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i.
Lisa stands alone on the margins of the tavern, wine glass in hand, and stifles a yawn with lithe, bare fingers, her gloves left at home along with her patience.
At this hour of the night she ought to be tucked into bed, and she heaves a mournful sigh to herself at the loss of precious sleep, taking another sip of admittedly fine wine as she sits with supple grace at the table beneath the stairs.
She may be here for their darling Honorary Knight, but that does not mean she is required to enjoy herself.
The Knights of Favonius had rented out the interior for the festivities, the regulars relegated to the tables outside, to celebrate Lumine's and Paimon’s combined birthdays in style (yours is right around the corner, too, Kaeya had reminded her, but Lisa’s refusal to be added to the celebrations had left little room for negotiation, and Kaeya had let it go without pushing further). Amber, Noelle, and Barbara had pulled out all the stops, lavishly decorating the tavern for their dear friend, and tonight the place is full to bursting with knights and adventurers and a few folks from around town, and even Diona had crossed enemy lines to honour Lumine’s special day.
Lisa cannot remember the last time Angel’s Share radiated such carefree delight, the air thick with singing and laughter and the scents of good food, and she feels a faint pang of regret in her chest that she is far too tired to partake in it.
Or, she acknowledges with a grudging smile, watching with weary eyes as the kids leap and twirl across the floor, I am getting too old for this.
Most of the tables are piled high with treats and gifts—a sizable stack from the Favonius crew, including a poorly-wrapped lump unmistakably from Klee (which Jean, ever cautious, had been sure to inspect beforehand), in addition to a haphazard heap from Lumine’s Mondstadt friends and an entire canvas pack full of presents from those afar in Liyue, generously brought along by Xiangling and Yanfei, the former who had promised to cook the birthday feast, and the latter who, honestly, had come more to see Eula.
(In the frenetic energy of the tavern, only the other adults seem to have caught on that those two have disappeared, pink and blue heads pressed close together, sneaking out the back door into the cool Mondstadt twilight before they could be dragged onto the dance floor. Lisa envies their quick getaway, and perhaps she shall follow suit and slip out, as well, if Jean would be willing to accompany her…)
She had spent as much of the evening as she could tied to Jean’s side, conversing pleasantly despite the tavern’s loud volume, barely able to tune out the exuberant chatter and upbeat songs of the impromptu band: Venti on his lyre and José on his guitar, their music easily filling the confines of the bar.
But Jean had long ago been beckoned over by the siblings from the Adventurers' Guild, transitioning into work mode as Iris and Cyrus had engaged her in lively debate about recruitment strategies, and Lisa had retreated, wandering the small room alone with her wine before relocating to the table at which she finds herself now.
She glances over to Jean again, and even from a distance and above the din, Lisa can hear the ragged edge of her voice, can see clearly the counterfeit curve of her smile, the exhaustion seeping deep into the ocean blue of her gaze, and wishes she could spirit them both away from this place, magicked instead to the haven of Jean’s office, quiet and safe and far from prying eyes.
But overall, dear gods, Lisa wishes she could just go to bed.
She realigns her posture in the straight-backed chair, winces as she feels her vertebrae shift, and downs the remainder of her wine in one smooth swallow. Lisa moves to rise with a heavy sigh, intent on refilling her glass at the bar—if she is stuck here, she may as well indulge, as Diluc has provided an excellent vintage, set aside specifically for the adults in attendance—but from the corner of her eye, she sees the man himself, descending the stairs with a small keg under one arm, and she tracks his journey across the room, feels her throat tighten when he approaches Jean; lays a hand on her shoulder as the music fades, whispering in her ear with the pull of a grin.
Jean excuses herself from her conversation, granting Diluc a wilted smile, and takes his proffered hand in hers, allows him to lead her over to the bar, and by the time she is laughing at something he has said, their bodies leaning toward one another in easy camaraderie, Lisa can hardly breathe at all, air as dry in her lungs as Sumeru’s desert wind.
Her hands are too warm—her face is too warm—her whole body alight as static crackles beneath her skin, and she closes her eyes, concentrates on breathing, and it is not long before she is in control again, though not, it would seem, as composed as she would prefer, if the suave voice in her ear is to be believed.
“Any more thunderous, and your eyes alone could cause a storm.”
Her eyes narrow dangerously, proving his point, as Kaeya sidles up and takes the seat beside her, dashing as usual in his fashionable blues, and clinks his alarmingly full wine glass against her own.
“I could electrocute everyone in this building with half a thought if I so chose,” she says, a low mumble under her breath, and lazily gestures to Kaeya with her empty glass, maintaining her gaze trained straight ahead. “Present company included.”
“Even the children?” Kaeya gasps, feigning his shock, and holds a dramatic hand over his heart. “The Witch of Purple Rose revealing her true colours at last—how very wicked of you.”
She meets his eye, smile deceptively serene. “Just you, then.”
He holds up his free hand in surrender, amusement curling the corner of his lips. “I’m afraid I will have to respectfully pass.” He takes a drink of his wine, turning to her fully, and glances at her with a long sweep of his eye, from top to toe and back again. “You look good, Lisa.”
And she does: utterly overdressed, the gown embraces her in pine needle-green, its richly embroidered silk just grazing her calves, and the colour draws forth the brightness of her eyes, so they almost seem to glow in the lamplit room. She has coiled her hair into an elegant chignon, held in place by a single cecilia glorious in full bloom, and with ornate earrings to match and her Vision threaded through a thin golden chain, its crystal dipping ever-so-enticingly into the cleft between her breasts, Lisa knows she is striking—revels in the feeling of luxury against her skin—and on her way to the tavern had garnered quite a few looks from all the wrong people, none of their reactions the one she’d been seeking.
(Bought on impulse in Liyue on her journey home from Sumeru, the dress had sat untouched in her closet, gathering dust for the last several years, and Lisa had felt a tiny thrill at the opportunity to wear it—had hoped that the change might capture Jean’s attention. And though Jean had stared when Lisa had arrived, jaw slightly dropping before remembering herself, she had not said a word, had averted her gaze, and Lisa sighs again, pushing that disappointment to the back of her mind.)
“If I were so inclined…” Kaeya continues, a salacious grin overtaking his face, as he tests the waters of her tempestuous mood and goads her into their habitual clash of innuendo.
“But you’re not,” she interrupts, voice clipped and cold, refusing to take the bait, “and I assure you, I’m not, so this discussion has no reason to proceed.”
He gives her a discerning Look before offering a simple shrug, turns back to the makeshift dance floor as he sips his wine, and she stares into her empty glass with something akin to remorse, under no illusions that her behaviour is in any way kind.
She’s tired and stiff after hours of standing in higher-than-usual heels, and (her gaze drifts back to Diluc and Jean, feels her heart crumple itself in her chest) jealousy has never been a feeling that suits her, emotions a heady cocktail shaken and stirred, rife with desperate yearning and self-directed rage. But of all her friends, she knows Kaeya will not take her abrasive mood personally—knows that it will break against him like the sea over stone—and, eternally unfazed, he will always return her jabs with ripostes of his own, pointed and honest and infuriatingly perceptive.
