[ it is struggling, really struggling, fighting the good fight to make its way out of his skull. tears are not something that lin jingheng has found himself moved to, not in so long, and not so damn willfully—betrayed by his own body.
he hears the sing-songing of the voice, and part of him withers just a little. ]
Mm.
[ if he opens his mouth he'll crack. he moves in closer anyways, a tangle of limbs. so he distracts himself, catching one of lu bixing's hands and pushing his face into his palm, holding onto the memory of each of his fingertips, the warmth of his hand.
(god he is really fighting this, but...)
a wet track manages to escape down the line of one of lu bixing's fingers, and can easily be felt. ]
no subject
he hears the sing-songing of the voice, and part of him withers just a little. ]
Mm.
[ if he opens his mouth he'll crack. he moves in closer anyways, a tangle of limbs. so he distracts himself, catching one of lu bixing's hands and pushing his face into his palm, holding onto the memory of each of his fingertips, the warmth of his hand.
(god he is really fighting this, but...)
a wet track manages to escape down the line of one of lu bixing's fingers, and can easily be felt. ]