either.
“I’ve already told you everything! It’s over, Diluc.”
Hearing his name from his mouth pisses Diluc off more than he can imagine. He kicks off from the wall and lunges at Kaeya with both hands, taking his knife for himself as he does. He swings at him, but the eyepatched man has swiftly dodged away, now keeping at a safe distance. Diluc spits:
“Don’t call my name. And this is over when I say it’s over.”
“Stop being so childish!” Kaeya yells at him, his face twisted with emotions Diluc would rather not decipher. “At this rate, you’re playing right into their hands! How much more do you plan to lose to the Order?”
“I have nothing more to lose.” He charges at him again, Kaeya blocking the jab to his neck before disarming Diluc with first a knee to his abdomen, then by twisting his wrist so hard an audible CRACK could be heard. The pain causes Diluc to drop the knife, but it only serves as a distraction from the way the sharp edges cut into his flesh, when he seizes the blade mid-fall with his other hand and continues to attack. He swings up, catching Kaeya in the jaw with the knife’s butt, then flipping it around and almost gouging his good eye out with the still-wet blade. A kick to his hand forces the knife out of Diluc’s grip, though, and when Kaeya wrestles him to the ground, cut eyepatch slipping off to reveal that accursed golden shade Diluc wished he’d never have to see again, he’s made to recognize his brother’s frustration in full:
“You’re done, Diluc.”
“I said, don’t call my fucking name!” He roars, and with his still-bleeding hand punches Kaeya so hard blood spurts from his nose and dribbles down all over both of them. Not letting the other man recover, Diluc throws him to the side before climbing on top, his fists going to town on Kaeya’s face despite the sharp pain that shoots up his arms each time he throws a punch. Everything is stained red, his knuckles, Kaeya’s tousled hair, his vision until all Diluc can hear is static… and that’s when the other strikes back, abruptly raising his arms to parry his hits before kicking him off of himself, taking back the upper hand so fast Diluc isn’t even sure how he slipped up. He only comes to when he feels the chill of a knife’s blade digging into his stomach, Kaeya speaking down to him through all the blood dripping from his mouth:
“I thought I could trust you to know what to do with a secret. Let it go while you still can. Please.”
Diluc goes for Kaeya’s neck with his not-yet-broken hand — and that’s when he feels it, the knife sinking guard-deep into his flesh. The sensation paralyzes him, and as he lies there the truth comes crashing down on him again, mostly in the form of pain now coursing through his entire body. It’s useless.
“Go home, Diluc.” His brother says. With tears welling up in his eyes. Why is he crying? He has no right to cry. Diluc wants to stand, to seize him by the throat and shake the tears from his face, to wring that man dry of all the emotions holding him back from facing him head-on. But the truth of the matter is he can only bear to move after Kaeya has stood from his body, and even then he could only crawl after his disappearing footsteps, not even having enough life in him to voice the countless curses in his head. What he would give right now to get him to come back, to pay for what he’s done, to get an explanation out of the one that has sliced clean through the final safety net of his old life. Diluc is an adult now and he knows he has to face reality, but what he would give….
“Tartaglia.” The name comes out like a sigh at first, then gets louder as Diluc strains harder against the pain. “Tartaglia. If you’re real, please, please… help me. I need your help. Please.”
He pauses for breath. Listens. Uses the last bits of his strength to push himself up and look around, hoping for that familiar voice, those blue eyes, that blood-red cape. He could help. If he really is what he says he is. He will help him, like he always did.
But Tartaglia never came.
One. Two. Five. Six. Eleven. How many is that already? Diluc pops the next one into his mouth and swallows it dry. He could take this whole bottle. He already feels numb all over, but what’s a little more? His head still hurts. It always does nowadays. With all this thinking he might go insane. What’s a little more to numb his mind too?
He doesn’t know when he’s sat down by the toilet, but the reflex to put his head in there is still present when he gets woken up by a sudden tugging feeling in his throat. It comes again, and with an unceremonious gag he throws up all he has ingested, what’s left of almost half the bottle of painkillers splashing into the bowl and clouding up the blue toilet water. Almost as disgusting, as the look he guesses must be present in those dull eyes, when that all-too-familiar voice sounds behind his back again:
“Sorry about that. I was beginning to get worried.”
“Fuc— ugh…. Fuck off….” Diluc mutters, resting his head on top of the toilet seat. He’s too exhausted to give a shit about hygiene. Besides, with the claws of nausea still poking around in his chest, it’s safer to remain here if he doesn’t want to risk vomiting all over them both.
“I had to make you throw that up.” Tartaglia explains, as if Diluc is the irresponsible, unpredictable one here. “You knew that was too many.”
