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Rain. Why was it always raining? Why did the heavens cry over this moment, over a sinner?
Rain was the ink which stained his skin, the only thing he could sense. Perhaps if he waited just a moment longer, just another minute, just another breath, in and out, the rain could swallow him like the blinding wave of white which swallowed him and dragged him down.
The white flood of raw panic which threatened to drown him right where he stood.
He had always known that this moment would come but perhaps he had let himself become softened by warm days and warmer words. It had been a beautiful time, he thought, watching the scene as though watching from an outside perspective, as though he was sat in the armchair he personally dragged into his brothers office after berating him over how uncomfortable the previous chair looked.
He felt almost cold as he watched the sand flow through the hourglass which was his life, hazily seeing the tearstained face of Jean through slivers of white, darkening his vision as though to spite him.
Tears, why were there tears? He knew why, no he didn't.
The words still echoed in his head, pounding behind his eyes and adding his own ornaments to the falling drops of rain. Those words, spoken with raw rage, with pure disappointment and hatred.
"Stop ---- Stop ---- Traitor!", The most distilled form of disgust.
That word, she was yelling it right now as well, wasn't she? Yelling as though he could hear, as though he was aware. "Traitor", he began cackling, "Traitor, traitor, traitor, traitor!", tears were not flowing down his cheeks, for he had no right to cry.
Rain was it which dyed his skin an ugly paleness. Kaeya knew that if he turned just a bit, if he opened his eyes just a little more he would be able to see red jewels glinting in the flood. Red eyes which once lay on him, viewing him as a brother, as the closest friend. Red eyes which now shone like unextinguishable flames, slowly covered by iron of the same colour.
He wondered, for a moment, if the new red which would soon paint the blade would create a symphony of shades, a composition not unlike the reds of the sunsets they used to watch. Now looking back he felt like a fool. He was nothing if not naïve.
"Kaeya is ----- traitor ---- you!", Who was he to think they would be arms to embrace him, pillows to cushion his inevitable fall? Who was he to hope that they would spare him the mercy of letting him go, of allowing a traitor like him breath.
He stumbled backwards, stumbled pathetically away from all he once called home. Everything felt muted in the best and worst way at the same time. "Kaeya --- out!", He felt as though his body wasn't his, as though he was trapped in the fragile thing that was named a body, staring though empty sockets out at the play on the stage. He felt like a puppet, caught by strings and manipulated by a puppeteer that was caught between fight and flight.
If Kaeya was an honest man, honest to himself, he would admit that neither would work. Perhaps that was why the man tugging at the strings was hesitating, hesitating unlike the unforgiving drops of rain.
If the sky was not grey then his eyes would do him the favour of colouring as such anyways. A warm and colourful world was never quite meant for him.
For him who grew up under a sky adorned with three moons, a sky so black it seemed to swallow everything until it wasn't. Until it was painted red and the stars fell like a shower of light. Until the ink spread like veins, leaving destruction in its wake, in the wake of the creatures which called themselves gods. "----- Kill him! ---- Kill ---!", Kaeya blinked.
Suddenly the red steel he had been admiring earlier was closer. Much, much closer. And it was glowing.
Surely the echoing scream of his name was simply an illusion. It felt too sad to be more than a figment of his imagination. If he was a better man he might admit that he knew it wasn't real but perhaps one last time he could imagine that the fire racing towards him, the fire in red eyes was the fire of a fireplace, warming him but not burning, keeping the mug in his hands warm as he listened to his fathers laugh.
His father, not his father. He couldn't. He could not call him that. He had no right. No right to call him that. Not after what he'd done. After all he'd done.
What had he done again? He wasn't sure. He must have done something, right? Right? He must have. He must deserve this because he did.
Because if he didn't that would mean his big brother was wrong and that was not possible. It was simply not possible.
Perhaps this wasn't so bad. The flames actually felt quite warm if he thought about it. Crazily he thought about extending his hand to warm it but he was simply too tired. Too exhausted and the flames would warm him soon enough.
He was simply so tired. So tired. So tired so tired so tired so...So if he could just close his eyes, just for one moment. If he just closed his eyes he could almost hear his fathers laugh, his father. One last time as the warm hug of his brother enveloped him he allowed himself to call him his father.
Just one last time.
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"Stop it, Diluc, stop it! He's not a traitor!", Jean yelled towards the redhead when she saw fury overtaking him.
She didn't know what happened, had only been able to watch him turn towards the blue haired boy she considered one of her closest friends. "Kaeya is not a traitor, what are you doing?!", she tried again.
Her other friend, one who prided himself in being an older brother, protecting the younger stared at his little brother with utter disgust colouring the red of his eyes.
She could only watch as Kaeya stumbled backwards, almost slipping on the wet cobblestone of the road, "Kaeya, watch out!" So concerned with trying to warn him from falling Jean didn't even realise the sound of red fury igniting, of flames climbing up the blade that was gifted the redhead by the man that had been pronounced dead only hours earlier.
With horror she watched as the flamed drew closer and closer to the bluenette and she could do nothing but watch and scream. Scream over and over. "Don't kill him! Dont kill him! Stop!", she could only stand and watch and scream.
Scream the name of her friend as the flames drew closer. As the flames swallowed him whole. As the one that once called himself a brother turned away and walked away.
Away from the flames, away from her. Away from the blood chilling scream which would echo, away from the burning figure which would be writhing on the muddied ground in agony.
Only it never came. It never happened.
The flames died down leaving only ash behind to be washed away by the rain. No body. No blood.
It was as though it never happened. Jean stared and fell. Fell down on her knees and looked up to the sky.
Perhaps it was foolish of her but a small part of her prayed that Barbatos had granted the young man mercy. Had whisked him away somewhere safe.
That was the only way he could have disappeared for only a god had the power to achieve such a feat.
Right?