[ this has the desired effect, because it shuts lu bixing the fuck up. he lets out a hiccup of a noise that might be a sob, a lump in his throat so thick he's not sure he can talk around it, grabbing lin's wrist and holding on for dear life. the i'm here is like a drill, burrowing into his subconsciousness, and he clings on, holding tight.
- and of course, that's when the screen starts.
that's - lin jingshu, and doctor hardin, and. lin, that's lin, looking thinner than he did when he came back from fighting ares von. lu bixing is too smart not to put together the pieces, that this is one of the only pieces of lin jingheng's life that he doesn't know, now. it's the seventeen years they were apart. and lin is -
when jingshu almost injects him, he stops breathing.
and then his lin, his beautiful, his brilliant lin, finds that strand of consciousness and he lies, he lies to his sister, he manages to survive another day so effectively and so brilliantly that lu bixing's knees give out in sheer relief. he's clinging to him before he even realizes it, before the film totally stops, grabbing onto his shirt and his wrist for dear fucking life and taking in a huge, shaky gulp of air as he just forgets entirely about his own shame and fear.
it's like the first week all over again, as he grabs onto lin jingheng and pulls him into himself and holds onto him like he can remind himself he's real. he's crying before he even realizes it, thick, fat tears dripping down his cheeks as he turns his head and shoves it into lin jingheng's shoulder and just tries to force himself to calm down. he's alive. he's alive. he's alive, and he's safe, and he was a prisoner, for seventeen years and he had no idea and lu bixing was so busy fucking wallowing he never found him.
he buries his face in his shoulder and just. clings. that's all he can do, just clings, and reminds himself that lin jingheng is alive. ]
Lin. [ he says, finally, quietly, almost desperately. it's the only syllable his mouth can say. ]
[ 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. ]
[ alive. he's alive. he's alive. lu bixing has been repeating this mantra to himself every single day since he's gotten here, and he's doing it right now, too. he's solid. he's real. he's right here, under lu bixing's nose, in his fingers, under his body. he's grounding himself to it with every technique that his brilliant brain can manage, before he disassociates off of this plane of existence. he lets the nails at the back of his neck, the sound of zhanlu singing.
he hiccups, again, and shakes his head, burying his face in his shoulder even harder. he's soaking lin's shoulder now, his own shoulders trembling, as he breathes in. cigarette smoke and aftershave. whiskey and lin jingheng. breathe in, breathe out. breathe in, breathe out. (he almost lost him again, he'd been alive and he was miserable and trapped and he almost died and lin jingshu tried to keep him like a flower in a glass dome and lu bixing feels this irrationally angry twist of hatred that's so unlike him that it knocks him almost breathless again and he shivers, forces it back) ]
It's -
[ soft. it's not fine. it's not at all. he can't say that. ]
Two... two thousand times, you said. [ is what lu bixing manages, shakily, curling his fingers white knuckled into the fabric of lin's coat. ] I should have - We could have found you.
[ he slides fingers over the white knuckled grip lu bixing has his coat in, strokes down the trembling tendons and closes his eyes. he cocoons them in, and the theatre remains fairly dark and still just for the two of them. ]
She made sure we'd never be found...
[ "i didn't expect you to find us. i don't hold that against you." he clutches back against lu bixing, meets his eyes, his trembling voice. he presses against his chest, steadies him with the pressure of their hearts thudding rapidly against one another. nightmare after nightmare, his head is swimming. ]
he takes a slow, steadying breath and lets lin's fingers ground him. it feels like a dam has broken - he's done decently at keeping himself from crying except their very first day, but the tears are starting now and won't stop, and he just lets them fall.
seeing lin nearly die again on the screen, and knowing what happened in that seventeen year block is both horrifying and comforting in a twisted way (knowing he wasn't living some other life but hell, instead). it's also distracting from the horror of his own guilt and shame of the seventeen years he lived without him, too, and he just sinks into lin jingheng and shakes his head against his jacket. ]
I'm so sorry. [ he says, instead, quietly. muffled. miserably. sorry more that he had to go through it than anything - that he was alone. ]
[ slowly he strokes his hair, lets his fingers taper down to his neck and squeezes gently. for a while, he stays like this, frozen save for the mechanical motions to soothe bixing, who is crying into his shoulder, wetting his shirt and making him wish he could find the strength in him to pull him back and wipe them away. but he can't because he's so tired. between the both of them, there are years of aches and pains they've had to grow up without one another to help soothe.
wind-battered and sea-struck ships in a vast sea of the unknown. ]
I found you... [ soft, clutching him harder. ] I found you, it doesn't matter anymore.
