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When Jing Yuan was reciting his usual pep-talk as he made his way to your decided meet-up spot (which included, but was not limited to: stay calm, cool, and composed— the triple-c, if you will — and don't make a fool of yourself, Jing Yuan), he figured the cosy picnic (date) arrangement would go smoothly and without a hitch. You would be there bathed in the artificial sunlight, fingers threading through blades of grass and then you would turn at the rhythm of his footsteps, that signature grin of yours on full display as he would attempt to calm his thunderous heart from spilling saccharine confessions accumulated over the last few centuries.
Like always.
But very much unlike now, it seems.
In place of the predicted events he'd conjured up beforehand, the words “I don't know how to kiss” welcome him instead. (He just barely catches himself before the picnic basket in his grip goes tumbling across the grass.)
“...What?”
“Right?” you huff, seated on the grass with your arms supporting your weight while bathed in the artificial sunlight of the Luofu. “I've lived for this long, and yet I have never kissed anyone! Wait, or maybe it's because no one wants to kiss me... Am I that unkissable?”
“No!” Is the immediate rebuttal which springs forth to the tip of his tongue, but he just barely catches himself. He's planned thousands, probably millions, of ways in which he could confess to you, but the timing has never been quite right. That, or the times where he was about to confess were interrupted; sometimes by some last minute calls, other times where he just misses the timing, but usually by Yanqing unceremoniously barging in between you.
This time isn't any different either, because it is simply not quite right. There's something — something imperceptible yet obvious in the back of his mind, giving him the go-ahead on the perfect time to bleed nothing but the pure, unadulterated adoration you've inflicted upon him.
This time isn't any different either, but his mind goes blank, a clarity he has never felt before driving his senses.
“I'll teach you.”
It's a sudden offer, one he doesn't really know where he got the confidence to offer it from, and yet something about your stunned expression and his unusually calm heart seems... right.
“...You know how to kiss?”
“I know more than you do,” he counters. A triumphant grin tugs the corners of his lips when your mouth instantly clams shut at his words.
He waits for your response with baited breath. Will you agree? Will you refuse his, painfully obvious, advance? Oh god what should he do if you say no? Play it off as a joke? Tease you for considering it? Walk away in shame and cry about it—?
“Alright then,” you say, and he blinks once, twice. “It's not like I have anything to lose.”
...Is this a dream?
Apparently not, as he now finds himself seated in front of you with the artificial sunlight doing little to help fend off the heat blooming along his skin. Your eyes are closed with your body leaning towards him in baited anticipation, but his gaze hones in on the clench-unclench of your fists and your stiff posture.
Unable to contain himself, he chuckles, “Someone's a little tense.”
“Ugh, cut me some slack! You're my first, so of course I'm nervous.”
Your first. He's your first. yours. He's yours.
It's almost like a mantra the way he repeats your words (as well as varying renditions of them), one which does little to keep his waning self-restraint intact.
With a sharp inhale, he cradles your chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting your head slightly to align better with his. If this were him any other day, he would have merely brushed this moment off as another one of his fantasies; an untouchable perception of what he wishes could be his.
This is not any other day, however, as Jing Yuan is hyper-aware of your light breaths fanning against his lips, the faint brush of his nose against yours, and your familiar scent which curls into him.
You, you, you. You are all he feels, all he can think of, even more so when he finally pushes forward into your awaiting silence and slots his lips against yours. It's a perfect fit, he thinks in what little room he allows for thought when preoccupied with your overflowing warmth and the taste of you on his tongue and the sheer euphoria which bubbles up when you hold onto him in response to his hands sliding up to cup your cheeks and holding you close.
He wonders if you can feel his centuries' worth of repressed affection from this exchange — if you can feel the desperation coursing through his veins as he leans into your touch. He already knows it's impossible though, for his love runs far too deep to be conveyed in just one singular moment.
“Did you get that?” There's an ache in his heart when you part for air, but it's quickly forgotten when you blindly chase after him.
“One more time,” you whisper against his lips, his heart surging up his throat at your half-dazed eyes and tightening grip on his clothes. “I think you need to show me one more time.”
His waning self-restraint snaps.
“Look at me,” he whispers back, voice hoarse with pent-up desire. His hands tilt your head up, guiding your gaze to align with his once more. Before you can let a word slip through it's smothered, his lips crashing onto yours in an instant as he finds himself more determined than ever to leave you breathless with his adoration and have you focus solely on him.