Archive of Our Own

The old foundation of his house greeted him with the same insurmountable indifference it always did. Creaking, worn wood; Stepping through the door, a bitter chill nipped at his skin. It was that same one that had claimed this house long before he lived in it, and the same one that he learned to live with.

He gently took off his boots and lined them neatly next to the door. His coat hung on its spot on the rack. Everything in its rightful place.

He hadn’t gone to the bar. There was no need.

He wouldn’t need the numbing chill of alcohol tonight.

Feet glided across the hardwood, like a ghost, like someone whose mind had given up long before the body had. It never felt like he was truly grounded whenever he was inside of these walls, anyways.

Tired eyes glazed over the living room. His fireplace sat untouched with fresh wood in the chamber. Bare walls stared back at him. He felt nothing.

Maybe it was better this way. To have his house devoid of life after so long. If there was nothing left to be attached to, then the memories associated with them would fade too, wouldn’t they?

He’s sure the frames that once belonged on these walls could recount all the nights he spent on his couch, downing glass after glass of cheap wine until he blacked out—even the ones that were born through the bright touch of a young girl’s laugh, the joy of her bubbling creativity, and her equally unsteady crayon. They became tainted. Forced to witness the depravity of the man they were gifted to. Cursed to endure the sickening pain of each hopeless night.

The only thing his living room gave him was the soulless comfort of a couch to lay on whenever he was too exhausted to make it to his room. Not the warmth of conversation, nor the simple comfort of having someone over. Not even the final embers of the winter fire lit in his fireplace was enough. It would never truly get rid of the chill.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want company. He used to, actually. He’d ask to chat, or to have dinner over some wine.

Jean would decline politely. “I’m sorry, Kaeya. I’m a bit too busy tonight. How about another time?” She’d say, looking at him with eyes that ignored the blatant disappointment in his eyes.

Rosaria was blunt. “I can’t tonight. I’ll catch up with you next time I see you at the bar, yeah?” And that was that.

He simply never dared to ask Diluc.

Sometimes, when he’d get that drunken confidence he gets after he’s had one too many drinks at the bar, the one that erased any whispers of doubt that plagued his mind when he was sober, and the one that invigorated his blood and placed seeds of shaky conviction into his skin—something inside of him would alight, and he felt like he could do anything. To topple any obstacle and come out unscathed, to brave the world before him as if he wasn’t begging it for mercy that very same morning.

He felt like he could do it.

He’d walk up to the bar counter, and ask for a refill. The words would slide off his tongue in a well-practiced manner, feigning certainty. Feigning the poise of someone who wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

His fingers would grasp the glass. With his other hand, he'd tap the wood. Once. Twice. A sacred ritual.

And finally, he’d look up.

And he saw. Not what he wanted to see, but what was really there.

It was the little boy he once looked up to and called his big brother, now sporting the gaze of a man who's seen far more than he should’ve. His face was shadowed by a haze of unspoken grief, one that never truly leaves, but rather haunts until very end.

When Diluc looked up to him with those eyes, the ones that used to be so sickeningly bright, flaming with the embers of a freshly lit fire, now darkened with the deep unforgettable crimson of blood—he stilled.

The invitation died on his tongue without a second thought—the liquid courage that flowed through his blood rendered useless.

It always ended like that.

And so, this house of his remained empty. A stranger to company; a silent coffin of his own making.

It was lonely. In those months after Crepus’ death.

He was forced out of a home always full of bustling people and the sound of voices, and into a house desolate and quieter than the shallow breaths he exhaled.

If he closes his eyes, sometimes, he can imagine. He can imagine that this small living room is akin to the large congregation area of the winery. That it’s the same as the place he and Diluc spent many days playing, chasing after one another and giggling to each other in their own little worlds.

If he strains his ears, he can hear Crepus talking to Elzer. The footsteps of maids skittering across the wooden floorboards. The sound of Adelinde lecturing Diluc, or the pans from the kitchen clattering as she cooked breakfast.

But, as always, whenever he opened his eyes, it left without a word. The living room was as achingly quiet as it always was. The ring of the wine glass echoed across the coffee table in the same taunting manner.

The superficial comfort that came with drinking away his sorrows at the tavern was nothing in comparison to what he could have—if only someone would be willing to stay with him simply for the sake of enjoying his company.

Sometimes, it felt like people only spoke with him at the bar because they found his presence amusing when drunk, if not for anything less. He felt like a puppet. One whose only purpose was to entertain, and once people got bored of it, to be cast away without a second thought.

Nobody knows the real him. And he thinks that nobody wants to.

Diluc knew him.

He knew all his tells. How he was feeling, even when he tried his best at hiding it. He knew when to give him space. He knew when to cheer him up.

They used to be inseparable.

But now? They’re nothing but distant strangers.

Brothers turned against one another. One, who wants nothing more than to make up for the mistake of his existence, and the other, too consumed by anger and grief to properly mend the vestiges of what once was.

It’s all his fault.

With a heavy sigh, he meandered over to his kitchen. Countertops glistened with the shine of a fresh clean, dishes all tidy and organized in their cabinets.

The fridge had no food in it. Neither did the pantry.

Even his wine cabinet, which he usually kept chock-full of both cheap and specialty wines, was completely empty—save for one lone bottle. It was a sweet red wine, one that was adorned with a deep crimson wax seal and hugged by a label sporting the Dawn Winery logo—frayed and worn with the ghost of a touch from a man long gone.