It’s one of the things she likes best about him.
For once, however, Kaeya might let the matter lie. They sit close together, neither filling the void, and he stays quiet long enough to make her feel that maybe, just maybe, she has escaped this conversation unscathed.
But then he follows Lisa’s line of sight—glances at Jean and Diluc, looks back to her—and as his eye lightens in keen understanding, really, Lisa thinks, she should have known better.
“Jean’s not in love with him, you know,” he says, without warning or preamble, noting the tension that seizes her frame, draped across her shoulders like a winter cloak. “And she never has been, no matter what the rumour mill claims to be true.”
She doesn’t want to talk about this, not now, not ever, and Lisa’s hand clenches around the stem of her glass. She takes a deep breath, pretends not to care—
Reminds herself that just because she is capable of mending all manner of things with a wave of her hand, that it is not an excuse to snap the tavern’s most exquisite glassware between increasingly agitated fingers.
“As interesting as Jean’s love life, or apparent lack thereof, may be, I fail to see how that involves me.”
Kaeya releases an incredulous laugh. “You may have the others fooled with your flirtatious routine, but we’re kindred spirits, you and I—hiding behind dulcet tones and a frivolous attitude so no one can ever get too close. It takes one to know when the sentiment is real, and when you’re with Jean?” He whistles low, pointing to her Vision with leather-gloved fingers. “Sparks fly. Or they would, if you let them.”
She closes her eyes with a long-suffering sigh, raises her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.
“Just how much wine have you had already, Kaeya?”
“Hmm…” he thinks, humouring her, dragging out the moment with a tap to his chin, “seemingly enough to approach the most powerful witch in the world and accuse her of being a coward.”
“I am not the most powerful witch in the world.”
“Ah,” he says, a sly glint in his eye, “but you are a coward.”
Her eyes shift back to Jean, comfortably settled in Diluc’s personal space, the dazzling white of her uniform in perfect contrast with the shadow of his coat, and Lisa feels her heart splinter, the shards nestling themselves in the space between her lungs. The two noble heirs of Mondstadt’s eldest houses… what other match could be more natural than that?
The fight abandons her in a rush as she exhales, her head bending in a crestfallen nod, and she lays her free hand on Kaeya’s forearm in a silent, but sincere, apology.
“Perhaps I am.”
Something in her tone must take the wind from his sails, because his grey gaze eases, grin turned consoling, and he pats her hand gently where it rests on his arm. “Lisa—”
“It’s alright, Kaeya,” she says, soft and low, and she lifts her head to flash him an unconvincing smile, as piece by piece she dons her lighthearted armour once more. “But I think I’ve had enough inconvenient feelings for one night. Enough wine, however…”
She steals Kaeya’s wine glass, exchanges it for her empty one, and he lets her go as she rises to leave, heading up the spiral staircase toward the balcony and its promise of blessed fresh air.
The music shifts again, its decreased tempo muffled down below, but Lisa does not notice, absently swirling her wine in one hand while the other encloses the railing in a white-knuckled grip, a tether as her mind drifts further away to the miraculous stories written in the stars.
Lisa hears footsteps, but does not turn—would know Jean simply by the awareness that pricks at the back of her neck and the warmth that unfurls from the center of her chest, the fronds of a fern in the early spring sun—and Jean stands beside her, close enough to touch, and she lays her hand casually atop Lisa’s on the balustrade.
Lisa closes the gap, their arms flush together, leaning her head to rest on Jean’s shoulder, and as an electric current flows through her like the calm before a storm, Lisa wishes, more than anything, that Jean could feel it, too.
ii.
Summertime in Wolvendom is beautifully tranquil, the soothing scents of flowers dancing in a breeze that rustles branches lush with vibrant green leaves, and Lisa suppresses a yawn as she instructs Razor, watching him mindfully with sharp emerald eyes.
He is doing well, his elemental command advancing by the day, but an hour of training has already passed and Razor’s focus has begun to wane, the lightning in his palm sparking and sputtering, as the Electro energy slips from his grasp like a drop of oil separates in water.
“Excellent work, Razor, that’s enough!” Lisa adjourns the session, signaling him to stop with a raised hand in the air. “It’s just about time for a lunch break, don’t you think?”
His expression perks up—excited, as always, at the promise of food—and he watches with fascinated eyes as she conjures a large picnic basket, appearing at her feet in a sparkling burst of violet, summoned by an elaborate twirl of long, elegant fingers.
She chuckles to herself as he eagerly retrieves a purple-checked blanket neatly folded atop the basket, spreading it out dutifully upon the overgrown grass. It is cool in the shade of a copse of fir trees, in view of the city rising from the lake surrounded by dandelions, sweetflowers, and fragrant sprigs of mint, and he sits with a poise that even now surprises her, and an almost unnatural stillness that veils his enthusiasm. But Razor is a patient boy, and though his eyes follow her movements as she unpacks her basket, he makes no move to take anything until she indicates that it’s ready.
She’d brought steak for him (cooked just shy of rare, barely touched by any seasoning or flames—precisely the way Razor likes it) and enough hash browns to share between them, with a tiny glass jar of spiced valberry jam, her own unique spin on the traditional recipe. Lisa hands him a bottle of wolfhook juice while opening a bottle of cider for herself, before removing her gloves and unwrapping a few slices of mushroom pizza—delicious even cold—the last of the leftovers she’d kept specially for today.
He thanks her with a smile and digs in with little fanfare—she’d attempted to teach him the finer points of dining, but had quickly given that up as an extremely lost cause—and Lisa rolls her eyes fondly, taking a sip of the still-chilled cider; enjoys the sweetness on her tongue and wipes off beads of condensation that dampen bare hands on the comfortable cotton beneath her.
“You are making extraordinary progress, Razor,” she says, eyes shining in the midday glow, and offers him a warm grin. “I continue to be impressed by how rapidly your technique is improving.”
“Thank you, Master.” His words are mellow, as is his wont, but Lisa can see the pride in his bearing, the spark of confidence that brightens ruby eyes, and, to risk sounding too on the nose, she imagines, if he had a tail, she is entirely certain it would be wagging. “You are a good Master. Help me get stronger and protect my lupical. Stronger like you.”
Lisa’s smile softens further as she thinks of the wolves, the family that took him in and raised him as their own—the family that drives him to study and train, and grow into the guardian he wishes so ardently to become. She nods to Razor in response, all benevolent grace from Master to pupil, and takes a bite of the pizza that Jean had made just for her, thinking of the knights and the alchemists and all of the people she holds most dear; of this large, chaotic family she has chosen for herself, and the lengths to which she would go to keep them safe.
“Protecting those you love is a worthy motive, Razor.” Her voice is velvet over an iron will, and she adds a caveat he has heard many times before. “But always remember that true strength requires responsibility and—”
“—Restraint,” he finishes with her, this exchange a reflection of past conversations, and he nods to her in return, brave and resolute, and she hopes he understands what she warns without words—that Visions are tools not to be used lightly—that he must be vigilant and arduously self-aware, deliberate in allowing its power to bind him, lest it take far more than he is willing to give.
