Archive of Our Own

I had no memories of my mother.

I had more memories of slender tan fingers and soft strands of blue hair than I did of my mother. Not that I could be blamed for not being able to remember her. Growing up, Father had the house staff hide all things that reminded him of her. No one told me that, but I know the empty room right beside the Head Maid’s room would not exist and be locked for no reason. Father always used to underestimate my intelligence but it does not take a genius child to figure out adults. 

Still, it has been six years and the room has never been opened. Even, I had more memories of camping the halls outside of this room than those of my mother. 

“Diluc?” A soft voice calls out from my behind. Turning around, I see that it’s Kaeya. Kaeya, my little brother with his soft hair and innocent eye. He barely reaches my height and he’s far too small for his age, but something compels me to imagine a distant future with him. Kaeya, my little brother would definitely fit the role of being the future lady of the household. 

“‘Luc?” He asks again, rubbing his eye — a habit he picked up from me when I would want to go to bed. It’s barely after dark but part of me agrees that the exhaustion we both feel is valid. We’ve been playing in the fields the whole day, after all. Besides, figuring out what lies inside mother’s room drains far too much of my emotions. “What are you doing here?”

I stay silent for a moment. I wonder what Kaeya would do if I told him about mother. 

Giving him the best smile I could muster, I take his hand and lead him away from the room. I take him as far away from my childish fantasies of feeling my mother’s love.

“Nothing of interest,” I try to reply. Though I have the answer to his question too late, Kaeya nods but eyes me with suspicion. He’s cute like this — he acts far too mature and far too perceptive for an eight year old. I give him a soft pat on the hair, deciding to quell the conspiracies already brewing in his mind. “Nothing there at all.”

Of course, nothing.

Just like my memories of mother.

The game is a surprise for me. This is how I play with Kaeya: he strikes with words far too advanced for someone his age and I am left to figure out which ones are the truths and which ones are the truths he made up. I think our games are much better than the ones from my memory: Father’s hand wrapped around the neck of the body on the bed — unmoving and lifeless.

I don’t know who wins in my memory. Or maybe I do. It’s alright, I think. Having no memories of my mother. There’s nothing I can do about it. This is the knowledge that plugs the hole in my heart for fourteen years, etching itself deep in me. It’s alright, I think. In her stead, I have obtained a new little brother. He is not by my blood, or any of the blood of the Ragnvindrs or my ancestors before me.

‘Ge, I can be anything you want. He says with a pout and fluttering eyes. He’s not the little boy approaching me in the dark corridor in front of the locked room anymore, but he is still young and innocent, and he doesn’t know what he is offering. I am here.

I’ve read in a story in the library before that you cannot replace the living with the dead, and you cannot replace the dead with the living. There are no easy matches in this game. The night starts with his strike. I almost forget he is an eight year old when he tells me a truth and a truth he made up. The games we play aren’t limited to words, and Kaeya doesn’t know it yet, but the world is his arsenal. 

I don’t reply to him at all, and stare at the hallway that leads to the locked room. This is not an acquiescence. This is a strategic move.

I can’t explain how I know that there are no truths in Kaeya’s words. There is no easier way to get around it with words. I don’t think there’s a way to put how unsettling I’ve seen this before when Father played with my mother. In my memory, I do not even see her. But I’ve seen the eyes of Father — the same eyes I share with him, and I’ve seen the word on his lips. I see him hovering over the limp body and there’s a strange triumph plastered on his face in those moments. There is no logic to whatever it is, and I am reduced to one conclusion. 

I am not Father. 

Be a good boy, sweetheart, and go to bed. It’s the only offer I can give Kaeya. I am trying to be reasonable, but his nose scrunches at my words. 

Don’t call me that. His lips purse at me. This is my little brother in his most natural state: he does not let himself be molded by the words sweetheart or good boy. But he is not angry, no. I don’t think he can be, after I let him slip beside me in bed. This game we are playing — they are dangerous and they are better than any chess matches I played. 

You told me you can be anything. A good boy is what you are for me right now. I say with a hidden fondness, like the doting elder brother I am.

Okay. He says quietly as if it’s the only word in the world. For a moment I think, he will start a game, but instead he just stares at me. I commit this whole scene to my memory — the momentary stare, and the muted smile he sends after a few seconds. Alright, ‘ge.

I’m not sure how to win against Kaeya, but I don’t think winning matters much yet. 

