Luo Binghe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
protagonisthalo) wrote2024-09-11 12:36 pm
protagonisthalo) wrote2024-09-11 12:36 pm
[interlude] falling action
[cw: wound cleaning, blood]
Luo Binghe leaves the fight and heads for the nearest room with a sink. The wounds he's sustained are inconsequential, especially since they carry no cursed magic or poison like the villains in his world often use, but he cannot heal them until the bullet has come out.
With the thrill of the fight—and the satisfaction of the victory—fading, exhaustion is beginning to overtake him. He has fought much longer and harder than this without flagging, but the exhaustion is not only physical. As the rage of battle fades out and the world slowly fades back in, the absence in it is more glaring than ever.
He did this for Shen Yuan, but it's not enough only to imagine Shen Yuan's smile upon his return. It's not enough to conjure for himself what Shen Yuan might say, what praises he might heap on Luo Binghe. How he might catch Luo Binghe's face in his hands and chide him for getting hurt, fondness and pride bleeding through despite his efforts to be stern. How he'd fuss over Luo Binghe's hurts, minor though they are, unable to settle until he sees Luo Binghe whole and unharmed. How he'd kiss Luo Binghe once everything was done: relieved, grateful, adoring.
Luo Binghe knows what he would do. He knows Shen Yuan well enough to imagine it perfectly. It's not enough. He isn't here.
He stands in the bathroom and digs his claws into his shoulder, searching for the bullet. The pain is hardly anything—he can bear physical pain so much more easily than emotional pain—but his body reacts to it anyway, his muscles tensing and his breath coming short. Blood gurgles out of the wound, soaking his black robes even darker. He catches the little piece of metal between his claws and pulls it out, ignoring how it tears at his muscles on the way. The damage will heal in moments anyway.
It's such a small thing, blunted and dull, yet such a thing took everything from Luo Binghe. He crushes it to dust in his fingers with one last surge of fury.
Then he takes off his ruined robes and undershirt, tearing off a strip of black silk before letting them all fall to the floor. He wets it under the tap.
He could close the gunshot wound right now, as well as the one from the broken glass, and heal them without blemish. But as he stands there, wet cloth in hand, he finds he doesn't want to. He does not want all evidence of this fight erased before Shen Yuan returns. If Shen Yuan cannot be here, then Luo Binghe wants something to show him—something Shen Yuan can put his fingers on, and know that Luo Binghe would do this for him, and so much more. It feels right to remain wounded until Shen Yuan's return; to fail to heal.
He at least stops the bleeding. His blood, ever responsive, coagulates and lightly scabs overthe torn flesh. With the cloth, he washes off the blood—dried and fresh—staining his arm and shoulder, hating his own touch for not being Shen Yuan's.
When he's finished, he closes his eyes.
"Beloved." His voice is hoarse. "If you are here."
The words stick in his throat. He wanted to say something triumphant. This is the first time in months that he has not failed Shen Yuan. But the usual rush of victory is absent. Here, alone, it feels unbearably useless to have killed Aornis, when it won't bring Shen Yuan back any faster.
"It is done," he says finally. "I hope it will bring you comfort."
Luo Binghe leaves the fight and heads for the nearest room with a sink. The wounds he's sustained are inconsequential, especially since they carry no cursed magic or poison like the villains in his world often use, but he cannot heal them until the bullet has come out.
With the thrill of the fight—and the satisfaction of the victory—fading, exhaustion is beginning to overtake him. He has fought much longer and harder than this without flagging, but the exhaustion is not only physical. As the rage of battle fades out and the world slowly fades back in, the absence in it is more glaring than ever.
He did this for Shen Yuan, but it's not enough only to imagine Shen Yuan's smile upon his return. It's not enough to conjure for himself what Shen Yuan might say, what praises he might heap on Luo Binghe. How he might catch Luo Binghe's face in his hands and chide him for getting hurt, fondness and pride bleeding through despite his efforts to be stern. How he'd fuss over Luo Binghe's hurts, minor though they are, unable to settle until he sees Luo Binghe whole and unharmed. How he'd kiss Luo Binghe once everything was done: relieved, grateful, adoring.
Luo Binghe knows what he would do. He knows Shen Yuan well enough to imagine it perfectly. It's not enough. He isn't here.
He stands in the bathroom and digs his claws into his shoulder, searching for the bullet. The pain is hardly anything—he can bear physical pain so much more easily than emotional pain—but his body reacts to it anyway, his muscles tensing and his breath coming short. Blood gurgles out of the wound, soaking his black robes even darker. He catches the little piece of metal between his claws and pulls it out, ignoring how it tears at his muscles on the way. The damage will heal in moments anyway.
It's such a small thing, blunted and dull, yet such a thing took everything from Luo Binghe. He crushes it to dust in his fingers with one last surge of fury.
Then he takes off his ruined robes and undershirt, tearing off a strip of black silk before letting them all fall to the floor. He wets it under the tap.
He could close the gunshot wound right now, as well as the one from the broken glass, and heal them without blemish. But as he stands there, wet cloth in hand, he finds he doesn't want to. He does not want all evidence of this fight erased before Shen Yuan returns. If Shen Yuan cannot be here, then Luo Binghe wants something to show him—something Shen Yuan can put his fingers on, and know that Luo Binghe would do this for him, and so much more. It feels right to remain wounded until Shen Yuan's return; to fail to heal.
He at least stops the bleeding. His blood, ever responsive, coagulates and lightly scabs overthe torn flesh. With the cloth, he washes off the blood—dried and fresh—staining his arm and shoulder, hating his own touch for not being Shen Yuan's.
When he's finished, he closes his eyes.
"Beloved." His voice is hoarse. "If you are here."
The words stick in his throat. He wanted to say something triumphant. This is the first time in months that he has not failed Shen Yuan. But the usual rush of victory is absent. Here, alone, it feels unbearably useless to have killed Aornis, when it won't bring Shen Yuan back any faster.
"It is done," he says finally. "I hope it will bring you comfort."