(She hopes, too, that his motives remain righteous and pure; that he never comes as close as she had, once, to succumbing to magic beyond her control: adrift in the dark on a sea of temptation, alone save for the whispers of power thrumming in her blood—drowned by desperation and choked by desire, unsure if she would ever come back to herself, if she would again break the surface and be able to breathe.
She has come a long way since her Sumeru days—grown from folly to regret to insight to wisdom—emerging from the depths of its twisted boughs like the sun, and more radiant for having been touched by its shadow. But she had learned her lesson the most harrowing of ways, would not wish that path upon anyone else, and she looks to this child who has endured so much already and vows to guide him with a gentle hand—to prevent his mistakes from matching her own.)
They finish their meal in companionable silence—Razor makes quick work of the plate of hash browns, and Lisa’s heart swells when he passes her the last one, gratitude and delight illuminating her smile—broken only by birds on the wing and the wind in the trees, and the lonely howling of distant wolves.
Her gaze turns to Mondstadt, their view from the cliff majestic and clear, and Lisa’s eyes fixate first on Favonius Headquarters, Jean’s office windows just visible from this vantage point; moves on to the windmills and spires of the city she’d left behind and the cherished home it has become in the years since her return.
She picks a dandelion with utmost care from a patch beside the blanket, watches as the wind blows a few of the seeds skyward—
Wonders what Jean is doing right now.
Razor observes her with curious eyes, his head tilted to one side as he arranges his words, and Lisa learned long ago that he cannot be rushed—that he will always speak in his own time—so she crosses her ankles, leaning on her free hand splayed out beside her, and settles back comfortably on the blanket to wait.
“Dandelion is Master Jean,” he eventually says, plucking a flower to inspect cheerful petals.
“Yes,” she replies, the softness of her voice mirrored in her eyes, as she seeks out Jean’s window again, the glass bright in the afternoon sun. “She is the Dandelion Knight.”
He studies her face: examines the adoring half-smile that pulls at her lips and the tenderness that creases the corners of her eyes; hears the devotion that laces the tone of her voice, a quality he has noticed she reserves solely for Jean.
“Master Jean is… lupical?”
Lisa turns to him, affectionate and earnest. “She wishes to protect you and the wolves as much as the rest of Mondstadt,” she says. “I am sure she would be honoured to be considered family.”
“No, no,” Razor amends, swiping a hand through his bangs. He looks at Lisa meaningfully, rephrases his question: “Master Jean friend, but Master Jean is your lupical?”
Lisa’s thoughts falter, the breath frozen in her lungs, but the panic recedes almost as soon as it arises—out here she can be honest, in the wild among the trees, and she blows the rest of the seeds into the rolling summer breeze, marking their journey upward as they float leisurely to the clouds.
“Yes,” Lisa says, wistful words a near-whisper. “Or rather… I would very much like her to be.”
The corner of his mouth turns down in a frown, and he stares intently at the flower in his hand, twirling its stem between his fingers. “You are sad,” he says, not meeting her gaze. “I did not mean to make Master Lisa sad.”
Her heart breaks a little at his guilt-ridden expression, and she leans closer to him, tilts up his chin, offers a reassuring grin that just reaches her eyes.
“You said nothing wrong,” she explains, hushed and steady, and she lays her hand briefly on his shoulder. “I’m right as rain, see?”
Razor searches her gaze, investigating again the verdant depths of her eyes, and whatever he sees there must grant him resolve, as he does his best to speak, choosing his words with as much accuracy as he can muster.
“When hunting goes bad…” he slowly begins, “my lupical and me have empty feelings in our stomach, that bite like bone and growl like thunder. We are hungry for meat we want, but do not have, and sometimes that can make us sad.”
He hands her the flower, slightly rumpled by his fidgeting, and she can do little else but listen, stunned into silence.
“Sometimes we are sad,” he repeats with a nod, “but when hunt is bad, we try again.” His smile is small, but holds a quiet understanding, and Lisa admits to herself that she may have been underestimating this dear boy. He pats her shoulder as she had, and her smile blooms to equal his. “You be like us and try again, too.”
She shakes her head, laughing under her breath, and cannot help the fondness that suffuses her tone. “You are wise beyond your years, Razor,” she says, ruffling his hair. “In some things you may be the Master and I your student. But for now, I remain your tutor, and we have time enough for one last lesson. Do you want to try reading today? Or shall I?”
“Much talking today,” he replies, the rise of a blush colouring the tips of his ears. “It is hard, and I am tired. You read, please?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Lisa says, assuaging his embarrassment with a firm nod and a grin, as a brown leather book appears in her hands. She levitates it within reading distance, turned slightly downward so Razor can see the pictures, and the pages flip swiftly on their own until they reach the tale she had selected for the day, Razor grazing his fingers against the colourful illustrations.
He huddles close beside her, comfortable and warm, and Lisa drapes one arm around his shoulders as she begins to read:
“When the first wisp of wind brushed across the land, birds that yearned for the sky had wings, but no way to fly… ”
Lisa’s voice washes over him, honey-sweet and smooth, and as a falcon soars high above, its cry carried on the wind, Razor watches it glide with wide, awestruck eyes.
iii.
Lisa is running out of ideas, and after years’ worth of trying with nothing to show for her efforts, she is uncertain how much more of this she can endure.
Either Jean truly is this outrageously dense, or her powers of flirtation have somehow lost their efficacy, and as neither explanation bodes particularly well for her future, tonight Lisa finds herself out unusually late, tucked into a corner of the Cat’s Tail tavern, having decided that she deserves a good, pitiful sulk and one of Diona’s specialty cocktails.
Roger the cat had curled up in her lap almost immediately after she had arrived (Roger the human likely in the alley behind the tavern, vomiting after one too many ales, yet again), and she strokes his fur absently, bent over the table staring into the riot of colour of her half-consumed drink, and she leans heavily with her cheek in the palm of her hand as she sorts through her options for moving forward with Jean.
… As most of them require Jean to suddenly become less of an impenetrable brick wall (or herself to cease being such a damned pathetic fool), Lisa emits a defeated sigh, fights the temptation to drop her head to the wood, and settles instead on holding her face in her hands, closing weary eyes, rubbing firm circles into her own temples with fingertips clad in smooth black silk.
“You look like you could do with a glass of something stronger.”
The voice is unexpected, cantankerous and cold, and Lisa straightens her posture as quick as lightning, reflexive elegance emerging in the presence of another. Roger meows his discontent at being jostled so callously before he leaps to the floor and falls back asleep, coiled around Lisa’s high-heeled feet.
“Rosaria?”
The flinty-eyed woman looks like she’s going to break her jaw, clenching it tight as she holds out a small glass to Lisa, filled to the brim with pungent, amber liquid. She looks over Lisa’s shoulder, does not quite meet her eyes, and speaks in a tone with more frost than Dragonspine.
“This doesn’t mean I like you.”