There are different ways of disarming an enemy. The swipe of a blade, a twist to the arm, knuckles along the tender skin around the eyes. I remember most of these ways. I’ve used them multiple times.

“Are you really that desperate for the promotion, Lieutenant?” Jean demands after I’ve been sent to her to be healed. Disapproval is splashed across her face as she looks at Kaeya who’s sitting nicely on one of the crates in the infirmary as if to say: can you do anything about your brother?

“At this rate you’re going to experience burnout from the pressure you’re putting on yourself.” Jean adds as she raises her sword in one quick motion until we’re all inside her anemo circle.

“Master Crepus says Diluc is a great example but,” Kaeya smiles impishly, the hint of his boyish charms already manifesting. He’s ten — six whole years younger than me, but the full extent of his maturity is obvious.  “You are a little too obsessed with getting that position, Diluc-ge.”

Obsessed? Obsession is not this. Obsession is father shoving his untethered dreams into me, making me stand in the infirmary after a particular case of overexerting myself while sparring, forcing me to carry the family name like it weighs both everything and nothing at the same time. 

“I’m not obsessed.”

“I sense an argument incoming.” Jean says, raising her hands in surrender. “I’ve done my job. Kaeya, go take care of your brother. He’s on bed rest for three days.”

Kaeya takes her place on the seat beside my bed as Jean leaves. The silence of the sunny afternoon envelops us both before he takes a shaky breath.

“I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on being Cavalry Captain if you’re not obsessed.”

Part of me wants to tell him why. Except I’m not ready for an explanation without telling him about my memories. Without telling him about mother, and the locked room. Without telling him about how much Father wanted this position in the past, and now that it’s within my reach, I could meet memories of my mother using this position as my bargaining chip.

I can’t tell him anything about all these. 

So instead I say: I don’t understand why you seem jealous of what I’m doing, all because I don’t spend every waking moment submitting to your whims.

There are harder ways to disarm armies and win wars. Bodies against each other, information not meant to be dropped callously, the quiet betrayal in submission to the enemy’s touch. These are the finality of a victory.

I pull away from the panting young boy, leaving him lying on the infirmary bed, eyes wide and mouth agape at what just happened.

Obsessed. This is what I think of before sleeping alone for the first time in my bed. Obsessed is also what I whisper in my dreams and I’m partially sure this explains the need to taste my little brother in my mouth.

Here are problems that I need to fix. Kaeya refuses to meet my eyes the next day. He is at the training grounds like the usual, doe-eyed and kept away at the corner of the area. In all honesty, I don’t know what to do with my little brother. I fear I’ve crossed a line between the two of us and it’s evident in the way his posture stiffens when I send the recruits on a break to come and seek him out. 

I’ve never been the type to be sweaty, but this boy, he is all sweat in the back, and in the eyes. Even the slightest raised voice could send him into the edge. He is delicate but he is not fragile. Yet, I am a weapon on my own against him. I could make this boy cry if I wanted to. I could break this boy if I wanted to. 

And I want to. 

(This is a problem.)

His eyes are glued to the ground, and I place a hand on his shoulder as if to anchor ourselves both in our positions.

Kaeya has always avoided touches from others, but even as he’s avoiding me, the way he leans closer to my touch makes him transparent enough for me to be assured that he is not scared or disgusted by me.

He has better things to be scared and disgusted of. 

The Abyss Order, for example, is both made up of things that are scary and disgusting. 

And it is, admittedly, the bigger problem than my little brother avoiding me.

The opportunity I’ve been waiting for presents itself to me a few days later. Inspector Eroch has called me into the room, brooch in hand. He pins the bronze metal onto the lapel of my crème coat, drawing attention to the contrast of the colors.

“You’re the youngest one yet,” he has this smile on his face that feels too insincere. “— Captain.”

Somehow the title tastes more like defeat than any other battle I’ve lost. Maybe it’s foreshadowing. I haven’t gotten any chance to figure out what utter defeat loss tastes like. Kaeya barely teaches me — even with the cracks between us, the way he seeks out my touch when I’m close to him is more of a sweet triumph that burns through the back of my memory.

The Inspector sighs as if disappointed with your lack of reply. He rubs his nose, expression turning dark. “Remember, Ragnvindr — do not get too complacent just because you’re Cavalry Captain. This doesn’t mean you could be greedy too, young man. It’d do you well to commit that to your memory.”

I know, I want to reply. But, I don’t. I’m not going to be greedy like you, fuckers.