[ me just like im in a mood let me do my gay little lulins
just feeling that lin jingheng is there is enough. knowing that he's a solid, real presence in lu bixing's arms helps him with the worst of his nightmares. helps him when he wakes up terrified on friday mornings, always gasping for air and clutching at the space beside him. it helps him when he's scared and insecure, when he thinks about the hateful person he's turned into, helps him when he wonders when lin jingheng is going to wise up and leave him again. but he doesn't. he's right here.
he hiccups. the noise is soft, muffled, and he buries his face in his shoulder further, nuzzling, soaking his jacket and probably getting a little snot on it as he takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths and holds onto him like an anchor.
it doesn't matter anymore. that's all he can really do for the moment, just stay there, burrowed against lin jingheng and taking deep breaths to try and keep from having a panic attack. it's fine. he's fine. everything's fine. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
- and of course, that's when the screen starts.
that's - lin jingshu, and doctor hardin, and. lin, that's lin, looking thinner than he did when he came back from fighting ares von. lu bixing is too smart not to put together the pieces, that this is one of the only pieces of lin jingheng's life that he doesn't know, now. it's the seventeen years they were apart. and lin is -
when jingshu almost injects him, he stops breathing.
and then his lin, his beautiful, his brilliant lin, finds that strand of consciousness and he lies, he lies to his sister, he manages to survive another day so effectively and so brilliantly that lu bixing's knees give out in sheer relief. he's clinging to him before he even realizes it, before the film totally stops, grabbing onto his shirt and his wrist for dear fucking life and taking in a huge, shaky gulp of air as he just forgets entirely about his own shame and fear.
it's like the first week all over again, as he grabs onto lin jingheng and pulls him into himself and holds onto him like he can remind himself he's real. he's crying before he even realizes it, thick, fat tears dripping down his cheeks as he turns his head and shoves it into lin jingheng's shoulder and just tries to force himself to calm down. he's alive. he's alive. he's alive, and he's safe, and he was a prisoner, for seventeen years and he had no idea and lu bixing was so busy fucking wallowing he never found him.
he buries his face in his shoulder and just. clings. that's all he can do, just clings, and reminds himself that lin jingheng is alive. ]
Lin. [ he says, finally, quietly, almost desperately. it's the only syllable his mouth can say. ]
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. ]
no subject
he hiccups, again, and shakes his head, burying his face in his shoulder even harder. he's soaking lin's shoulder now, his own shoulders trembling, as he breathes in. cigarette smoke and aftershave. whiskey and lin jingheng. breathe in, breathe out. breathe in, breathe out. (he almost lost him again, he'd been alive and he was miserable and trapped and he almost died and lin jingshu tried to keep him like a flower in a glass dome and lu bixing feels this irrationally angry twist of hatred that's so unlike him that it knocks him almost breathless again and he shivers, forces it back) ]
It's -
[ soft. it's not fine. it's not at all. he can't say that. ]
Two... two thousand times, you said. [ is what lu bixing manages, shakily, curling his fingers white knuckled into the fabric of lin's coat. ] I should have - We could have found you.
no subject
[ he slides fingers over the white knuckled grip lu bixing has his coat in, strokes down the trembling tendons and closes his eyes. he cocoons them in, and the theatre remains fairly dark and still just for the two of them. ]
She made sure we'd never be found...
[ "i didn't expect you to find us. i don't hold that against you." he clutches back against lu bixing, meets his eyes, his trembling voice. he presses against his chest, steadies him with the pressure of their hearts thudding rapidly against one another. nightmare after nightmare, his head is swimming. ]
Don't.
no subject
he takes a slow, steadying breath and lets lin's fingers ground him. it feels like a dam has broken - he's done decently at keeping himself from crying except their very first day, but the tears are starting now and won't stop, and he just lets them fall.
seeing lin nearly die again on the screen, and knowing what happened in that seventeen year block is both horrifying and comforting in a twisted way (knowing he wasn't living some other life but hell, instead). it's also distracting from the horror of his own guilt and shame of the seventeen years he lived without him, too, and he just sinks into lin jingheng and shakes his head against his jacket. ]
I'm so sorry. [ he says, instead, quietly. muffled. miserably. sorry more that he had to go through it than anything - that he was alone. ]
no subject
wind-battered and sea-struck ships in a vast sea of the unknown. ]
I found you... [ soft, clutching him harder. ] I found you, it doesn't matter anymore.
no subject
just feeling that lin jingheng is there is enough. knowing that he's a solid, real presence in lu bixing's arms helps him with the worst of his nightmares. helps him when he wakes up terrified on friday mornings, always gasping for air and clutching at the space beside him. it helps him when he's scared and insecure, when he thinks about the hateful person he's turned into, helps him when he wonders when lin jingheng is going to wise up and leave him again. but he doesn't. he's right here.
he hiccups. the noise is soft, muffled, and he buries his face in his shoulder further, nuzzling, soaking his jacket and probably getting a little snot on it as he takes a couple of deep, shaky breaths and holds onto him like an anchor.
it doesn't matter anymore. that's all he can really do for the moment, just stay there, burrowed against lin jingheng and taking deep breaths to try and keep from having a panic attack. it's fine. he's fine. everything's fine. ]