It waited. It always did.

Truthfully, he had been given it a long time ago. Crepus promised him that on his eighteenth birthday, just as he did with Diluc, the bottle would be his. Although, it’s no mystery that he never did make it to see Kaeya’s eighteenth birthday. Six months before it, in fact.

While he didn’t leave the winery with much in tow, instead settling for the least amount of personal belongings he could muster—this was one of the things he couldn’t find it in himself to part with.

And it stayed like that. Even on those hard nights, where he downed bottle after bottle of the cheap wine that burned his nostrils—the ones he’d buy in bulk just to feel something, anything at all—the bottle Crepus brewed never fell victim to his insatiable greed. The most he could ever do was nurse it carefully in his arms, holding it as tightly as he could amidst his alcohol-addled mind, trying desperately to feel any semblance of warmth as if it was truly Crepus himself.

It was the most he could do, nowadays. He longed for the comfort of family, but with no one left to give it to him, he drowned in his loneliness. Indulging it in the most pathetic 0f ways.

When he was drunk just enough, sometimes, he felt like he could see figures in the dark. Shapes melded together into familiar figures, playing the story of his memories with vivid detail.

Sometimes he saw Crepus. Other times, Adelinde. On the good nights, or at least, what he would consider good, he saw Diluc. Not the one that scowled and glared at him every time he entered the tavern, but a Diluc that could’ve been. One that wasn’t shadowed by the sickening misery of grief, but one that was ambitious and kind; the Diluc that was.

That Diluc looked at him with love. The same way he used to look at him when he was a child—the love of an older sibling, of someone who would do anything to protect their little brother.

Of course, though, he knew it was all fake. Just his mind taunting him with dreams of something that would never be, cruelly showing him what things could’ve been if he just wasn’t so sinful.

Diluc was still kind. He still looked at people with love.

It was never him, though. And that’s what made it hurt the most.

One day, he got off of work early. After he’d followed a lead all morning with nothing of substance to report back on, Jean told him that there was nothing else he needed to do, saying that she could handle the rest of the day’s work from there.

Truly, it felt like he hadn’t done much. Just another disappointed Jean and a morning wasted on a very likely unreliable tip—a gentle, but sickening reminder at how badly he was losing his edge.

At first, he insisted that she let him finish his work for the day. He wanted to redeem himself. To not let his workday end on such an awfully incompetent note.

She shook her head, and smiled. Not a true smile, but simply the muscles of her mouth tensing in an upward direction, hiding the indignation beneath. “You must be tired, Kaeya. You’ve been running around all morning,” She said. “You should get some rest. We wouldn’t want our captain to be running on fumes, now would we?”

He knew that, deep down, she was just telling him to fuck off so that she could get some real work done. Swatting him away like an annoying fly, getting rid of the bother that nobody wanted around. A useless waste of space wasn’t needed at headquarters if they couldn’t do even the simplest of tasks right.

With nothing else to do, and an aching pain from the displeasure of the morning, he went to the bar.

Nothing better to wash away the sorrows than with alcohol, right?

He walked straight from Jean’s office to the same old building of Angel’s Share. Boots clacking on the cobblestone of Mondstadt’s streets, legs monotonously carrying him along the path of many nights before.

He pushed open that familiar door, and paused. Red hair peeked from behind the counter. Diluc was working. He internally cursed, but went through with it anyway.

“Drinking this early, Kaeya? Shouldn’t you still be on the clock?” He asked. Not out of curiosity, but in an attempt to chastise his pathetic dependency on alcohol.

He purposely avoided his gaze, instead focusing his attention on the cup Diluc was cleaning, rather than his face itself. “I got off early today. I’ll…have the usual.”

Diluc scoffed before turning around to prepare his drink, and Kaeya walked away from the bar to sit at a table near the back. The tavern was practically empty. Though, that was no surprise considering the hour that he was there at.

Eventually, Diluc came by with a glass of Death After Noon, setting it onto the table before him with a sharp clang.

“Thanks.”

He sat there, nursing that drink. Ignoring him until he needed another refill. Pretending that the man he grew up with wasn’t sitting just a few feet away.

Then, the chime of the door rang. He would’ve ignored it, yes, he would’ve. That was, until he heard that same bubbly voice. The one that was so high-pitched and annoying that it was hard to ever forget. Paimon. And without a doubt, the Traveler was with her too.

“Hey Diluc! Long time no see!” She exclaimed, her shrill voice reaching levels of excitement that pierced through the buzz that had begun to settle through his body.

Similarly, the traveler greeted Diluc as the both of them approached the counter.

At first, Kaeya hadn’t thought anything of it. He really hadn’t. But…

“Traveller. Paimon. What a wonderful surprise,” Diluc chimed. “Let me make the two of you something. It’s on the house.”

Diluc’s expression twisted into something. Something…foreign. Something that made his heart ache in the way that alcohol couldn’t fix.

The Traveller started, “Oh really, there’s no need for all of that. We were just stopping by—“

“Thank you Diluc! You’re the best!” She beamed, floating impatiently in the air. “Oh! Paimon wants Apple Cider!”

Diluc chuckled, “Seems like someone doesn’t mind. Really, it’s my pleasure. What would you like?”

Was he…smiling?