Lisa blinks for a moment, a little bit dazed, but extends a hand to accept the drink anyway; turns toward her in confusion as Rosaria seats herself beside her, setting two more shot glasses on the table between them. She sips discreetly at a hip flask full of dandelion wine, smuggled over from an earlier bout at Angel’s Share with Kaeya, and Lisa eyes the flask with lofty raised brows, but keeps her commentary sealed behind pink lips.
They sit in tense silence, avoiding each other’s gaze, but Lisa knows well not to let down her guard—waits with stiff shoulders for the conversation she can feel brewing with the inevitability of an oncoming storm.
“As much as I enjoy the catharsis of a fine tragedy,” Rosaria begins, and scheiße Lisa has not had nearly enough alcohol for this, “real life is not theatre, and watching you two stumble around each other has been… painful, to say the least.”
Lisa doesn’t have to question who Rosaria means, and she wonders when she became such an open gods-forsaken book.
Now if only Jean could read her feelings so easily.
“Are you going to do anything about it?” Rosaria asks.
Lisa does not answer, downs the shot in reply, but when she reaches for the second, Rosaria surprises her again by laying a gentle hand on her forearm, compassion buried deep in tired scarlet eyes.
“You can’t keep going on like this forever, Lisa,” she says, and that alone gives Lisa pause; unable to remember the last time Rosaria addressed her as anything other than the Librarian (or, more often, not addressing her at all). “There are worse things than heartbreak, and dwelling endlessly on what might be does nothing but paralyze you with indecision. Act, or do not, but no more of this feeling sorry for yourself—you are far too respectable for that, however much I am loath to admit it.”
Lisa exhales slowly and does not contradict her—there is no point in arguing when Rosaria is right—so she picks up the second shot, pushing the third over to Rosaria, and suppresses the rueful smile that threatens to curl her lips, self-pity set aside in the scowling Sister’s company.
“And here I thought we weren’t friends,” Lisa says with a hum, trailing a finger along the rim of her abandoned cocktail glass.
Rosaria takes a long swig from her flask and throws Lisa an unimpressed look that would freeze most people solid in their tracks, but Lisa, in proper form, is not remotely most people, and her glare merely succeeds in unleashing Lisa’s grin, dazzling even in the dim light of the tavern.
“We’re not.”
Lisa laughs aloud, offering a sly, secretive wink and a nonchalant shrug, and holds up her shot in tribute. “If you insist.”
She refuses to dignify that with a response, but Rosaria raises her glass all the same, and they toast words unspoken with courteous nods before drinking the whisky in one fell swoop: empty glasses deposited on the table with a satisfying thunk.
Rosaria orders another round with a quick gesture toward the bar, and they spend the rest of the night together, comfortable in their corner, content to ignore one another as they drink side-by-side.
When they rise at last to leave, going their separate ways, outside the tavern they share a brief glance before Rosaria all but dissolves into the gathering dark—almost as effective as magic, Lisa thinks—and as she turns toward home, Rosaria’s advice on her mind, she reflects on how solidarity can be found in unlikely places, if one is only willing to listen.
iv.
Lisa glances up to the clock on the far wall, the sixth time in half as many minutes, and continues to sew as fast as she can, the needle gliding smoothly through vivid blue fabric.
She supposes she could have done all of this by magic—ornamental roses attaching themselves with a quick and easy flick of her wrist—but exploiting such a shortcut would defeat the purpose of this project, and Lisa prefers to sew by hand, anyway: the repetitive motions and meditative calm affording herself a chance to clear the clutter from her mind.
The outfit is a display of gratitude and affection for their perennially overworked, beloved Master Jean (as well as a none-too-subtle hint that she deserves a holiday) and Lisa will do it properly or not at all. She imbues each stitch with respect and admiration, grace and charm and no small amount of love, and does not mind how much work must be done, how much time she must painstakingly dedicate, in order to accomplish that which she’d envisioned: cerulean roses arranged to draw the eye, perfectly complementing Jean’s willowy figure.
Jean is worthy of the very best, and magic, in this case, simply will not do.
She resists checking the clock a seventh time, and keeps her head down to focus on her work. Barbara will soon arrive to gauge her progress, the finishing touches on Jean’s outfit nearly done, and Lisa would like to complete it as quickly as she can, before she can begin to second-guess herself:
She has questioned the wisdom of adorning Jean’s clothes with hand-crafted replicas of her own personal symbol; has spent the last week vacillating between Jean’s possible reactions, anxious that she will misread her intentions. Will she see them as the heartfelt gesture they are, Lisa’s wish to share herself with her most dearly loved friend? Or, and Lisa’s breath hitches at the mere thought, will Jean instead view them as little more than a brand, Lisa’s possessiveness rearing its ugly head, a claim laid where it is entirely unwanted as shackles and chains meant to hold her in place?
(She cannot deny that part of herself greatly desires to stake that claim—to make clear to the world that Jean is hers and hers alone—but the significantly better parts of her nature know that Jean belongs to no one but Jean, and as she pours her heart into ocean-blue roses, Lisa hopes that the message does not get lost in translation, that her meaning comes across plainly this time.)
She’s sequestered herself in the alchemy workshop, safely away from Jean’s inquisitive eyes, and she pauses for a moment, examines her handiwork, and marvels at the combined efforts that went into producing this gift—feels thankful to be part of a family that so genuinely cares.
The whole thing, of course, had been Barbara’s idea, and she had involved Lisa straight from the start, coming to her in the library with excited eyes and a shining smile, eager to do something that would bring happiness to Jean. They’d perused the shops for inspiration before choosing a design, and Barbara had corralled their friends at a sun-drenched table among the lower stacks, describing her plan while Lisa shelved books.
Amber would provide fabric, Noelle would sew, and Albedo and Klee would gladly contribute some gems from their own impressive collection.
Kaeya had been the last one on board, cornered in the library several days later by an unusually direct Barbara, the deaconess determined on her unstoppable mission. Lisa’s lips had curled up in a smirk at Kaeya’s wide eye as Barbara had succinctly described the proposal at hand; had explained just how important it was that Diluc hire a tailor to assist, how everything else had fallen into place, how all they required now was Kaeya’s cooperation…
All serious business and undeterred eyes, she had appeared quite a bit like Jean in that moment, and Kaeya had been unable to refuse.
Upon his agreement, Barbara had gone on to elaborate just what they’d need, speaking a mile a minute as Kaeya and Lisa had listened attentively, doing their best to keep up with her zeal.
“And—oh!” she had said, interrupting herself as concern had etched lines into her features, a crucial component again coming to mind. “We’ll need Jean’s measurements to give to the tailor—we can’t make a suitable outfit without knowing the right size! But how do we acquire them without arousing suspicion…?”
Before she could stop herself, without permission or thought, Lisa had rattled off the numbers with detailed precision, and Kaeya had raised his brows so high that they were in danger of merging permanently with his hairline.
“Perfect!” Barbara had said, with a delighted clap of her hands, as it dawned on Lisa just what she had done. “I can always count on you, Lisa!”
The deaconess, then, had been off like a shot, keeping tabs on her fingers and calculating sums in her head, jotting down notes on a loose sheet of paper, while Lisa’s cheeks had flushed a dark, pretty pink, Kaeya just managing to hold in his laughter.