When Diluc doesn’t respond, he reaches out and places a hand onto his shoulder — only for the redhead to whip around and swat him away with more force than probably recommended for his injured wrist:
“Get away from me! I don’t want your help! I didn’t ask for it then, and I sure as hell am not asking for— mhng!”
He slaps a hand over his mouth to quell the sickness, but with a gentle shove of Tartaglia’s hand he’s back to doubling over into the toilet bowl, emptying out the rest of his stomach’s contents. That’s the second time this has happened, now. Another kind of sickness swells up from the pit of Diluc’s stomach, the kind he can’t throw up, and the taste is so much more horrible it draws tears out of his long-dry eyes:
“Get the fuck out! You lied!”
He gasps, choking on his spit in the process and letting out a string of coughs that makes his stab wound throb with pain, but Tartaglia doesn’t do anything. He just crouches there and looks to Diluc with such… calmness in his eyes, that would have prompted Diluc to suckerpunch him in the face if they were in any other kind of situation.
Sadly, they’re not, and so Diluc’s options are reduced to sitting on the cold bathroom floor next to a toilet full of his own vomit, while tears stream uncontrollably down either side of his face. “You lied. You’re not my guardian angel.”
“You’re right. I’m not.” Tartaglia admits, before joining him on the floor. The grime and scent don’t seem to bother him at all. “But I can still be there when you need.”
“Where were you then?” Diluc sobs out. It seems he’s done a poor job of patching himself up after his last fight; blood can be seen seeping through the layers of bandage around his hands, though Tartaglia doubts he would notice in this state. It’s not like his physical pain could ever compare to his mental one, anyway, else I wouldn’t be here. He wraps an arm around the redhead’s shoulder just as Diluc begins to sway, and steers him to collapse against his chest when the man finally does. Even though tears still stain his cheeks, some color has begun to return to his skin, and his breathing is gradually slowing down to a peaceful rhythm. It’s just the state of his soul — his stained, tortured soul — that is of any further concern for Tartaglia.
“Well, I’m here now.” He answers simply. In the blink of an eye, Diluc is already tucked into bed with a fresh change of clothes and clean bandages. There are so many things Tartaglia wishes he could do, but he settles for quietly smoothing out an unruly lock of red hair instead.
“So you can rest easy until you’re gone.”
“Diluc, you’re my pride and joy.”
A hand pats his head, the only one he would allow to mess up his hair.
“Diluc, don’t concern yourself with this, okay?”
A smile, stern enough to force him to nod, but gentle enough to reassure him as he does.
“Diluc, close your eyes.”
A final gaze, as calm and clear as the sky before a terrible storm.
Diluc wakes with a sharp inhale. Above him on the hotel bed, propped up on all fours, Tartaglia raises a surprised eyebrow:
“Didn’t think I’d wake you.”
“What are you doing?” Diluc questions, cringing at the croakiness of his voice. It is still dark outside, the city lights casting strange shadows across the ceiling and the other man’s pale face. Diluc pushes himself up on his elbows despite his aching muscles, and thankfully Tartaglia understands that to be his cue to sit back on his heels. One of his hands is tightly fisted when he retracts it from the side of Diluc’s head; when he opens it, the sight of a silvery bullet rolling out makes Diluc’s blood turn cold.
“Where did you get that?” He asks, and Tartaglia nods toward the window, cracks sprawling all across the surface of the glass:
“Somebody wanted you dead, I’d assume.”
He grips the bullet between his thumb, index and middle fingers, raising it up to eye-level and aiming it toward the broken window. Then, before Diluc can even register what’s going on, Tartaglia flicks his wrist as if he’s throwing a card — sending the bullet out into the night at inhuman speed. On the rooftop of a tall building a couple blocks away, a silhouette freezes, before toppling right over the ledge.
“Wha….” Diluc feels as though his heart is about to jump out of his chest. “Tartaglia, what the fuck?!”
“What’s wrong?” That gaze again. The air has become so thick Diluc can no longer breathe.
“You killed… that was… that could’ve been….”
“Who?” So calm. So full of omens. “I thought you wanted all of them dead, anyway.”
“Yes! No!” It is as if chains are being wound around his body — jagged, constricting, dark. “I, no, I—”
“Diluc.” Something warm cups his face. Tartaglia smells like the rain up close. “It was them or you.”
He presses his lips softly against the redhead’s. Diluc breathes into it, haphazardly at first, then slowly settling down into shivering inhales and exhales. Tartaglia’s fingers curl delicately against his scalp. When he pulls away, the smoulder in his eyes stuns Diluc for a good few seconds.
It was lovely, but Tartaglia tasted of death. Now that he thinks back on it, Tartaglia feels like death — or if not, then something pretty damned close to it.