The traveler shook their head, “I’m not too sure…since it’s your treat, why don’t you choose for me?”

“Fine,” Diluc paused for a moment before starting again.“How about Cider Lake? It’s a sweet drink that was made by my Father himself. It contains only a small amount of alcohol.”

Kaeya paused completely. Cider Lake? The drink Father made…for him? Was he losing it? He had to be. He was drunk. He wasn’t hearing things right. No way Diluc was really giving the traveler his drink?

Their eyes sparkled. “Wow, Diluc! Thank you, that sounds delicious!”

That’s…stupid! He can’t own a drink. He was overreacting. Father brewed Cider Lake for him so long ago. There’s no reason for him to be so uptight about it now.

“Oooh, just make sure to give Paimon a sip, alright? Paimon wants to try it too!”

But the longer he listened to them chat, the longer he heard the sound of dishes clinking together as Diluc mixed their drinks—the more restless he got. His fingers trembled around his glass. His eyes were trained on the three of them, but afraid to actually look.

Diluc smiled at them. He patted Traveller on the head as he handed them their drinks. He chuckled as he listened to their ramblings about their past adventures.

Inazuma. Sumeru. Liyue.

Paimon shrieked. The Traveller chatted. And Diluc…listened.

His glass went warm. His breath hitched.

Everything his big brother once did for him…now bestowed upon the shoulders of an outlander and their fairy? That was…crazy!

He’s…he’s known him for years. They grew up together. They knew each other like the back of their hands. He was the one that shared Cider Lake with Diluc after their father had first brewed it for him. He was the one that listened to Diluc ramble on about his day. He was the one that received his brother’s smile, hugging him as he patted him on the head.

Sure, they’ve had their ups and downs. They fought, yeah, but…?

You’ve been replaced, Kaeya. It's as simple as that.

He feels like he has to practically beg for Diluc to pay any attention to him now. Not literally, but through sharp jabs meant to sting. Through banter, or the occasional insult. Anything to make him angry. Anything to just…hear his voice.

He’s doing as much as he can. Yet it only feels like he’s losing him more.

They can’t ever talk like they used to. Not without constantly being at each other's throats.

That didn’t make it hurt any less, though.

Kaeya felt as if he watched Diluc rip out his heart and stomp on it ten times over, right in front of his face. He felt his lips tremble, and that’s when he knew his time there was done.

He pushed his cup forward a little, setting some mora onto the table. He got up, and without a word, he walked out. He didn’t look back at Diluc, nor did he acknowledge the traveler. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t.

If he had, surely he would’ve fallen apart right then and there.

Never him. It’s never him.

Was he that replaceable?

Diluc’s absence haunted him. Memories of their past played on repeat in his mind, over and over. Yet, it seemed as if it didn’t haunt him nearly as much as it did him.

He wanted to ask.

Does nostalgia burn a hole into your chest? One with such profound emptiness, that not even the most pure of kindness could remedy it?

I remember how different life was, at the same time all those years ago. When you hadn’t left yet, and we were still making all those memories.

I still see you in my dreams. Adelinde. Elzer. Father. Do you dream of back then, too?

He knew that his sorrows would fall on deaf ears, and just as he never dared to ask Diluc to have dinner, he never dared to tell him of the thoughts that destroyed him day in and day out.

They would simply have to sit on his tongue. And rot there.

He stared blankly before he left his kitchen, shuffling absentmindedly towards his office.

It was the same.

He kept his books stacked up neatly on his bookshelf, organized meticulously by color and topic. His desk was clear. Drawers empty. He placed a few labeled boxes on the floor next to it, full of notes and belongings that he felt would be better off going to someone who deserved it more than he did.

Nights that dragged well into the light of the morning were no less of a stranger to him than they were to this room. He remembers how’d he sit at this desk, signing paper after paper in restless fervor, tears pricking his eyes, and trying his hardest to make up for the lack of competence he seemed to exude far more often than not.

It was laughable how much of a failure he’d become. He’s failed his friends. His family. His nation. And most of all, he’s failed himself.

This disgusting body of his gave up once he finally realized that truth himself, and now, he’s not sure if he’s even alive. His heart still pumped blood listlessly. His lungs still inhaled and exhaled air without meaning. But, at the end of the day, what was he?

Surely, he was dead.

He couldn’t think of anything else besides it. His body still lived for reasons yet unknown to him, and his soul has long since rotted away. Every part of him has decayed down to the very fibers of his being, tearing through flesh and bone alike, tainting his very soul until it could no longer hold on. His body isn’t good for anything anymore. At this point, he’s just being selfish, he knows—but sooner or later, it’ll all be over, won’t it?

And without doubt, that very prospect has made him the happiest he’s been in a very long time.

He took one last look at his office, shutting the door before walking towards his bedroom. That room carried nothing more than horrible memories. He thinks it’s better off staying shut until he’s long gone.

On the other hand, his bed was made up and tidy. Curtains pulled back, closet perfectly clean.

He chose his best comforter set. It was a deep navy blue, adorned with gold embroidery and imported from Sumeru. It was his favorite.

Then, he even laid out the blue blanket gifted to him from Adelinde when he was little. She had sewn it herself, choosing the fabric and embroidering a fancy ‘K’ in one of the corners. A ‘K’ for Kaeya, she said, because it was special and it was his.

He never wanted to part with it. Especially during the colder months. You could always find him with the soft blanket draped around his little shoulders, the bottom of it dragging across the hardwood whenever he walked.