(Lisa had imagined hexing each and every one of his precious eye patches—an itching spell, perhaps, or a potion that would give them lurid and clashing patterns—and she had infused her thoughts into a formidable glare, daring Kaeya to challenge her. He had astutely backed off, flashing her a wink, as an obnoxious grin had spread across his face, and Barbara had merely continued on rambling, having completely missed the silent conversation, thankfully none the wiser to Lisa’s unmitigated embarrassment. Kaeya had yet to let her live it down, and she may just go ahead and hex his eye patches, anyway.)
That was already two weeks ago, and with the Honorary Knight, Paimon, and Klee coming to her for information about that peculiar archipelago, she has a feeling that now is their chance to offer this surprise to Jean, and—she succumbs yet again to checking the clock—she is running out of time to finish it.
She studiously works for a couple hours more, until she has constructed four roses in total, and as she secures the last one to the belt of Jean’s outfit, Lisa hears a rhythmic knock on the door, Barbara then sauntering over the threshold as she beams Lisa a smile to rival the sun.
“Good afternoon, Lisa! How is everything coming along?”
“I’m almost done,” she replies, and matches Barbara’s smile with one of her own. “Come see for yourself.”
She joins Lisa at the workbench, releases a soft oh, and holds both hands over her heart.
“Those are so pretty!” Barbara says, brushing a finger against a silk petal. “Jean will adore them for sure.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Barbara runs her hands over the soft, light fabric, inspecting the cloth for wrinkles or snags, but the quality is unimpeachable, Noelle’s craftsmanship masterful as always, and with Amber’s exceptional choice of material and the lovely gems Albedo and Klee had picked, the outfit has been elevated to a fine work of art, Lisa’s accessories the icing on the cake.
It truly is beautiful, if impractical for combat, but Lisa, predictably, has a solution for that.
“Only one thing remains,” she says, pulling her cauldron toward her, along with a bundle of ingredients she’d compiled earlier from her own personal stores, a cupboard in the lab kept under lock and key, where she keeps all manner of things dangerous and rare, supplies for her potions and more intricate spells.
She’d sustained the cauldron at the required temperature, the water just shy of a rolling boil, and Barbara watches, enthralled, as Lisa mindfully inserts the ingredients one at a time, the intent in her actions of as paramount importance as the order in which she adds them:
Crystal core dust and ground lizard scales and dewdrops collected after a storm; nectar from flowers that bloom only at daybreak and pine sap tapped at midnight under the light of a full moon; honey from a hive that has crowned a new queen and seven different species of butterfly wings, saturated by slime concentrate in each individual element.
The culminating ingredient is a more personal one, and Lisa removes her glove, takes up her needle, and perfunctorily pierces the pad of her thumb, a tiny pinprick of crimson beading on fair skin.
Barbara startles, eyes wide in alarm. “Lisa, what are y—”
“Just a moment.”
This part is critical, distractions dangerous, and she holds her hand over the cauldron, applies gentle pressure so a single drop of her own blood mixes with the brew, followed by a second, then a third, and finally she stirs the potion anticlockwise six times, clockwise a dozen, muttering the spell under her breath, and as she lowers the temperature, it froths and foams, simmering down into a deep, scintillating violet.
“The most powerful protection spells require blood,” Lisa explains, meticulously tilting a spoonful into a glass vial, its colour brightening as it rapidly cools. “And while the blood of a witch is even more potent, it is amplified further when that witch bears a Vision.”
“So this…” Barbara begins, voice pitched with wonder.
“Is the greatest safeguard I can offer,” Lisa finishes, “whenever Jean must be far from my side.”
She proceeds to pour the potion over the roses—one drop each, no more, no less—and they sparkle like diamonds under the influence of Lisa’s magic, before fading back to normal silk, shining and shimmering in the late afternoon sun.
“There,” Lisa says, voice soft as her smile. “Now it’s complete.”
Barbara throws her arms around Lisa before she can prepare herself, her face nestled into the side of Lisa’s shoulder as she squeezes her frame for all she’s worth, and Lisa pats Barbara’s arm flung across her chest, cannot help the warmth that spreads through her body. How long has it been since she last had a proper hug? Lisa can’t remember, and that in itself is answer enough.
“Thank you for keeping my sister safe,” Barbara whispers, and as she leans back she takes Lisa’s still-bleeding hand, closing the injury with a glowing bubble of water.
Lisa feels new energy course through her veins, revitalized by Barbara’s healing touch, and she acknowledges her with an appreciative smile, setting the vial inaudibly on the workbench with a deft hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to,” Barbara says, and she pauses for an instant, stretched thin by the silence, and weighs her words thoroughly before she speaks. “I just wish I could heal all of your hurts, but this will have to be sufficient for now.”
“Barbara, I—”
Lisa cuts herself off, does not know what to say, cannot deny how much loving Jean hurts, not when Barbara has fixed her with eyes that see through to her heart—eyes of a shade that so intensely resemble Jean’s.
“She loves you—she does,” Barbara insists, when Lisa opens her mouth to refute her, “but she just needs a little more time. After we were separated… I often wonder if she was wounded more by it than I was, even though she never shows it, never talks about it. Our mother can be difficult even in the best of times, and Jean didn’t have many friends growing up, and I think maybe she’s forgotten what it’s like to love. What it’s like to be loved.
“I’m just getting to know her again,” she continues, “but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, for Jean, actions speak far louder than words.” Barbara picks up the completed garment, folds it with care, and places it reverently in Lisa’s hands. “You should give this to her. It will mean more coming from you, especially when it’s given with love.”
Lisa says nothing, merely clutches it to her chest, and bites the tip of her tongue to keep her tears at bay.
She takes a deep breath, nodding solemnly to Barbara, and sets the outfit back down on the workbench before retrieving a clean crystalline bottle from the closet across the room. She fills it with a generous amount of the shining purple potion, stoppers it with a cork, and extends her hand into the space between them, presenting the bottle for Barbara to take.
“Here. I’ll store the rest in the workshop for emergencies, but please bring this to the archipelago with you.”
Barbara tilts her head to one side, confused. “I never said I was going.”
“If my conversation with Jean has had the effect I intended, then she will be off with Klee and Lumine,” Lisa says with a knowing wink, and lifts one shoulder in a playful shrug. “And if Jean is going, then so are you, though you ought to speak with her about it, too. Now please, take it; a couple drops on your clothes will do the trick, and you’ll be set for a week before you’ll need to refresh it.”
Barbara accepts the potion and hugs her again, arms wrapped tight around Lisa’s waist, and she steps wordlessly away, heads for the door, but before she leaves, she turns back once more.
“I am so thankful that my big sister has you, Lisa.” Barbara gives her a warmhearted smile, and waves her farewell with her free hand. “Look after yourself, okay? We’ll be back before you know it!”
The door’s latch closes with an abrupt snick, and Lisa breathes deep, exhales on a sigh—goes through the motions of bottling the potion and cleaning her equipment, all the while wondering if what Barbara said is true…
Have I been as blind to Jean’s affections as she has been to mine?
