[ she'd made it impossible, and for all of lu bixing's intelligence, he knew he would need to pull himself out of the proverbial cement shoes himself. lin jingheng has never learned how to save himself for someone else, but he manages it, he claws at his consciousness until his fingers bleed, until the thread dyes read and blossoms past the drugs.
he stops dissociating. maybe. a little bit. turning to lu bixing slightly in how they're so aggressively cocooned against one another. lin falls forward when he's grabbed, legs falling over the arm of the theatre seat. still, even as he's grabbed, feels the heat of lu bixing's tears falling onto his shoulder—he allows it, leans into it, and digs fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching slowly. he's here, he's here.
lin jingheng leans into him fully, careful of his bad shoulder, clutching him close as zhanlu suddenly whispers a soft lullaby between the both of them, small and lilting like a finger under the chin. he holds onto him tighter. muffled, again, with feeling this time: ]
I'm sorry.
[ guilt floods him, for not explaining sooner, but how do you even explain to begin with? what do you even fucking say? it's so overwhelming he's been circling the drain between that and the moment on the ship where he'd been shot—
not him, but him. it shakes the pieces of his soul again, fragments. ]
no subject
he stops dissociating. maybe. a little bit. turning to lu bixing slightly in how they're so aggressively cocooned against one another. lin falls forward when he's grabbed, legs falling over the arm of the theatre seat. still, even as he's grabbed, feels the heat of lu bixing's tears falling onto his shoulder—he allows it, leans into it, and digs fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching slowly. he's here, he's here.
lin jingheng leans into him fully, careful of his bad shoulder, clutching him close as zhanlu suddenly whispers a soft lullaby between the both of them, small and lilting like a finger under the chin. he holds onto him tighter. muffled, again, with feeling this time: ]
I'm sorry.
[ guilt floods him, for not explaining sooner, but how do you even explain to begin with? what do you even fucking say? it's so overwhelming he's been circling the drain between that and the moment on the ship where he'd been shot—
not him, but him. it shakes the pieces of his soul again, fragments. ]
The words don't come easy.
[ he knows him. ]