Erythrophobia

Chapter 1: His Eyes

Note: chapter tw// emetophobia (vomiting), panic attack, slightly paranoid thoughts

Kaeya goes to Angel's Share with Rosaria. An uncomfortable series of events unfolds.

Also, this fic was pretty much entirely spurred on by the song "Want" by The High Curbs. I HIGHLY suggest listening to it.

And there will be artwork in this fic; just saying so nobody gets jumpscared by it or anything.

I imagine Diluc to have a german accent and Kaeya to have a subtle swedish accent. Imagine their voices like that while reading, or don't. Just letting ya'll know that's what I imagine while writing their dialogue.

Enjoy!

—

Kaeya has a complicated relationship with the color red.

It's the color of windwheel asters, Mondstadtian rooftops, and the attire of a certain little knight.

Yet, it's also the color of blood.

The color that causes his heart to race when he spots it in his peripheral; that flickers nostalgically in his dreams and cruelly in his nightmares.

It no longer reminds him of sunrises and sunsets, nor the days of apple picking in the orchards that have long since been lost to time. The color that once meant home to him now only reminds him of the hot, billowing flames that savagely seared his flesh on that fateful night, years ago.

Those kind eyes that looked at him with such love and adoration had devolved into a vitriolic hatred that made every muscle in his body scream at him that he was going to die if he didn't run.

His heart and his scars still ache at night.

It's been a long time since Kaeya could hold eye contact with that man. His vermillion gaze is leaden and unwavering; any instance of those piercing eyes lingering in Kaeya's direction for too long makes the hairs on his nape stand on end and goosebumps shoot down his arms. Kaeya isn't shaken easily, especially not by a simple look, but some days it can become simply unbearable if it comes from him. Yet... he hides it, just as well as he hides anything else.

Imperceivable.

However, Kaeya feels as if he's been slipping up lately. It's been harder to breathe , harder to think , and harder to keep his practiced mask from dropping when those familiar eyes land on him. He can't let it show. For what good is it for him to have curated this persona over all these years if he lets something as simple as this ruin everything? He still cares about the man, and he wishes for a world where nothing went wrong all those years ago. But that man doesn't care about him, not anymore. So he can't let it through. It's merely a hiccup, a mistake. He is human after all.

Right. He will be fine.

Nothing will change. He will move on.

He has to.

—

It's your average night at the tavern.

Raucous chatter overlaps in the atmosphere; glasses clink and clatter as a small group of young knights celebrate someone's birthday in the back.

The entrance squeaks open and shut as drunk civilians exit the tavern and spill out into the streets.

At a table near the tavern stairs, a dark man with peculiar blue hair is leaning back coolly in his chair, sipping away at a glass of wine. He is not unaccompanied, as a nun with sickly-toned skin knocks back a pint of beer across from him. She exhales audibly and sets the tankard down. To others, he may not seem to be acting strange, but his company tonight knows better than them.