Not that that stops Diluc from leaning in a second time.
“I’m going back.”
Tartaglia observes the redhead in silence. Over by the bed, Diluc is packing his things: the very few articles of clothing that have survived his “travels;” a handful of fake IDs; a sizable bag of Mora… plus a couple of very-much-illegal weapons tucked into the various secret compartments in his suitcase. He asks:
“Is your job here finished?”
“Far from it.” Diluc replies with a scoff — but, different from before, his eyes no longer teem with recklessness. “I just think— I’ve just realized, that killing myself off here won’t really serve any purpose… especially my own.”
Hearing that makes Tartaglia glad, even though technically it’s bad business. “Well then, I guess there’s no reason for me to stick around anymore.”
“Who said I’d miss that?” Diluc rolls his eyes, but still allows Tartaglia to help carry his suitcase to the door. The cut on his hand is mostly healed, but his sprained wrist can’t handle heavy loads anytime soon. Their fingers brush ever so slightly when Tartaglia hands the trolley handle back to the redhead.
“Take care.” Diluc says, not a speck of emotion in his voice. But when he leans in to ghost a kiss over Tartaglia’s cheek, something tells the latter it’s more than just a friendly gesture. “Shitty guardian angel.”
If only he knows, how much deeper that insult makes the wound in Tartaglia’s heart.
"There are rules, you know. You can’t save a soul like that forever. Someday, death will catch up.”
“Someday. But for now….”
The air feels heavy when Tartaglia arrives. Rain soils his pristine clothes and stains his shiny boots, but it is of little importance to him as he soaks in the surrounding scene. Bodies lay scattered among the remnants of vehicles, ripped uniforms making it impossible to tell which group they were sent from. It may not even have been an individual effort; after all, Diluc has made many enemies throughout the last few months, and his reputation as one of the (now ex-) capos of the Ordo Favonius certainly doesn’t help.
Not that any of that matters anymore. Tartaglia finds said man lying face-up a couple meters away, blood dyeing the grass around him a deep red. When he drops down to his knees next to him, the sound is loud enough for Diluc to crack his eyes open.
“You again.” He breathes out, while Tartaglia lifts his limp torso up from the ground and into his lap. He is beyond saving. “Who… what are you?”
“I’m a Reaper.” Despite knowing the confession would have to come, saying it out loud still pains him. Diluc is silent for a moment, flesh becoming cold as he bleeds out in Tartaglia’s arms.
“Ah.” He says. His words are so small now Tartaglia has to lean down to catch them, and this may be the first time the smell of blood overwhelms him so. “That’s how you knew? When to come?”
“Yes.” Tartaglia says. Diluc stares long and deep into his eyes, though his reds are probably much calmer than the other’s blues right now. His face slacks, and Tartaglia thinks this is it, but then Diluc’s lips curl into a faint, faint smile:
“Doesn’t look like you can save me now.”
“I tried.” His voice cracks. This is the longest Diluc has ever smiled at him.
“I know.”
He holds the redhead tight in his embrace. Diluc’s pulse is dwindling rapidly. “Tartaglia.”
“Yes?”
“When I die… could you still be my guardian angel?”
It’s a ridiculous thing to ask of a Reaper, but Tartaglia nods without a second thought:
“Always.”
He has long gotten used to never hearing Diluc’s “thank you,” anyway.
“Woah… right there! Grab it!”
Waves rush onto the sandy shore, sweeping the starconch away from the grasp of the children.
“No—!” Arms flying out toward the horizon as if he could somehow command the sea to return it, the red-haired one turns to his brother. “It was the prettiest one we found! Why didn’t you grab it?”
“Why didn’t you? You were sitting right there with the bucket and shovel, too!” The other one retorts, mismatched eyes starting to gloss over with tears. “Why are you blaming it on me?”
“Now, now, kids.” A cheery voice right next to them makes the brothers whip their heads around in perfect sync. The starconch they just lost has somehow reappeared right in front of their eyes, in the palm of a blue-eyed stranger whom both can swear wasn’t there just a second ago. “Is this the one you’re looking for?”
“Yes, that’s it! Thank you, mister!” The younger brother perks up right away, but is stopped by the older one’s arm stretching across his chest. Quickly plucking the conch from the stranger’s hand, he shoots the smiley man a suspicious look:
“Thank you, but we can retrieve it ourselves next time. C’mon, it’s time to go.”
He drags his brother away by the wrist despite the latter’s protests. Listening to them bicker until their voices disappear over the hill, Tartaglia can’t help but let out a chuckle:
“Be nice to each other, okay? You’ve both fought for long enough.”
With a spray of salty seawater, the beach is empty, and the waves once again ebb and flow undisturbed.