It brought him comfort. Even now, just its simple presence was enough to bring him back to much simpler times.

The blue didn’t really match with the set, but it didn’t matter, because he didn’t care.

It was cruel. This was the very place he spent many nights crying himself to sleep, hands clasped together in a breathless plea, begging to whatever god that would answer his prayers to simply finish him off before he woke up in the morning. This was where he stared into the darkness of his room on sleepless nights, reminiscing about a past that was.

Day by day, the freezing cold constricted his veins the same way his heart ached on those hard days—when he laid in bed breathlessly, staring at the ceiling with a coldness akin to that of a corpse.

Truth be told, he was tired.

It was an exhaustion that ran through his body with the same vigor as the blood that circulated through his heart, permeating his bones as if it was the very thing holding him up by a puppeteer’s string, and barely holding on to the vestiges of his crumbling life as if it were sand slipping through his fingers.

Everyday he prayed. Begged. He wanted it to stop. He wanted to get better.

After Diluc left, his life had begun on a steady downward spiral. The grief that overtook him that night compelled him to confess—yet, even after the fact, he couldn’t shake that deep, aching sadness that followed him whenever he thought about what things could’ve been like—if only he had waited just a bit longer.

Part of him says that he wasn’t thinking straight. Both he and Diluc were in shock, crippled by the sudden misery of losing a father. On the other hand, the other part of him, that nauseating sinner half—the one that came from a broken land of unspoken promises—knew very well what he was doing.

Could you believe it? When the man who raised him, the man whom he had learned to call Father, alongside a boy whom he had learned to call brother, died, he smiled. He smiled as he watched his brother sob over the corpse of the man who raised them.

Why? If not for the most disgusting reason of all, he felt relieved. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to choose between the father that loved and nurtured him in a land that accepted him, or a father that ruthlessly abandoned him for the duty of a fallen nation.

He was glad. But also, guilty. Crepus died without knowing his true origins, inadvertently meaning that he had lied to him his entire life. The guilt was eating him alive. While Crepus never knew, Diluc surely ended up finding out.

He wanted to die.

Back then. When he fought Diluc.

Maybe he hadn’t realized it then, but now, he does.

He thought that maybe, the sadness would be temporary.

That, even before Crepus’ death, he wouldn’t be destined to fail.

It was only after the fact.

After the sun had set and the colors melted together, revealing the dark hues hidden underneath.

After the stars appeared and the night sung its song, only then, did he truly realize.

Everything seems calm in that moment, in a quiet sort of way. And once you notice that you’re breathing, breathing in sync with the life of the world around you, do you notice that you’re alive.

And once you notice that you’re alive,

You realize that you never really wanted to be, after all.

He didn’t mean to stop protecting himself. But well, he did.

And once the blaze of Diluc’s burning claymore came down upon him, he felt as if he’d finally be free.

Of course, what kind of gods would Celestia be if not to get the last laugh?

The attack of flames met a shield of ice. Only for him to be bestowed with the curse that was his vision. It wasn’t a blessing. It never was.

He hated whenever someone congratulated him. He hated whenever someone said that it was a miracle. It wasn’t. He should’ve died that night, but this wretched thing was the very thing that prevented it.

And he hates it for that.

The result of their fight was devastating. Diluc couldn’t handle the pain of losing a brother and a father in the span of a single night, so he left, going on a four year rampage across Teyvat with minimal contact back home. Kaeya on the other hand? Well…he simply didn’t have the luxury.

He wished that he could run away from everything like Diluc did. But instead, he became shouldered with the achingly cruel reality of a world that wouldn’t stop spinning for anyone—not even the crumbling remains of the Ragnvindr family.

The head of Dawn winery, and Mondstadt’s leading wine maker, was dead. His son, who was also the youngest Calvary Captain in the history of the ordo, left without a word. All that was left was Kaeya, a pathetic excuse for a man who had barely managed to make a name for himself, instead contending with remaining in Diluc’s shadow and letting him bathe in the forefront.

Without a moment’s respite, he was forced to take upon a sudden shift, creating a facade that would completely destroy his previous self. He had a duty to protect, to perform, to adhere. He was the new Calvary Captain. Grandmaster Varka relied on him. Jean was there for him. He couldn’t possibly let their belief in him go to waste.

So, he hid. Truthfully, that night broke him in more ways than he could possibly imagine. Everything he had come to know and love dissipated, like dust settling and fading. He tried, scraping and scratching at the near invisible specks, desperately trying to piece everything back together as if he could achieve so with just sheer will alone.

Although, nobody saw. Nobody saw how much he longed for the comfort of family, how loss had torn his heart out and stomped on it, over and over again. Sure, he had Jean there, and Varka supported him whenever he could, but what more could they do when the hurt that consumed him was something they were incapable of fixing?

He was an adult. People die. Times change. It wasn’t fair if they were burdened by him simply because he couldn’t get himself together after the fact.

So, he didn’t give himself any time to mourn. He didn’t have the opportunity to feel sorry for himself. Even though each day scraped and prodded at him, cracking his already fragile state with the force of a thousand tons, he picked himself up, piece by piece, and kept pushing with a smile on his face.

Soon enough, Jean stopped worrying about him. Varka stopped lightening his workload, and the civilians stopped gazing at him with the sickening look of pity that lined their eyes whenever he passed them by.