I’m familiar with greed. Here’s the thing about it: I’ve seen it in my Father’s eyes — the same ones I inherited. He used to look at my mother with it in his eyes. Like he wanted to swallow her whole, but could only manage halfway and spat her out. My father is a greedy man — too greedy that he decided to take every memory of her until the day he dies. He is a greedy man, evidenced by the monopoly of our business, and the mora that keep my little brother and I comfortable in life.

Here is another thing I know about greed: Greed is the root of want, and I’m convinced my whole existence is greedy. Not because I am my father’s son, but because I want things, against my better judgement. I want my mother, memories of her, and I want Kaeya the way I should not want. Archons, I think I want him more than anything in this world. The way I want him is dangerous, and I’m half-convinced that the Tsaritsa should have blessed me with cryo instead because of this want.

The want only grows and scratches deep into my back. It grows and grows. I swear I’m not greedy. But here is the third thing about greed: my father’s eyes might not be the only trait I’ve inherited.

I am familiar with nightmares, but oddly enough this nightmare is too real. I’ve never seen a dragon up close before, but they are creatures as ugly as those with me on the carriage. Except this dragon is outwardly ugly, while the one beside me hides them very well under the guise of being a good man. 

Father is ugly, and the red corrupted orb in his hand is even uglier. 

My pyro doesn’t work against Ursa. But the black chains that Father commands wraps around the dragon until it is nothing but a corpse on the ground. Father, too, is halfway in joining the dragon as the second corpse.

“Stay put, Father,” I tell his figure slumped onto the side of the carriage. “Kaeya already ran to call back up before the fight started.”

“Non-Vision users usually can’t handle delusions,” Father says, matter-of-factly, as if he’s playing chess with me in the living room and not in the middle of nowhere near death’s embrace. “I didn’t think it was true.”

I stare at the delusion in his outstretched palms, a sinking feeling in the pits of my stomach. I think it’s utter revulsion thrumming in my guts, mixing with rage. Us, Ragnvindrs — we’re used to the colour red, but the orb in my father’s hands is different, as if the blood covering some parts of it makes it much redder. There’s so much red everywhere that even I’m not sure if some of them are my blood. The red swallows almost everything in the area — greedy. Against the sunlight, the delusion glints maliciously, and it leaves me wondering if this orb is another thing my father decided to keep to satisfy his greed. 

Father coughs, and his body convulses as he tries to speak again. I look at him, in a way that each son ends up looking at their father —  the type of stare that challenges everything you’ve ever known: determined and unwavering —  and it feels like staring at the mirror. 

“I’m not sorry,” he starts out in the same tone as before. Somehow, his apology sounds insincere, and it almost sounds like victory more than an apology. “I’m not sorry about your mother.”

Here is the problem about greedy men: everything is dichotomous. There are no choices to win hard battles without someone losing. There are no choices that can raise the dead without killing another. And, there are no choices that can end a war without starting a war.

“I know, Father.” I manage to spit out as the delusion grows hotly against my fingertips. I barely remember what comes next after this, only the words that come out of my mouth. “Us, greedy men, we always run out of options do we?”

I end Father right there, with my own two hands. 

For the first time in years, I remember my mother, and how her dead body lay limp like Father.

There are some truths in life you will find later in your life and they won’t change you. I’ve looked at the papers left in Father’s ledgers, and the detailed dealings with the Fatui does not manage to catch me by surprise. The unfinished adoption papers for Kaeya changes nothing. I’ve always known the Ragnvindr family would cycle through itself first before accepting strays.

When I found the key to mother’s room in the very same ledger, I would’ve thought whatever lied inside would be part of the other type of truths. Unfortunately, the room is the same as every other one in the manor. All traces of my mother are gone, and the only sign that she ever occupied the room was the wardrobe filled with some of her clothing.

Some truths in your life though, you’ll find later in life and they will change you. They will leave you with questions left unanswered, and a want much harder to stop from becoming greed. Some truths will make you remember them until the rest of your life, until it is the only memory left in your mind.

The truth, part one: it’s midnight, and the funeral is set for tomorrow. There are marks on Kaeya’s neck that match my set of teeth. They’re pinkish-purple shaped bruises, ginger to the touch, as Kaeya plants the same ones on the side of my jaw. We’ve been fighting ever since he found me sitting on my mother’s bed, except our aggression isn’t limited to bloodied fists and hair-pulling like little schoolboys.

