[ rest, he says. rest! just rest. that's what he should do. it feels like that's what he's always being told to do, nowadays. from prime minister edward before his death, from his four kids and the rest of the world, from the people who come closest to him. but he can't rest. he's never been able to. idle hands are the devil's playthings, and idle hands make lu bixing think. they make him do stupid things. they make him delve too deeply into a spiral of grief and misery. there are thousands of souls that he has to pilot forward, that he has to live on for, living and dead, and he can't allow himself to slow down for a second lest he doesn't do them right.
the touch of lin jingheng's bare skin against his is going to send him into cardiac arrest. it's not the first time or the last time, but something so little is making every endorphin in his body come flying back, every heartbeat worth of adrenaline that he studied twenty years ago as a natural reaction a reminder. rest, lin says.
like a child, he can't help it. he says - ] I don't want to. [ and steals another kiss, messy, a little desperate. scared of loss. ] I can't.
no subject
the touch of lin jingheng's bare skin against his is going to send him into cardiac arrest. it's not the first time or the last time, but something so little is making every endorphin in his body come flying back, every heartbeat worth of adrenaline that he studied twenty years ago as a natural reaction a reminder. rest, lin says.
like a child, he can't help it. he says - ] I don't want to. [ and steals another kiss, messy, a little desperate. scared of loss. ] I can't.