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“I won’t strike first Kaeya,” she declares, though her hand never leaves its careful perch on her sword’s hilt.
Kaeya knows she won’t.
It will make things a bit harder for him, but not enough to change the inevitable outcome that has been playing on repeat in his mind for a long, long time.
He has come a long way and any chance of turning back is long overdue.
They will cross blades, and their single unique duel will embody the clash between the archon’s blessed Mondstadt and the forsaken by Celestia Khaenri’ah.
Just like Jean’s, Kaeya’s hand hovers over his still sheathed sword, immobile, waiting. Reluctant?
No, that can’t be it.
“What a shame, I was willing to concede you the first blow,” his voice comes out neutral, detached even. As if this is no more than one of his daily reports. “You could acknowledge it as token of our years of partnership.”
Jean is quiet, unmoving. Serious as she’s ever been, both eyes locked into his, and deep down Kaeya realizes none of his snappy remarks would—could possibly—affect her unwavering resolution.
A bitter smile, quickly smoothed into a sharp one, overtakes Kaeya’s features. He’s standing before Jean, the same Jean who first met him when he'd been only eleven, the same Jean who had granted him her trust and made him her right-hand man when he'd been at his worst, and—for that very reason—the same Jean who had reached out for his concealed heart and held it so careful and steady. The same Jean who now was making this whole deed a thousand times harder for him, as if it wasn't already unbearable from the start.
The sound of her ushers Kaeya out of his dwelling and back to the moment unfolding before him.
“Partnership, you say,” Jean's voice is steady, calmer in comparison to when he'd finally lifted the veil of all his lies, but it’s still embedded with a hint of sternness, resentful. “If that so called partnership meant remotely anything to you, I ask you to reconsider your decision, Captain.”
Her words stir something inside of him. He has to snap his eyes shut for a split second, to quietly quell the way his heart tightens ever so slightly.
It’s nonsense; Kaeya has made his decision.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he’s come to terms with his destiny. He’s finally accepted what he had understood ever since that fateful afternoon under the downpour. And nothing could ever change that.
And so he draws his blade.
A barely noticeable trace of shock perpasses her features, then it is gone as swiftly as it came. She mirrors his movements, and now both blades reflect the grim glow of the moon cemented in its high grave.
“Give me the honor of a final match, would you my dear Grand Master?” She grimaces at his honeyed voice, at his carefully carved smile. “I’ve always wanted to witness your true strength, to be on the receiving end of your noble blade after all those years of being merely spectator.”
Her eyes study his every movement with painful intent, yet she refuses to move an inch.
He knows Jean won’t brandish her sword with killing intent so easily. She is too tightly bound to the value of a life and her own immaculate sense of rightfulness to do so. Thus, he’ll have to wrench the desire to kill him right out of her.
“Our final match,” he utters the words slowly, as if rolling them on his tongue. “A serious, authentic one at last.”
Kaeya makes a deliberate pause, regards her briefly and grins.
“And with a valuable prize too,” he clicks his tongue, putting in a effort to rile her up. “By which I mean, Mondstadt’s fate. If it falls on my hands, I’ll make sure it burns to the ground.”
It seems to work well enough; her tense smile makes him still in place for a moment. It’s tight, painful, regretful and determined all the same; it means she’s made her decision as well. For Mondstadt, as always.
His blade cuts the cold still air before Jean can voice a proper response.
She falls into a defensive stance instinctively and gracefully blocks his blow.
And just like that, it begins.
Their swords clash like they’ve done countless times during the past. Their movements ache with familiarity. Their knuckles bump briefly when their pommels lock.
And then, as swiftly as it started, it ends.
The sting is brief, although sharp. The adrenaline makes it easy for him to ignore the pain. Crimson red stains the grass as Jean quickly retreats her sword.
He could go on, Kaeya muses to himself; could try to strike Jean down as well. Instead he steps back, mindful of the fatal wound just bellow his heart.
As opposed to the pain of the would itself, the sudden shortness of breathe is much harder to ignore.
He feels dizzy, his legs falter, and Kaeya silent accepts his fall.
Yet, the impact never comes. He’s already losing his senses, but Kaeya can faintly acknowledge the firm hands that support his body mid-fall.
It’s pointless, his mind sways. The faint warmth of the grip on his limbs won’t dispel the thick fog steadily settling into his mind.
He smiles, so small it’s barely noticeable, nevertheless.
Kaeya is glad he dies by her blade. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
It’s a bitter gratefulness, a forced resignation. Everything happened according to his plan, he lies to himself.
Never being one to wallow in regret, Kaeya can’t push it away this time as his mind grows numb and everything stops.
The first thing he feels is a warm, wet, fleeting graze on his cheek. So light it’s almost as if it didn’t happen at all.
The next thing he hears is a noise, faintly familiar and yet strange all the same. Kaeya then realizes it is a quiet—yet unbearably pained—, and it comes from a voice that is perhaps his favorite sound.
Slowly but steady, a flux of cool air fills his lungs. His lungs that as far as he remembered were disable in their duty to keep him alive. It still hurt like hell, but he was definitely breathing.
And then it all comes to light.
Jean’s strangled sobs become clearer, muffled by her hand’s vice grip over her mouth. Eyes that are so much like the clear sky after a storm remain closed as droplets of tears dribble down from hers into his cheek.
He can’t see her vision from where he’s laid down, but he knows it’s glowing.
Dandelion breeze. And Kaeya thought he had managed to achieve his fabled end. How foolish of him.
As he slowly regains the feel of his limbs—anemo healing energy being subconsciously infused into his very being—, Kaeya notices the gloved hand gripping his own, fingers intertwined so tightly it’s almost like they have become one single entity.
Jean has shut her eyes tight, and from her expression Kaeya can tell she has breathed life back into him unconsciously. Apart from that, he directs his attention back to her tears which burn his skin with their intensity.
It’s the first time he’s seen her cry.
A foreign desire to wipe her tears away surges within a covert spot of his heart. He shouldn’t though, has no right to as much as touch her after attempting to draw a blade into her heart. It's what he tells himself.
So Kaeya resigns to gingerly squeezing back—so weakly compared to the force with which she held onto him—and yet her eyes, a shade of blue so serene and a mixture of raw pain and shock, snap open in synchrony with his touch.
Their gazes lock at that moment and don’t dare look at anything else.
Silence fills the room; with Jean’s small sobbing cut short, none of them dare utter a word.
Perhaps his head feels unusually airy, perhaps his chest is throbbing with pain, yet he can’t gather the will to care about any of it.
When her hand subtly releases his, Kaeya expects her to finish what she hadn’t. Instead, she carefully takes his wrist, hand now freed of her gauntlet. Kaeya shivers at the feel of her bare fingers sliding against his skin.
Her index and middle finger gingerly touch the underside of his wrist; she’s checking his pulse, Kaeya realizes.
He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding when her lips tug into a smile, a genuine, fragile one.
“I’m sorry,” she croaks, quiet enough so that it’s only meant for him.
A furrow forms between his brows, though he knows he should have expected this from her.
“No,” Kaeya rasps, sounding strained wherein it still hurts to breath. “I am.”
Jean brings her other hand to cradle his face delicately; Kaeya knows she means for him not to talk, only because it’ll strain him further.
He doesn’t need words to convey it anyways; his eyes—two of them now—were enough for Jean to understand.
“I forgive you.”