We’re no longer little schoolboys, I think, when my hands slip inside Kaeya’s shirt and run them against his hard nipples. I wrangle a moan from him, as he presses the back of his palm to his lips, quieting the sound that slipped past his mouth. He is little, yes, but I don’t think he’s fit to be a man.

I press a kiss to his throat up until my mouth finds its way to his lips. In the quiet of the night, it is too silent like all the nights before the start of war. I kiss him like a man without water would —  parched and greedy. I haven’t seen Kaeya ever since yesterday, but the way my hands and mouth map his entire body, I know that he is safe, and that he doesn’t know I did the killing blow to Father. 

I’m fine with this, with him not knowing. I can carry the guilt and shame through it alone, and the way he responds to the way I lick his lips and press him against the soft bed is more than enough comfort for me.

“I love you, ‘Luc.” He whispers as I capture him with a kiss. Make me yours, he says and it sounds more like, free me.

The truth, part two: there are a lot of things in life considered to be inevitable — hunger, for one, and pain, for another. It’s just irony that Kaeya manages to be both and the third one at the same time. 

We’re still clothed, as I pin him down below me, caging his tiny body between both of my legs. I am hungry for him to be bare underneath me, and my cock nearly sings at what he would look like stripped off everything except my marks. 

My fingers brush against the back of his nape, as they find the knot of his eyepatch. For a moment I hesitate as my fingernails dig into skin and hair where the knot lies. Some truths, you don’t find out until later in life, and this —  whatever lies behind my little brother’s eyepatch is a truth I had never had the urge to find out about until now.

Kaeya’s other eye shines brightly against the candlelight like the way they do when he’s about to start another one of the games we both used to play. He doesn’t say anything about my hand pulling the eyepatch off, and he doesn’t dare breathe.

His other eye flutters open and I’m taken aback in surprise. Some truths, you’ll find out later in your life, and they will change you. I wasn’t sure what to expect in his hidden eye, but the golden irises blown wide makes my heart burst from my ribcage. This truth is too beautiful to be hidden, but like all the dichotomous choices of greedy men, with all beautiful truths come the truths that are ugly.

Kaeya inhales a sharp breath.

“I can’t see with my other eye.” He says, voice quiet. “They won’t let me.”

Cold blood immediately runs through my veins, as my hand stops stroking his cheeks and falls to my side. I stare at the golden eye again, anger stewing deep in my stomach. I’m not sure what to say except for: “Who are they?”

For a moment, Kaeya’s jaw tightens as if forcing himself not to answer my question. He tries to avoid my gaze, and I lament the loss of those beautiful eyes at me. 

“The Abyss,” he replies after a few moments.

The air from my lungs feels knocked away by the revelation. This is not the revelation I expected, and the betrayal cuts deeper than the anger I feel. All I can see is hot, white, blinding fury, and he doesn’t bother to pull away when my hands press dangerously close to his eye socket.

“Gege, I—” He bites his lips, unsure of what to say. I’d rather he doesn’t say anything at all.  “I love you.”

I don’t say anything in acknowledgement and stay quiet, hands shaking as I rip the clothes off of him. There he lies in my mother’s bed, bare and naked and inviting for me. It’s easy to pretend that he is mine, that he is loyal to me and not his motherland when I flip him over and push him face-down on the pillow. His skin is warm and his hole is inviting, and I’m left to wonder if the Abyss keeps all their pets desperate and loose for cock. 

“I love you,” he whispers against the night again as I line myself inside his warm entrance, and I don’t know if it’s me he’s trying to convince or himself.

All I’m sure of is this: you cannot trust love, but you can trust the memories of the flesh.

In the morning, I wake up to two versions of the same boy. The first version is the Kaeya I have grown up with — the one offering me he could be whoever I want, the one who says obsessed, as if he doesn’t know he’s the one I’m obsessed about. This version is the boy who’s sweaty in the eyes with the slightest raised voice sending him to tears. This version is the boy in love with my touches, and this is the same version that I love.

The second one is the Kaeya that starts these tiny wars. The one who seeks out challenges as if his goal is to see me defeated. This is the version that belongs to the Abyss. The version that is a liar, the version that has venom, the version that is like the first but all rough around the edges. This version is the survivor, the Kaeya who will gladly take my cock even if I want to strangle him to death. This version, I think I hate.

These two versions are unfortunately one and the same. These two versions both sit in either of my palms, and I watch his serene figure sleep through the morning sun — youthful face, peaceful and chest heaving in slow breaths. He is all the things I love, and he is also all the things I hate. He is both collision and separation. It’s easier of course to choose just one rather than accepting him whole like the usual dichotomous choices for greedy men.