Kaeya Alberich was never okay. But he acted like he was.

He turned to anything he had available to keep him afloat. Confiding in others? Completely out of the question. When he was one who had based his entirely new facade on strength and charm, who was he to appear weak? Who was he to dump his woes on someone else who didn’t deserve it? Nor did they ask for it?

It was pathetic. Going to another person and begging for help over something so…so insignificant, when people suffered so much more. What was his pain in comparison?

But in the end, it seemed that even though his pond of suffering was nothing to the sea others experienced, it was still too much for him to handle.

He ended up turning to other methods to cope. Things that couldn’t talk, things that would never look at him with pity, just things that would plainly do what they’re supposed to. The bottles always felt cold in his fingers. The blade always sliced his skin with the same indifference.

Did it work? Maybe. Only for a while. But in the moment, it was everything.

As the cheap alcohol burned going down his throat in the darkness of his kitchen, a suffocating weight gradually lifted from his shoulders. It fogged up his mind, giving him the false respite that he so desperately needed. When he was drunk, he couldn’t think. Or rather, he didn’t have to. He slumped over on his kitchen counter, letting the alcohol do its work as the intoxicating effects ran through his blood.

For a person that thought a lot, particularly about less than savory topics, alcohol was like a saving grace. It didn’t give his mind the satisfaction of plaguing him with the deeply unsettling thoughts of worthlessness; he didn’t have to lament about how miserable things turned out.

And when he couldn’t drink? Or sometimes, when he needed a little bit more, the glint of a blade graced the corners of his eyes. While drinking was like a reward, cutting was a punishment. As the blade slid across his arm, day by day, crimson apologies bloomed from his skin as if they were wicked flowers, poisonous and deadly.

When nobody else saw enough to condemn him for how useless he was, for how much of a corrupt traitor he was, he saw all of it. Eventually, he began to crave something. Something that would ease the guilt that snaked around his throat and crushed his airways whenever his life went off the rails.

When he first tried it, it washed away the sin that lined every inch of his body, freeing him in that moment. As his skin widened and blood bubbled up—it felt like, in that very instant, the guilt quieted—as though he had finally paid off a fraction of his innate debt.

He became addicted to it. The feeling of relief. The punishment. The control.

It was disgusting, but what more could he do? No one else could punish him as harshly as he knew he deserved; no one else would be able to quell the misery of his very existence as much as the pain and alcohol did.

He relied on it. Until he got worse, and worse. And at some point, he couldn’t recognize himself when he looked into the mirror.

The dark circles got deeper. The nausea became stronger. The scars were numbered.

He told himself, like a sacred mantra each day:

It’ll be a good day today.

I just need to hold on a little longer.

It won’t be so bad forever.

He wondered how long he lied to himself before things completely faded out of his grip.

Ever since he was a child, he knew he wasn’t going to die in some noble way. He knew he wasn’t going to die protecting his family, nor would he die of old age. The agony was one that would never leave. And in the end, Kaeya Alberich was destined to die a miserable death, one shackled by insurmountable amounts of pain and grief.

He knew that his mind would be the one to take him. It was only a matter of time.

Now, that time has come. But what does he feel?

Is it guilt? Grief? Indifference?

Is he happy? Is he sad?

No. He’s…none of those things.

Today is the day he’s begged for. For the longest, every inch of his body had felt like it’s rotting; yearning to die off and release itself from this life of suffering.

But now that the day has come, he doesn’t know how to feel. The world will keep spinning, just as it did when Father died, he knows that without a doubt.

He thinks…he feels at peace.

This is it, right? This is why he spent months cleaning his home. This is why he had been working so hard, so that the loss wouldn’t hurt the Knights. This is why he had been slowly distancing himself.

All of his hard work was so close to being paid off.

He stared at his hands. It almost didn’t feel real.

I am a selfish and horrible person.

The months before it all. How he planned everything between his daily life, going through the motions as if his death—facilitated by his own two hands—wasn’t soon to come to fruition.

I’m undeserving of love. Of people who listen to me. Of people who understand.

It began with emptiness. The sudden distance he felt between the waking world and himself. What was there to ground him, when his mind was already so far gone? What was there to keep him shackled, when the taste of freedom was already at the tip of his tongue?

I’m undeserving of respect. Of joy. Of kindness.

He didn’t feel alive. Maybe, more like a robot. Robotically acting out the movements of the Kaeya everyone else knew, while the real Kaeya silently prepared for his death.

I don’t deserve to eat. I don’t deserve to drink.

He started buying less and less groceries every week. He started a habit of skipping meals. It was the little things.

I don’t deserve to feel happy. I don’t deserve to have friends.

He started burying himself in work. Finding excuses to not spend time with people. Avoiding those who he knew could see through his mask better than anyone else.

I don’t deserve to be okay. I don’t deserve to get better.

He’d spend his free time making preparations. He paid off his tab, made sure his savings were in order.

I will never heal. And that’s okay. Because someone like me deserves to hurt.

He began cleaning his house. Leaving it spotless. Like he was never there to begin with. He signed off objects to other people, marking boxes with their names on them and putting the belongings he never deserved to have away.

I deserve to rot and ache eternally.

He wrote his letters. Said his final goodbyes in ways no one would notice.

I deserve to die painfully.