Lisa does not know, feels apprehension swirl in her gut, but as she picks up the outfit they’ve made just for Jean, her love overpowers all else in her mind, and she casts a simple cloaking spell, disguising it as a book to hide it from others’ sight, as she withdraws from the workshop to return to the library.
She’s already devised the perfect method for delivering their gift, and with a pang Lisa wishes she could be there to see it—Jean stunningly beautiful, content and at ease, her hair and her clothes billowing in the sea breeze…
Lisa descends the stairs, nodding cordially to Wyratt and Wood in the hall, and as she imagines herself in Jean’s arms on distant shores, the library door falls shut behind her, left alone with her books and a fanciful dream.
v.
A brusque knock raps against Jean’s office door, and Lisa waves a hand in its general direction, the hinges creaking in lackluster protest as it swings open to admit her visitor. She does not look up from her work when Eula walks in—her heeled boots keeping time on the warm herringbone floor—and rereads a troubling paragraph from an intelligence report on the situation in Inazuma, hastily annotating the message as she pushes her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Eula, for her part, takes Lisa’s presence in stride, sets a chair from the table in front of Jean’s desk, and crosses one knee elegantly over the other as Lisa waves her hand through the air again, the door closing itself with hardly a sound.
“So,” Eula begins, folding her hands delicately in her lap, the barest hint of a smile at the corners of dusky eyes. “Any progress with Jean?”
Lisa huffs a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing her temples as she looks up from the report, and glares across the desk at Eula’s innocent expression, completely unruffled and still as a winter morning. “Hello to you, too, Eula, how lovely to see you. And Jean is not here, as you can see, so the answer to your question is a definitive no.”
“Pity,” Eula says, lifting one hand to examine her nails. “I look forward to the day I return from a mission and you finally have a story to tell.” She meets Lisa’s eyes and cracks a small smile, leaning back in her chair with impeccable poise. “What pieces have you been left to pick up this time?”
The change of subject is more than welcome, and Lisa moves to run a hand through her hair before remembering that she’d pinned it up, her hat abandoned on the conference table after one too many instances of honeyed waves obstructing her face as she’d bent over seemingly endless piles of paperwork.
“Several days ago,” Lisa begins, “Klee received a mysterious letter, summoning her to an archipelago far across the sea. Jean, Barbara, and the Honorary Knight took it upon themselves to accompany her, and with Jean gone, I have been appointed as a substitute for the time being.” Her grin turns wry, and she pushes the Inazuma report to the side. “The… Acting-Acting-Acting Grand Master, as it were.”
Eula’s brows furrow in confusion. “Acting-Acting—?”
“Kaeya was meant to stand in for Jean, but he also absconded to these remote islands, kindly offloading his responsibilities onto me before he left without so much as a fond farewell.” She drums the fingers of one hand against the wood, absently traces the wings of her Vision with the other. “I would have half a mind to suspect he orchestrated this opportunity just to shirk his duties, if I didn’t know better.”
Eula chuckles under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest. “Ha! Undoubtedly, it would not be the first time.”
“In this instance, however,” Lisa continues, steepling her hands together atop the desk, “his motives are true. From what I’ve gathered, Albedo, Diluc, and Razor are gone, as well, and Kaeya would not have willingly trapped himself on a deserted island with his brother, no matter how desperate he is to play truant. Therefore,” she concludes, with a wink and a grin, “with both Jean and Kaeya absent, I have been promoted to Acting Grand Master, the third. Temporarily, at least.”
“I see,” Eula says, and nods to Lisa. “You certainly do look the part.”
“Don’t tell Jean that, or I’ll be bumped up to Acting-Acting Grand Master in situations like these. I much prefer to be further down the line of succession.”
Lisa stands and heads toward the table, gestures for Eula to do the same, and as they sit, Lisa summons her ubiquitous tea service, steaming pot and a pair of plum-and-lavender cups appearing before them in a flurry of violet Electro sparks.
“Tea?”
“Of course.”
Lisa decants the tea, expertly pouring in a smooth, unbroken stream, and hands Eula her cup on a matching saucer before preparing her own. They allow their drinks to cool, sitting in comfortable silence, but Lisa soon sighs and her head falls forward, staring into her cup, and she decides she may as well face the music, rather than wait for Eula to bring it up again.
“I have found myself at a bit of a loss,” she says, “and you are not the first person these last few weeks to ask me how things are going with Jean.” Lisa lifts her head again to meet Eula’s gaze, a humourless smile pulling at her lips. “It seems that everyone knows how I feel for her, the sole exception, naturally, being Jean herself.”
“Lisa,” Eula replies, candidness and sympathy warring in her eyes, “it’s written plain as day on your face whenever Jean so much as crosses your mind. And I regret to inform you, if you hadn’t realized already, that Jean crosses your mind with impressive frequency.”
A blush rises to Lisa’s cheeks, spreads to her chest, and she rests her head in her hands for a moment before occupying herself with a sip of too-hot tea.
“If my feelings are so obvious,” she asks, pauses, worries her bottom lip with her teeth, a nervous habit from her student days, “then why hasn’t Jean—”
“Jean is an imbecile,” Eula interrupts with unshakable conviction, then raises an apologetic hand and lowers her head gracefully. “All due respect.”
She drinks her tea, blowing at curling wisps of steam, and meets abnormally subdued emerald eyes with a no-nonsense look, softened by the kindhearted tone of her voice:
“She is caught up in her own head even more than you are, and she is misinterpreting your hesitance as disinterest. You’ve waited long enough, Lisa, and I doubt anything will change unless you make it so—I am not usually one to advocate a direct approach, but the time for subtlety and stealth is over. As the saying goes: drastic times call for drastic measures,” she takes a long, satisfied sip of her tea, raises her brows sagely as she considers the librarian, “and these are drastic times, indeed.”
Lisa’s glum expression melts like snowfall in spring, revealing the enchanting blooms that thrive beneath, and she takes Eula’s hand, gently squeezes, and picks up her tea for a restorative drink.
“You’re a good friend, Eula.”
She huffs away the sentiment with an indignant frown, but Lisa can see clearly the affection in her eyes. “Well, I can’t have you so despondent when I finally exact my vengeance, can I? That would be utterly unsatisfactory.”
Lisa laughs over the rim of her cup, sets it down before she can spill, and they spend the next hour chatting amiably over tea, Eula recounting her latest mission on Dragonspine as Lisa theorizes the truth behind strange letters and islands—who sent them and why, their motives and means, and what they intend to do with her brave (and foolhardy) friends who have heeded their call.
And while she does prefer to stay inside with her books, the more Lisa speaks of it, the more she cannot help feeling as though she is missing out on something important, something pivotal, and the wish to join them sings deep in her mind, echoing like thunder through the lonely chambers of her heart.
After a few cups of tea and catching up together, Eula departs for her private quarters to unwind, as arrangements for her next mission must begin posthaste, and Lisa returns reluctantly to Jean’s crowded desk, sighing her dismay at the colossal amount of work, daunting and mountainous, to which she has yet to attend.