It’s easier to pretend that he’s been mine all along. Easier to forget that he can hurt me anytime with his lies. Easier to remember he loves me, this way.

After all, some truths we remember until they are the only memory left.

I have no memories of my mother.

In the place of these memories lie tan skin and purple bruises against her bed.  The wooden table beside the bed has already been decaying due to decades of neglect, the same way the little figure on the bed wilts from my piercing gaze as I refuse to give him anything he wants. 

“Suck,” I command, as he kneels down in humiliation. I like him better like this — kneeling like a bitch in heat. It reminds me who’s in control, and that any minute I can throw him away like a ragdoll.

(Not that I would, he still has his uses.)

His dainty hands wrap themselves around my hard cock, as he strokes my length before kissing the tip. Moments of disobedience have no place in my memories, so I pry his jaw wide open and shove my entire length down his throat until he’s nothing but a choking mess. “Much better.”

Thrusting into his mouth, I push his head down using his hair as a makeshift ponytail. The locks of hair in my palms are soft and silky, reminiscent of a noble woman's well-kept mane. I like Kaeya better like this — docile, and without a fight. He is much easier to shape into something else that will never belong to the Abyss.

“You’re so good for me, Aya.” I murmur as I pull my cock away from his mouth. As much as I want to paint his face with my seed, I don’t want to waste any outside his hole. “What do you say after I’ve fed you cock, love?”

“Thank you, sir.” He replies as saliva drips from the corner of his mouth. “You are such a good provider, sir. The best partner one could ask for.”

“I’m the only partner you could ask for, whore.” I laugh as I pull him onto my lap and shove two fingers inside his warm mouth. He sucks on them obediently, licking and hollowing his cheeks until they’re wet enough to slick his sopping cunt. The thought of his cunt sends warmth throughout my body. His cunt had been so neglected before me. They’re too unbecoming for a boy, Kaeya used to say. But having no cock means it's easier to make him into what I want. Perfect for what I plan to do. “Without me, you will have nothing. And what would you do without cock?”

“I don’t know.” He whines, fucking himself against my fingers and I am sure I could almost get drunk on it. He’s still mouthy, and it reminds me of the candles burning inside the manor. Where is the fun in putting out the flames if I don’t let him burn as bright as he can? 

This time the game is different for me. It might have more to do with the fact that I am actively trying to win control over him. The game progresses like this: he wears my mother’s clothes, and this time there will be no words between us. There will only be the bruising touches, and magnetism of our attraction, and there will only be the stench of sex and nothing else. 

Here is a picture: he has worn the most elaborate piece in mother’s wardrobe. It’s the white wedding gown that looks as if it’s a nightmare to undress. Subconsciously, I try to wonder if I’ve ever seen any pictures of my parent’s wedding. I don’t know what mother would have looked like, but in the emptiness of this room, I have the freedom to imagine.

I don’t have memories of my mother, so I make them myself.

In this room, this boy of mine is serving his penance. It is a fitting punishment for a liar to live another’s life. He might not be my mother, but he will become the mother of my bloodline. This boy, my darling little brother, will help me create these memories.

These days, as I drive my cock into his cervix and fill him with my seed, he is more of those. These days, he is more of a memory than a person. What’s left of him is nothing but flesh and pleasure mine to take. Each kiss with him is more of a war than a kiss. And each time he screams and moans my name are triumphant victories. I don’t dare look at him in the eyes, but sometimes I catch myself staring at those golden eyes and hoping that the Abyss will know what it means for me to slip in and out Kaeya.

Let them see, I want to tell Kaeya and whisper it hoarsely into his ears as he arches his back in pleasure. Let them see how you belong to me, Aya.

As I take him from behind, bunching that frilly dress onto his back, one thing burns in my mind: Kaeya is a mosaic of everyone and everything all at once.

Every day he asks me, “Gege, are you back?”

And every day when I draw blood with my teeth from his neck, plant bruises in his body with my mouth and finger his hole wide open until he is nothing but a gaping loose whore, he gets his answer. It’s fine though, him waiting for someone long dead the night he confessed his true heritage is entertaining. He waits inside my mother’s room, by the window, dressed in the finest of my mother’s silk, like a widower wife with a husband sent to a war. It’s fitting for him. He might as well be a wife.

My wife, I test it out while I lick the tears away from his eyes and shower him with my love. Aya Ragnvindr.