protagonisthalo | [closed post - in an atmospherically gloomy room]

[closed post - in an atmospherically gloomy room]

Luo Binghe is not proud of it, but he has spent the entire day rereading the first volume of Blood at Dusk. He's not hiding, but he has no desire to see anyone—except perhaps Nina, but when he ventured out to find her, he heard what sounded like a large number of people talking in one of the bars and turned away. He should have keyed the talisman the other way around, so he could call her. It's selfish, but he feels like being selfish.

So now he is curled up in one of the lounge areas and reading the book Shen Qingqiu gave back to him. It's the margin notes that are getting to him. Shen Qingqiu's casual writing is messier than the meticulous calligraphy on the invitation he sent, and alive with his personality—it grows sloppy when Shen Qingqiu finds something to be passionate about, then small and cramped, almost frantic as he tries to fit all his thoughts on the page. He may not be the true Shen Qingqiu, but he has a scholar's mind, criticizing certain scenes as "derivative", or the dialogue as "unrealistic." Luo Binghe treasures every note, every insight into Shen Qingqiu's mind—every opportunity to picture him hunched over the book, his cherished forehead creased with focus as he jotted down this litany of complaints.

And besides reading Shen Qingqiu's notes, Luo Binghe is reading the book. Despite what Shen Qingqiu derides as a "standard supernatural romance," Luo Binghe is not too hardened to be moved by the mishaps of Ted and Isabelle. Ted is drawn to Isabelle for reasons he cannot explain, and tries his best to care for her despite his melancholic nature. Despite the fact that he's never learned how to care for anyone. He sees, in Isabelle, salvation from his life of endless darkness, of the self-loathing nightmare of being a monster. He loves her, even though she is purely beautiful and good, and he lives in a world of blood and filth that has corrupted him utterly. And Isabelle loves him, but fears him. She is right to; what he wants from her is more than she can give, and he will never stop wanting it, no matter how much she tries to appease him. His monstrous nature would overwhelm her if she let it; it's best for her to run.

If one could die of heartbreak, Luo Binghe would have dropped dead right after his mother. So he knows he must simply continue enduring it. He runs his fingers over Shen Qingqiu's notes, reading every one five times over before moving on, wishing the book was longer.

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Shen Qingqiu is drunk and making his way from the bar toward the outside, which might treat him better than inside, when he passes the lounge where Luo Binghe reclines. He freezes, in the doorway, staring. He's supine, like a great lion upon a sun-warmed stone, reading Blood at Dusk with meticulous care, and the warm light beside him turns the planes of his beautiful face tawny and gold. Shen Qingqiu's throat hurts. He opens his mouth to say something, to apologize, to throw himself on Luo Binghe's mercy—just let me sit by you, we don't even need to talk—but sheer longing chokes him. He can't stop staring at the gentleness with which he touches the pages, the way the tip of his index finger scans the lines—not just those printed, but Shen Qingqiu's own embarrassing chicken-scratch notes.

Luo Binghe first hears footsteps, then senses Shen Qingqiu's spiritual aura, then looks up. He expects to catch a fleeting glimpse of Shen Qingqiu as he passes in the hall, but Shen Qingqiu is lingering, and Luo Binghe's eyes catch his. His breath stops.

Shen Qingqiu looks as bad as Luo Binghe feels—his hair messy, face and neck flushed, and wearing clothes more similar to what Crowley or Magnus wears than what Luo Binghe is used to from Shen Qingqiu (although the illustrations decorating his shirt speak to Shen Qingqiu's complex taste in art). But he looks more beautiful than ever—more touchable, even, like Luo Binghe could tug on his hair and rub his face against those soft clothes. His breath hitches and restarts; he lets out a heavy exhale. It hurts even more to see him today than yesterday. After spending all day with Shen Qingqiu's sweet fussy voice in his head, Luo Binghe wants him even more.

When Luo Binghe meets his eyes Shen Qingqiu closes his mouth with a snap. He fumbles for his fan to hide whatever his expression he's making, but it eludes him, slipping from his fingers, and he turns away in a panic. Sorry, he thinks, loudly, as he flees sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, I know you don't want me here, but god, is he really not even allowed to look? Is he doomed to live in the same house—albeit an enormous one—with Luo Bingge, and not be able to see him, cross paths with him occasionally, watch him speak and smile and crush his enemies from afar?

He hadn't given much credence to the theory that this could be the afterlife—he'd already lived a lot of an afterlife, in PIDW, and he hadn't died again before coming here—but that, in this moment, feels like an accurate description of hell.

Luo Binghe stays pinned as if by an arrow, looking at the empty hallway where Shen Qingqiu was. Even though he was the one who told Shen Qingqiu to leave him in peace, he wants to run after him and pull him back. It is impossible to see him look so bewildered and upset and not want to—but how can he be so upset? Is he not the one who rejected Luo Binghe? Does he really expect Luo Binghe to stay by his side, knowing his feelings aren't reciprocated? As if seeing him does not feel like being scoured by the water¹ that pools in Luo Binghe's most notorious prison.

Abruptly, it crystallizes into anger. How dare Shen Qingqiu look so wretched. How dare he act like he was the one wronged. His face after Luo Binghe kissed him—it was fear in his eyes. As though Luo Binghe might hurt him. As though Luo Binghe loving him was the worst thing he could imagine.

He throws the book away from him in frustration, and puts his face in his hands. If Shen Qingqiu doesn't love him, why does he act so much like he does? If he hadn't been so sweet and eager to be around Luo Binghe—to see him smile—Luo Binghe would not have been bewitched by him in the first place. It is unfair, to destroy him, but only partway.