She readjusts her glasses, retrieves the Inazuma report, and sets her nose to the grindstone, industriousness rising to the surface in her sincere desire to do right by Jean. Before she knows it, the moon has risen, and Lisa comes back to herself with a start, shaking her head to clear her mind of its daze as she prepares to head home and get some well-deserved rest.
She organizes the stacks of paperwork, collects her things, and stands on the threshold as she gazes around the office.
When Jean returns from the archipelago, in her rightful place behind her desk, Lisa resolves to be honest and open—to show her hand and let the cards fall where they may—and though she is not a betting woman, she allows longing to seep through the cracks of her heart, and hopes the odds will be in her favour.
She nods to herself as she snaps her fingers, extinguishing the candles in a puff of smoke, and Lisa locks the door behind her, crosses the hall, and walks out alone into the crisp Mondstadt night.
+i.
She alights on the beach with unparalleled grace, Amber descending not far behind her, and as Klee sprints to greet them, bright and overjoyed, Lisa only has eyes for Jean.
She looks as remarkably beautiful as she’d known she would, light and relaxed in her new summer clothes, and Jean approaches slowly, as if she were a mirage—a figment of her imagination conjured by the heat. Lisa advances to meet her halfway, her loose violet sundress flowing as she walks, and her heart flutters madly, like a hummingbird in her chest, with every step that brings her closer to Jean.
“Lisa,” she says, when they reach one another, and she wonders if her name has always sounded so lovely falling from Jean’s lips—a little bit longing, a little bit breathless—or if she has become influenced by what their friends have said, her own desires manifesting just what she wants to hear. “I was not expecting you, but I cannot say that I am disappointed.”
Jean says nothing else, her cheeks bearing a faint blush, and Lisa rifles through her satchel, pulls out her letter, and holds it aloft between two fingers. “I’ve been summoned,” she says, the corners of her eyes creasing with her smile, and she nods over to Amber who has her arms full with Klee. “Amber, too. We left as soon as I could convince Hertha to take my place.”
“I am glad the knights remain in capable hands.”
“I would not have come if no one was available, but the good Captain has everything under control,” she agrees, and takes a moment to glance around at the camp, comfortable and pleasant and entirely nonthreatening. “So, the Dodo-King—”
“Was Alice,” Jean interrupts with a grin, and in retrospect, Lisa thinks, that should have been obvious.
“Of course,” Lisa chuckles, glancing down at her letter, its unique magical signature suddenly making perfect sense. “I feel rather witless for not having realized it myself. Leave it to Alice to come up with such a plan, hmm?” She replaces the letter in her bag, removes a straw hat embellished with a glimmering purple bow that grows in size at her whispered spell, and she perches it atop her head with a spirited flourish, giving Jean an elated smile. “Tell me everything.”
They rejoin the others, the adults keeping an eye on the kids from the tent: Razor chasing Klee as they splash through the waves, and Barbara, Amber, and Lumine walking together along the shore—Paimon floating a foot ahead—their mingled voices wafting in the warm tropical breeze.
Jean starts at the beginning from their arrival on the island, with Albedo, Kaeya, and Diluc interjecting as she speaks, and by the end of the story they have set the record straight, and Lisa is thankful that there was nothing to fear from this outlandish, isolated place, that it was all merely an expression of a mother’s love—
Albeit, she thinks, an elaborate one.
They spend the rest of the day following Klee’s lead, fishing and boating and creating games with the harpastum, and every time Lisa steals a glance at Jean, she can feel another’s eyes boring into her side—Barbara and Diluc, and especially Kaeya, even Razor throwing her purposeful looks—their brows rising to the heavens as they gesticulate toward Jean, woefully lacking in subtlety as they urge her to move.
But she is not ready, not now, not here, and her ears feel tinged with a perpetual flush, blazing bold red like a Sumeru rose, and she hopes she can pass it off as a simple sunburn—hopes that Jean will not see through the lie and notice that Lisa is not quite herself, that this foreign awkwardness has pervaded her behaviour.
They feast for dinner on delicious grilled fish, caught by Barbara and Jean the old-fashioned way, and as the last glow of twilight dips below the horizon, they gather round the fire Diluc had made, cozy and warm in the nighttime chill, swapping silly anecdotes of their adventures back home while the moon rises high amid a sky full of stars.
Klee soon crashes, understandably exhausted after such a long day, and she pillows her head against Albedo’s shoulder, her eyes falling shut with a tired smile.
“Master Jean?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, and Jean looks down on her with boundless affection.
“Yes, Klee?”
“Will you sing me a song?”
The group is plunged into silence as Jean opens her mouth, struggling for words that do not come, and a blush overtakes faintly sun-kissed cheeks, as she taps her fingers nervously against her thighs. “I—”
“How about we sing one together?” Barbara suggests, leaning tentatively into her sister’s side. “For old times' sake.”
Lisa holds her breath, meets Jean’s gaze across the flickering flames, and gives her a kind, encouraging nod. Jean swallows her nerves, nods back at Lisa, and turns to Barbara with a deep, trembling sigh.
“Alright, then.”
Barbara grins and thinks, choosing a song, and she begins slow, humming the tune, waiting for Jean to recognize it. It is a soothing melody, simple and soaring, a traditional folk song known to them all, but Barbara’s sweet voice gives it new life, and Lisa feels as though she is hearing it for the very first time, enhanced and refreshed by the ocean air.
Jean joins in after the first chorus, and Lisa’s breath catches, her heart stumbling in her chest, and her eyes close tight as she listens, spellbound, and burns the sound into memory. Jean’s voice is ethereal as she sings in effortless harmony, the music flowing through her like a calm spring breeze, and her voice grows in confidence as she and Barbara switch parts, Jean taking the melody for the final verse.
It is a song of love and loss and joyful reunion—of the beauty of belonging, found in another’s arms—and when Lisa opens her eyes halfway through a phrase, she finds Jean watching her with soft, pensive eyes, and Lisa is frozen in place, cannot look away, would not have been able if she had wanted to.
When they finish the song, Klee is fast asleep, and neither Lisa nor Jean break their gaze as they become lost in the mesmerizing ebb and flow of the flames, oblivious to everything except for each other.
But it cannot last, this moment out of time, and it is destroyed by a seabird cawing loudly overhead. Jean flinches violently with wide, frantic eyes, and she looks away in haste, sharply inhaling, as she rises abruptly to flee.
“We will require more firewood soon,” she says, voice fraught with panic, fists clenched at her sides, glancing at everything in the vicinity but Lisa. “I shall return shortly with more. Please excuse me.”
Jean marches away, bypassing the stack of chopped wood Alice had supplied, and rounds the corner behind the hill, the only private refuge on such a small island.
As soon as Jean is out of sight, eight pairs of eyes turn directly to Lisa, and she has never felt so flustered in all her life, the weight of their scrutiny painting carmine into her skin.
“Well?” Kaeya asks, speaking for everyone present, and he gestures with one hand in the direction Jean had gone. “What are you waiting for?”
Lisa doesn’t have to be told twice.
She finds Jean a ways down the beach, barefoot in the sand and staring out to sea, and as she approaches, Jean does not turn to face her, keeps her eyes diligently fixed on a point far away.