And then, that was it. Much easier than he initially prepared for, and more liberating than he could’ve ever imagined.

I deserve to be hurt. Just as I’ve hurt those around me.

In his mind, he barely noticed the sound of frantic knocking at his door. He doesn’t know when, or how, but he had been sitting on his living room couch. Darkness poured out of the windows, only dimly illuminated by the lamp sitting on the coffee table.

It was almost time. But, he decided that he could save a few minutes for whoever it was. It was the last time anyone would see him breathing. Why not indulge them?

The knocking became more frantic. Pounding against the wood of his door, a voice rang out, “Kaeya? Kaeya! Are you in there?”

Huh…It was Jean.

Kaeya planted his feet one after another, shuffling towards the door until his hand met the door knob. It swung open, and the frenzied face of Jean met him.

“Oh thank God, Kaeya! I…I was so worried…Just—“ She stopped, pushing past him and closing the door.

He can’t think of the last time he’s seen her so panicked. Usually, Jean is the face of tenacity, facing all of her issues-head on with resolve fitting of a grandmaster. Truly, he believed that there was no one else more suitable for the title of the Lionfang knight.

In the most laughable way, Kaeya finds himself being nothing like her. He isn’t diligent. He isn’t strong. He isn’t even anyone important. Honestly, he doesn’t even know why she considers someone like him as a friend.

He wished that Jean could find out the truth just as Diluc had. Maybe then would she finally realize how utterly pathetic he actually is. Of course, he could simply tell her the truth himself just as he did that night. But deep down, he knows that he won’t.

Selfishly, he latches onto Jean’s kindness. When everything around him seems to tear him down, Jean’s heartfelt gratitude is just what he needs to prevent him from falling down another spiral. That is, when he hasn’t already failed miserably at the tasks she presented him.

He always went down the same road. He spiraled, again and again, over and over. And each time, he built himself back up like nothing ever happened. But he knew. He knew that deep down, each time he tried to pick up the crumbling pieces of his self-worth and force them back together, some parts of him were always left out. He never fully gets over his breakdowns. But he acts like he does.

He was a liar. Through and through. Down to his very soul. He lies about his past, what he does; who he even is.

What is a connection when it’s built on lies? What is mutual love and respect, when neither truly understands the other?

Jean will never truly know the real him. And he intends to keep it that way.

It’s about time their false friendship was severed.

He started, “Jean, what…what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Her eyes were wide open with something that could be best described as pure, unadulterated fear. She screamed, “You! You’re what’s wrong, Kaeya!” The sound of paper wrinkling filled the space as she clenched her hands, grip tight and unmoving, “Just—Just what were you thinking?”

His gaze hardened.

It couldn’t be.

“I…don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice barely audible.

Jean’s eyes began to water, her entire face flushed red with tears. Her hands trembled as she held up that all too familiar note, presenting it like some kind of sick trophy in front of his very eyes. “Yes you do, Kaeya! Because you’re the one that left this in my desk drawer!”

But it was.

Yes. He recognized that letter, didn’t he? It was the same one he spent hours ruminating over, tears falling onto the paper one after the other as he worked up the courage to write his final words—all the things he could never muster the courage to say aloud.

“Look at it!” Her voice broke in a way that made his heart hurt. “Kaeya, please. Tell me that this is all some kind of joke. It isn’t funny.”

He watched as Jean appeared to unravel before him. And as he thought, his own eyes began to twinge with something disgusting. This is what he does to people, right? He breaks them. Even a will as strong as Jean’s can fray when they’re left to deal with whatever the hell he is.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking away from her piercing gaze with deep shame overcoming him. “Jean, forget about all of this. Just go home, okay?”

She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to burden herself with something that she was never meant to shoulder the weight of.

“No! How could I possibly just…how could I leave you here like this?” Her throat tightened, the words weighing heavily on her tongue, yet she pushed through anyway. “Kaeya, you were going to kill yourself!”

Those words were never meant to leave the mouth of another person, and he was never meant to be the recipient of them. He still had time to fix this. It wasn’t over yet.

“I know.”

“I should’ve known! I knew something was up with you! You were so quiet…so reserved… And—and, you had this tired look in your eyes…all the time! I thought rest would eventually fix it, but it never did, did it?” Her eyes narrowed, face shadowed by a deep despair that Kaeya couldn’t find it in himself to explain. “Why? Why do you sound so indifferent?”

He paused, maybe for a beat too long, “I…think you should leave.”

Jean stepped forward, resolve strengthening her will as her fists clenched against her sides. She held them so tightly that it seemed as if they would begin to bleed. “No. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

He knew this was going to happen.

“Please,” he whispered, voice quiet and raw; pleading.

His gaze was trained on the floor below him. He couldn’t stand to look at her face. Not now.

Her eyes carried far too many emotions, emotions directed at him in particular, for him to make sense of. He couldn’t tell whether she was angry at him, disappointed, or maybe even guilty.

But in the end? It didn’t matter. What he needed right now was for her to back off. She needed to let him go.

“No, Kaeya!” She screamed, shaking her head with the finality of a string snapping, “I’m not going to let you commit suicide!”

“Jean, I… Jean, please. Just let me have this one thing.”

He didn’t know what else he could do but beg. She just didn’t understand. He needed her to know. She needed to realize how she was wasting time on him, trying to convince him of something he no longer held any interest in.

He can’t hold up his facade for much longer. This pain just isn’t something he can live with.

