#anyway i love diluc
diluc takes a tumble, and you take it upon yourself to patch him up.
it’s not that diluc’s against healers. he’s well-aware that they serve a very important function, and that their talents should not go unappreciated. but as much as he knows that, and as much as he understands that being in top form is essential for what he does of an evening, he still won’t go to one.
he just doesn’t like making a fuss.
besides, he’s only got a few cuts and bruises. chances are they’d heal in a few days anyway – and to avoid any questions, he could just hole up in the winery. occasional hermitage isn’t unusual for him, nor would anyone think it strange. so while it’s more than he usually comes away with, he thinks it’s nothing to get worked up about.
you disagree.
he hadn’t expected you to be here, nor had any of the staff alerted him to your arrival. he’d found you poking around the foyer when he got home, slick with sweat and bush branches tangled in his hair. in any other circumstance, he would have found the wide-eyed surprise on your face endearing. but as it was immediately followed up with fuss, he resigned instead to a feeling of mild displeasure.
“it’s unusual for you to be bested,” you muse, dabbing gently at the graze on his chin. “should monstadt start panicking?”
somehow, you’d sat him down in a chair upstairs and gathered a makeshift medical kit from various places in the building. diluc doesn’t even know where you’d managed to find all these things. he’s also not sure if you’ve got any medical prowess to boast of.
“i wasn’t bested,” diluc mumbles, doing everything within his power to stop himself from looking at your face. he thinks he might burn up otherwise. “i… tripped.”
“you tripped?” you sound like you didn’t believe him.
“yes,” diluc says, with the reticence of a man nursing a deep concern for his honour, “i tripped over some branches lying around the hilichurl encampment.”
“you got all these cuts and bruises from a couple of branches?” you’re growing more skeptical by the minute.
there’s a long silence, heavy with your disbelief.
“their camp was right next to a cliff,” he admits. “so, as you can imagine…”
“you fell off a cliff?” your jaw drops.
“yes,” he says, stoutly.
you laugh. it starts small, a little chuckle you seem to be keeping to yourself, but then it blossoms, loud and raucous and likely noisy enough to give his staff cause for concern. it startles him – he’s never seen you like this, eyes squeezed shut as you’re keeled over, a fist pressed to your mouth as though you’re trying to stuff the laughter back inside. it almost feels like a mockery of some kind, but he struggles to articulate how.
yet something in diluc’s heart stirs. something strange, something new, something he hasn’t let himself give in to. he’s felt it before, but he’s never let it take shape, never let himself dwell on it. such feelings are dangerous – distractions at best and a hinderance at worst. or, that’s what he likes to tell himself. it’s a good a reason as any to keep them to himself, shoved as far back in his chest as possible.
“what’s so funny?” he asks. his cheeks feel hot, and he’s becoming less sure he likes the sound of your laughter.
“it’s just the thought of you—you tumbling—” you’re still giggling as you try to speak, cheeks round and eyes sparkling as you look at him.
he still doesn’t understand why you find it so amusing. if you were to go tumbling off the side of a cliff, he couldn’t imagine himself finding such humour in it. but perhaps that’s because you yourself would laugh it off. you’ve never taken yourself too seriously, and he’s well aware of his reputation as a man with little mirth.
he thinks, in passing, that he would like to make you laugh more. but, he hasn’t the first idea how (and he has no intention of tumbling off any more cliffs). for now he lets you wear yourself out, waiting (impatiently) for you to regain your composure.
“i’m sorry,” you say as you take a deep breath, “the visual was just… just too much.”
diluc has nothing to say to that. he just grimaces, clenching his gloved fists in his lap.
your eyes are already back on his face, carefully looking for any unattended scrapes. “besides, i’m just glad you’re okay.”
he’s startled for the second time tonight. you sounded so… sincere, as you said it. and you’d said it like it was nothing – but to him, such small words… he knows there’s still people who worry about him – if he got seriously injured, jean would surely have a panic, and while kaeya was a problem all of his own, diluc was sure he would have at least a little worry in his heart. but to have someone say it to his face, with no worries about how he might perceive or it how appropriate it may be… it’s exhilarating.
and diluc thinks it’s stupid that he’s so worked up about it.
“don’t waste your time worrying about me,” he mumbles. he’s sure you can feel the heat emanating off him.
“i know you’re more than capable of taking yourself,” you hum with a smile. “but that’s not going to stop me worrying about you.”
diluc mumbles something incoherent. even he’s not quite sure what he meant to say.
that tugging in his chest won’t stop. but what was he supposed to do? you are one of the few people he can truly call friend – and of all the people he knows, you aren’t imbricated in the trauma of his past. your opinion of him isn’t coloured by who he used to be. there’s a freedom, a space to breathe in your relationship. you don’t pity him in the slightest, because you weren’t there. you remind him of the dawn, all gentle light and hope.
how would you respond, if he dared tell you that your touch made him feel like he might implode? if he admitted to wanting to lean into your touch?
he’s not brave enough for that. what if you found the thought repulsive? what if such an admission would permanently fracture the relationship you had? diluc is used to taking calculated risks – but this is one area he has no confidence in.
for now, he just wants to relish in this moment, as much as your touch makes him feel like he’s about to fall apart.
for now, this tenderness is enough.