Lisa stands beside her, holding her breath, and the frigid water wets her toes, the charged air between them silent and still, save for the wind and the waves and the too-quick beating of her own hopeful heart.
The time for courage has finally come, earlier than she had anticipated, and Lisa can do nothing but gaze at the stars, the words tangled like vines in the back of her throat. It is Jean, however, who ultimately breaks the silence, squaring her shoulders as if preparing for battle, and she takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and speaks soft and steady into the dense velvet night.
“I always know when it’s you,” Jean says, no louder than a whisper, and Lisa’s lungs contract fiercely, as she exhales a shuddering breath on an uneven sigh. “Even without the tinkling of your hat or the rhythm of your heels, or the soothing scent of roses that follows wherever you go. Instead there is this warmth in my chest and a pleasant prickling at the back of my neck, and…” Jean turns toward Lisa, her eyes brimming with emotion, and takes her hand gently in hers. “I always know when it’s you,” she repeats, impossibly softer than before, and her smile is identical to the one Lisa sees in her mirror every morning: strained by yearning and overflowing with love. “That means something, doesn’t it?”
Lisa laces her fingers smoothly through Jean’s, overwhelmed by the magnetism pulling them closer. “Yes,” she says, equally low, unwilling as she is to shatter the sanctuary they’ve built, and she tucks a strand of hair behind Jean’s ear, more silver than gold under the radiance of the moon. She lingers with her palm against Jean’s cheek, feels a thrill race through her body when she leans into the caress. “I experience something much the same.”
Jean bends forward, rests her forehead against Lisa’s, and her heart skips a beat when she feels Jean’s breath on her lips, warm and wanting and just out of reach.
“I have been quite the fool, haven’t I?”
Lisa puffs out a laugh, drops her hand to the side of Jean’s neck. “No more than I have been,” Lisa protests, the years of uncertainty falling away as she presses ever closer to Jean, breathes her in, intoxicates herself on her proximity to this woman she has loved for so long. “What a pair we make, hmm? Making fools of ourselves as we ache for each other.”
Jean chuckles in response as she releases Lisa’s hand, looses a quivering breath, and wraps her arms around Lisa’s slim waist, fingers just brushing the small of her back. “It is fortunate, then, that you are wise enough for both of us.”
She hums her agreement and lifts her head, locks eyes with Jean, the corners of her own creased with joy that gradually shifts to quiet mischief.
“Wise I may be, but patient?” Her free hand rises to mimic the other, grasping the opposite side of Jean’s slender neck, and her fingers twine in fine flaxen threads as Lisa runs her thumbs along her jaw. “My patience, I’m afraid, has finally run thin, my darling Jean.”
“Perhaps I ought to do something about it.”
She hums again, grazes her lips against Jean’s smiling cheek; feels a rush of electricity from that small touch alone. “Perhaps.”
Jean leans toward her again with unbearable tenderness as time itself seems to slow, sand in the hourglass drifting like snow, and when Jean’s lips meet hers, colours bursting behind her eyes, it is as if every fibre of her being breathes out a sigh of relief, contentment and serenity settling at last into the innermost depths of her bones.
But time inevitably regains its speed, slamming into Lisa with unrelenting force, and she presses more firmly into Jean’s kiss, opens her mouth and takes her lower lip between hers, biting just hard enough to elicit a breathless moan, from Jean or herself, Lisa cannot tell. Static buzzes insistently beneath her skin, humming an urgent tune that drives her wild, and when a vehement shock zips at the base of her spine, she pulls back, gasps, before surging forward again, heat flaring bright like lightning in her veins—like molten gold igniting her whole body from within.
She clings to Jean tighter as Jean pulls at her hips, dizzy with fervor and the sheer magnitude of her need, and she strings a line of kisses up Jean’s neck, her jaw, any bare skin she can reach, and upon her return to Jean’s reddened lips, they trade kiss for kiss, compelling themselves to decrease their frenzied pace before they toe a line neither wants to cross here. They go from impassioned to languorous and everything in between, until Lisa steps back, hardly able to breathe, grabbing Jean’s hand before it can slip away—the point of contact an anchor to reality—lest her heart be too buoyant, too warm and light, and cause her to float to the stars in unbridled bliss.
Jean is in a similar state, heavy inhales and ragged exhales—her eyes a mix of desperate arousal and ecstatic joy, overshadowed by the love she can no longer hide.
Their breathing calms, heat diminished to a simmer, and Jean squeezes Lisa’s hand, does not let go, and blushes profusely when she cannot contain her yawn.
“We should go,” Lisa says, with a soft, doting grin. “I doubt you’ve slept well these last several days, but now the riddle is solved, and tonight you can sleep in peace.”
Jean does not argue, and that alone is proof of how tired she is, and she allows Lisa to guide her the short distance across the sand, walking back to the campsite pressed together hand-in-hand.
As soon as they’re in sight, all of their friends look up at once, and Lisa rolls her eyes fondly as their concerned expressions lighten, flaring brighter than the sun, even Diluc and Albedo making a close approximation. Kaeya winks and Razor beams, Barbara’s eyes glistening with happy tears, and as Lisa and Jean retake their places by the fire, comfortable conversation resumes as if they had never been gone, and Lisa is grateful, feels her heart swell, surrounded by the warmth and support of the people she loves.
Jean soon falls asleep against her shoulder, unable to resist its tempting pull, and Lisa removes her ribbon, ties it around her own wrist, and cards gentle fingers through Jean’s hair as she closes her eyes and permits tranquility to suffuse her mind. Albedo tucks Klee more snugly into his side before reaching for his sketchbook and a piece of ochre, and Kaeya commences a ghostly tale, the guttering flames casting an appropriately eerie glow, transforming his face as he spins a saga of pirates and cursed ships and lost, sunken treasure.
Paimon gasps when Kaeya reaches the skeletal twist, Barbara, Lumine, and Amber at the edges of their seats, Razor listening from the ground with wide, rapt eyes, and Diluc suppresses a hint of a grin as he places another log onto the fire. He expertly stokes the embers to roaring strength, as crackling sparks soar like fireflies in the air, dissolving into the stars amid the black curtain of night, and Lisa opens her eyes, watches as they rise, and drops a kiss to the crown of Jean’s head, followed closely by a second, just because she can.
My, what an adventure this has turned out to be.
And while this particular adventure may soon come to a close, Lisa thinks, another will rise over tomorrow’s horizon, a new day dawning with endless possibility…
Jean stirs against her, straightens her posture, and turns to Lisa with sleep-hazed eyes, a flush on her cheeks as she presses a brief kiss to her forehead, and smiles with such unreserved adoration that it leaves Lisa breathless. The exhilaration in her heart is more profound than any rush of magic could ever hope to be, and as she sinks into Jean’s embrace, musing on the years behind them and those that lie ahead, Lisa directs her gaze toward the vast sky above, alive with the brilliance of stars beyond measure.
I never thought I would become a morning person, but…
Lisa releases the softest of sighs, smile never wavering, and inhales the scents of their mingled perfume, roses and dandelions and the salt tang of the sea.
… sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.
fin