He wasn’t going to see the light of the morning. That, without a fraction of a doubt, is what he bet on.

“I can’t.”

Her insistence was shattering, but plenty of things in his life felt like they had chewed him up and spit him out all over again. This in comparison was nothing. After he convinced her, which would only take a few minutes in reality, he’d be back on track. Ready to set his demise in stone at the end of the night.

He whipped his head up, staring at Jean’s face and searching her eyes. “I understand. I mean, it’s instinct, right? For you to want to save another person?” He could see the swirling of emotion that consumed her expression, and he didn’t really know what to do with it. “…Although, I’m not someone worth saving. It’s better if you just let me go.”

Though, Jean paid no mind to his pitiful attempt at playing at her emotions with his flawed logic. “….Talk to me. Please,” she said. “Why do you want this? You said it in your letter… that…this is the only way. You—you can’t possibly think that!”

But he did. Was it so hard to believe? Damn it…he had really brainwashed her into believing that he was someone he wasn’t. Someone that was strong, dedicated, worthwhile. Him in comparison? He was nothing more than a reusable tool. Something to be thrown out after its use has dried up, and to be honest, he should’ve been thrown out a long, long time ago. He hoped that this would be a sort of eye opener for her, but it only seemed like it was making things worse. Was he so wrong for trying to fix the mistake of his existence?

He wished that it wasn’t her who had found their letter first. Perhaps if it was Diluc, he wouldn’t be standing here right now, desperately trying to gain back the control he once had.

Diluc was far different from Jean. While she had a distorted view of him, one in which he was strong, capable, and deserved to live, Diluc knew the truth. He knew that he was weak. He knew that he deserved to die.

Why couldn’t she see it too?

“Don’t make me explain myself,” his breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, yet the words still tumbled out of his mouth anyway. “It’s not something you can fix.”

Her eyes pleaded with unspoken grief as she implored him, “Are you sure that it’s not something that can be fixed? Or are you just not letting it be?”

He bristled. Who was she to tell him about his problems? About his suffering? His pain? Who else but him would know the sickening truth beneath his convoluted web of lies?

She doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be someone like him. She grew up in a nation where she was meant to prosper, one in which she never had to question herself on if she truly belonged; a world where she hadn’t had to carry the burden of a duty far too heavy for her to bear.

Ever since childhood, he just couldn’t shake the innate sense that some part of him was wrong. He’d get these moments, where it felt like he wasn’t all there, but not quite gone. He just watched. Like an outsider, like some unnatural force disconnected from his flesh. He’d look at himself from an outside perspective.

He always hated what he saw.

“Fuck, Jean! You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve begged every day and night for something to get better!?” He screamed, balling his hands into fists so tight that his knuckles turned white.

“Why didn’t you reach out?” She asked. “If you were struggling so much, you could’ve talked to me. I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

Jean’s eyes looked into his, deeply longing for something, anything she could latch onto. That tiny spark of hope in his eyes, that fleeting sliver of willingness to survive—just—wasn’t there.

She couldn’t fathom how she had let his suffering go unnoticed for so long. And because of her ignorance, and the ignorance of everyone else he called friends, this is what happened as a result.

She knew better than to completely mark this is her fault, but the guilt was eating her up from the inside. She wanted nothing more than to simply hug him and tell him how sorry she was for not seeing his pain—to make sure that he knew that he deserved to live just as much as anyone else—but he wasn’t sure if he’d let her.

“No! You don’t understand, and you never will!” The words spit forth from his lips like acid, each one burning from the inside out.

“Then talk to me! Help me understand, Kaeya. Please,” she begged, “I don’t want to see you suffering like this. I don’t want to have to bury you!”

He shook his head from side to side, lips trembling and teeth gritting. “It’s too late for that. I’ve already made up my mind.”

“It’s not, because I won’t let you. Whatever you’re planning, you can scrap it completely. I’m sorry, Kaeya, but in good conscience, I’m not letting you die.”

He wailed, “Why? Jean, why? Do you—do you think that your presence here will suddenly make me not want to die!? Do you think that, just because you’re talking to me now, I won’t try again tomorrow?”

Jean stiffened. “Then I’ll just stop you again. As long as it takes. As long as it takes for you to realize that you too, deserve to live.” It hurt her to see him like this, but she had to hold her ground. She couldn’t crumble before him when he was already so weak.

“No…no… Fuck! Just leave me alone!” Kaeya’s voice cracked—raw, panicked. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to get out of this situation in any way possible, but he didn’t know how. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you, Kaeya, and I care for you! We all do!” Her voice trembled. “You have people that love you. This isn’t the only way.”

“You don’t fucking know that!” He spat, a half-sob breaking pathetically through his anger. “You—nor those people you claim to love me—know anything about me. None of you know how much I’ve suffered!”

“Can you imagine waking up in the morning, and thinking that you’d be better off dead? Have you ever had to turn to self harm and alcohol, just so that your self-loathing can stop, if even for a moment?”

“I—“ Jean stammered.

“No, you haven’t! And you won’t! That’s exactly why you will never understand!”

“I can! I’ll try my hardest to. I hear you, Kaeya. Just give me a chance,” she pleaded, reaching a hand out towards him, only for him to fiercely swat it away.

“I—I… I can’t believe this,” he choked, soft sobs betraying his fury as they escaped between rage-filled tears. “I can’t believe that you hate me this much!”

