[ lu bixing's pulse jumps. not because of the closeness, this time, but because of where lin's hand goes. so he was watching, when date was checking their arms.
it's guilt, is what it is. after all, many of those marks are old. it's been seventeen years since the disaster in the seventh galaxy. seventeen years since lu bixing lost everything he ever loved. his experiments are marked out on his own arm, places where he injected and failed and ripped it out and tried again, but so too are relaxants, are the occasional injection to force himself to sleep and dream because dreaming was his only solace. that was hell. here, where lu bixing is standing beside lin jingheng, solving stupid murders, having to drink with obnoxious demons, here is not hell. it might be purgatory, but it's not hell, and lu bixing's not ready to tell lin jingheng the depths of how depraved he was.
what if he can't love him, anymore? lu bixing can't be the man he used to be? the idea terrifies him, more than anything, more than any hell, more than any death. what if he's got lin back, and he loses him again?
he holds his breath for a moment when lin leans closer to him, and then - nods, once, twice. panicked, fluttery, like yes. i'll do that, i'll do anything, because the horrifying thought of someone could try to kill lin and he could die, again flickers across his already broken consciousness.
he has to take that promise for what it is, has to stop lin from asking too much about the track marks, has to live in the fact that he's right in front of him, and he leans forward to close the distance between them to clumsily steal a kiss. it lingers longer than the others had, tastes like exhaustion and a little like drink, from a long, stressful afternoon. he needs another drink. he needs lin jingheng. he needs a nap. he just needs a lot of things. ]
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it's guilt, is what it is. after all, many of those marks are old. it's been seventeen years since the disaster in the seventh galaxy. seventeen years since lu bixing lost everything he ever loved. his experiments are marked out on his own arm, places where he injected and failed and ripped it out and tried again, but so too are relaxants, are the occasional injection to force himself to sleep and dream because dreaming was his only solace. that was hell. here, where lu bixing is standing beside lin jingheng, solving stupid murders, having to drink with obnoxious demons, here is not hell. it might be purgatory, but it's not hell, and lu bixing's not ready to tell lin jingheng the depths of how depraved he was.
what if he can't love him, anymore? lu bixing can't be the man he used to be? the idea terrifies him, more than anything, more than any hell, more than any death. what if he's got lin back, and he loses him again?
he holds his breath for a moment when lin leans closer to him, and then - nods, once, twice. panicked, fluttery, like yes. i'll do that, i'll do anything, because the horrifying thought of someone could try to kill lin and he could die, again flickers across his already broken consciousness.
he has to take that promise for what it is, has to stop lin from asking too much about the track marks, has to live in the fact that he's right in front of him, and he leans forward to close the distance between them to clumsily steal a kiss. it lingers longer than the others had, tastes like exhaustion and a little like drink, from a long, stressful afternoon. he needs another drink. he needs lin jingheng. he needs a nap. he just needs a lot of things. ]