When he lifts his head again, Shen Qingqiu's fan is lying at the threshhold of the door. For some reason, seeing it there alone and abandoned guts him. He goes to retrieve it, and the book, and then stalks off to be miserable somewhere else.

¹It's magic acid water that disintegrates you instantly.

Sagramore leans in the doorway and smiles at him. "My lord."

Luo Binghe's head snaps up in annoyance at the sound of a voice, but he softens slightly when he sees that it's Sagramore. Still— "I am in no mood for flirtation, I'm afraid."

"No, no, I didn't expect you would be. May I come in?"

In response, he tucks his legs in a little closer so there's room for Sagramore on the sofa.

Sagramore comes in and sits down beside him companionably. "What are you reading?"

Luo Binghe has avoided sharing certain vulnerabilities with Sagramore. If they had spoken openly of his feelings, he may not have been able to go through with their dalliance. It would have been giving away too much. Still, he is grateful that Sagramore was willing to lie with him, in his inexperience, and his willing submission endeared him to Luo Binghe greatly. But he closes the book, his finger marking the page, disinclined to share Shen Qingqiu's precious notes.

"It's a cheap novel. I have a weakness for them... The library at Qing Jing Peak, where I grew up, had but one romantic novel, likely shelved there by mistake. I must have read it fifty times." He runs his finger down the cover, smiling without humor. "I suppose it's obvious why. A lonely child dreams of love—it doesn't take a tactician to understand."

"Yes, I think that follows." Sagramore is not, by nature, a meddler. He's seen enough court drama, the ins and outs of love, to want no particular part of it (not that he hasn't still been involved in some of it himself). It's not his intention to meddle now. "How are you?"

Luo Binghe has not spoken to anyone since he parted with Shen Qingqiu, and while he is not new to suffering, he is entirely new to romantic rejection. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and unsteady. "I have lost something I valued more than all my riches and power, and now I have nothing. I am entirely destroyed."

He reaches over, putting his hand on top of Luo Binghe's and squeezing it gently. "Yes, I've-- I understand."

"Have you spoken with him?" If not, Sagramore would likely have asked more questions. Luo Binghe's chest clenches. "I saw him—he didn't look well."

"I have spoken with him. He's-- do you want my opinion?"

"Please." He wants to know, but he can't stop himself from tensing, afraid to hear. Shen Qingqiu said he still wanted to spend time with Luo Binghe. He wouldn't have said anything cruel. But he's not sure if he can stand hearing that Shen Qingqiu cares about him either, not when it doesn't matter and Luo Binghe can't have him anyway. He just can't stay away, hungry for every scrap of Shen Qingqiu he can get, even though it all only hurts.

"I think he cares enormously for you, but he has no high opinion of himself and no particular understanding of what he actually wants." He looks at Luo Binghe. "You seem to understand yourself fairly well. Men and women?"

It says a lot about how catastrophic the last day has been that answering this question hardly bothers him. "Just men, I think. But I didn't know that until I came here." He gently takes his hand from Sagramore's, and buries his face in his hands. "I know he cares about me. It makes it worse. If he only weren't so kind to me, I could forget him and know peace."

"I feel perfectly confident in saying he also desires you. He just hasn't worked it out yet. --I think. We talked about it, but--"

Luo Binghe lifts his head to look at him. "Do you think so? He pushed me away. He didn't just say no—he pushed me, like he was—repulsed." His voice goes ragged on the last word.

Sagramore shifts himself so that his back is against the arm of the couch, which makes it easier to look at Luo Binghe. "Where you come from, is it frowned upon? It is where I am. Someone like me (or you) would be considered sinful. --I don't know whether that means anything to you, actually, but my point is that there's a great deal to be gained in appearing, ah, straight, and a great deal to be lost in the reverse. I've known more than a few men who would prefer to think themselves otherwise. And I've know more than a few men who would rather I thought they were repulsed by me than by themselves."

Where Luo Binghe comes from, it's not particularly frowned upon. It's widely assumed that men will marry women, but men who choose other men are not seen as lesser. However, for Luo Binghe specifically, there is much to lose by not being—as Sagramore poetically puts it—"straight." Until recently, the thought filled him with panic. He never thought the same might be true for Shen Qingqiu, because what could he possibly have to lose by it? He's not even married. And even if he was, people regularly give up their lives, homes, families and status to marry Luo Binghe. He's never thought that might make someone hesitate.

"No one minds it, in my world, but Shen Qingqiu... I don't know where he's from. He is—by his own admission—a displaced spirit, inhabiting a body that doesn't belong to him. Because I knew the real Shen Qingqiu, and he was entirely different from the man who lives here. Our Shen Qingqiu admitted to this, but shied away from telling me who he really is. So how these things are viewed in his home country, I know no better than you." He chews on his thumbnail anxiously, thinking hard. "You really think it's because I'm a man? I would never have thought—I would sooner have guessed it was because I'm a demon." He's afraid to take Sagramore at his word just yet.

"He's a what? --No, no, never mind, it doesn't matter. Yes. It's because you're a man. He told me himself he was devastated he couldn't return your affections because he doesn't like men. And then he talked about you in ways that certainly convinced me he likes men, or at least he likes you."

Luo Binghe looks up at Sagramore, eyes wide. His throat constricts so much it's hard to speak. "He said that? He really—Sagramore, you've been nothing but good to me. If you tell me it's so, I'll believe you, so please don't deceive me. When I see him, I—I think all my life I've never known what I wanted until now."

He can't help smiling, at least in part because this conversation seems infinitely less disastrous than the one with Shen Qingqiu. "Listen, I'm telling you what I believe, which is that he's stupid about you. I don't know whether he believes that yet, you understand?"

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