Jean’s eyes widened. She quickly gasped out, “I don’t hate you—!“

“You do! Don’t even try to deny it. If you truly loved me, then you would have left when I asked you to! You would have let me continue with my plan…you would have left me alone. You would have let me die!”

There was no sound besides for the ragged breathing of them both when the words they spoke were left to settle in the air.

“No. That’s…not what love is. If I had left you alone during a situation such as this, then I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. How could I leave you when you’re in so much pain?”

“Please! Please, Jean! Just let me die! I’m begging you, don’t drag me back into a world where each day is as crushing as the next!” Kaeya’s voice rasped, trembling hands grasping at his temples. “Please, I really can’t do it anymore! I can’t!”

He violently shook his head, his fingers pressing even harder into his forehead. “This…this can’t be happening..! Fuck… Fuck…” He stared hard into the floorboards as tears fell from his eyes, cascading down his cheeks and pooling onto the floor. “All of this is a dream, right? Yeah…I’m dreaming. I fell asleep after I got home and…this is just my mind trying to torment me further, right? Right?”

Jean watched him breathlessly. “Kaeya…”

He looked miserable. She simply couldn’t grasp how this was happening.

He continued talking to himself, shutting his eyes tightly as he grasped two tufts of his hair, staggering back and forth.“No. I’m not falling for it. I’ve been planning this for so long. I…I’m not letting this happen. I won’t be stopped.”

“You’re not dreaming. Please listen to me, this is real. Don’t pull on your hair like that Kaeya—!” She frantically pleaded, rushing over in an attempt to stop him from hurting himself further.

His voice splintered into a scream.“Get the hell off of me!” He yelled, flinching away from Jean’s touch as if it would sear him alive. “It’s you! You’re the problem! You’re the one trying to drag me back into something I’ve long since given up on! I hate you! I hate you so much!”

Jean’s voice wavered uncontrollably, and this time, she couldn’t stop the tears of her own from falling. “I know you don’t mean that…”

“I do! Shit…this…means I can’t die. This means I’ll have to suffer. All over again. And it’s all your fucking fault!”

Kaeya’s rage bubbled over his sorrow and twisted it into something wicked and cruel, something indistinguishable, a physical representation of what his repressed pain has become.

He whipped his head up to land a piercing gaze into Jean’s eyes, his face upturned into an expression of uncontrollable fury. “You think that just because you’re acting grandmaster, it gives you the right to act like some kind of self-righteous prick?” He snarled, hands slicing through the air with the same force of a real blade. “Well, news flash, it doesn’t! I don’t give a fuck what you have to say, Jean!”

Jean stepped back, her face lined with worry. “Kaeya! Please, calm down! I only want to help you!”

“Help? Help!? You think this is helping me? Trying to strap me down into this world of hell just because you want me to live? I’m tired, Jean! How many times do I have to tell you?”

Kaeya’s knees buckled, and he clutched at the air as if it could hold him up. “I’m tired of living for myself! I’m tired of living for other people! I don’t want to do this anymore!” A deep, unrelenting sob broke through, and he simply couldn’t stop the waterfall of emotions that finally overcame the anger he used as his sword and shield.

Jean dropped to her knees as well, rushing over to his hunched form. “Kaeya…”

“Oh god…oh god…what am I going to do?” He asked, but to no one in particular. There was no one who could truly answer him anyways. “How can I fix this?”

“Kaeya, can you hear me?”

“This was never meant to happen—I… I was never meant to live past this day…”

Jean rubbed circles into his back, hoping that the simple comfort would be enough to ground him for now. She spoke in a hushed tone, “Look, I’m right here with you, okay? You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

He cupped his eyes with his hands, his entire body wracked with uncontrollable sobs that left him gasping for air. “I’m so tired…sob. I’m so tired of everything… Why does this keep happening to me? Why can’t I ever be happy?”

“It’s okay, Kaeya. It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’ll listen to you. From here on out, you’ll never have to suffer in silence ever again. I promise.”

He shifted. Staring ahead. “How am I supposed to believe that, when I begged time and time again for someone to just…see? I…” he paused.

“I starved myself, you know. I wanted to see how much weight I could lose before someone noticed. Or cared. Do you…do you know what happened?”

Jean bristled. “…I don’t.”

“Right, you don’t. Sob. Because nobody noticed. Nobody ever said anything.”

Right. All this happened because he felt that he was truly alone, hadn’t it? Surely there was no way that he hadn’t given signs. Some final, desperate cry for help, a feeble attempt at feeling the connection between another person that he fatally lacked.

Why couldn’t she have seen it sooner? Why did it have to be moments before the edge of no return?

When did it start?

Was it after Crepus died? After Diluc left? Or was it long before that, in a way that had settled into him since birth, and in a way that none of us would ever notice until it was too late?

And that’s when she realized.

She was mourning someone who was still alive.

Alive in the sense that he breathed, but truly, was he still there?

Jean buried her head into his shoulder, holding onto him with the tightest hug she could muster. Her tears dampened her shirt, her voice almost completely shattered as she whispered into his ear. “Kaeya. Please, forgive me. Forgive all of us.”

.

.

.

“Father. I’m sorry I won’t be able to keep the promise I made to you. I wished I could’ve seen you again. I really had. I miss you so much.”

“Thank you for everything.”