Luo Binghe

((cw: death & gun violence))

Luo Binghe typically comes to full alertness instantly upon waking, his instincts honed by years of constant danger. This time he drifts in and out, his mind struggling to free itself from the mud several times before it's pulled under again.

The fourth time he wakes, there is a little space in his head for thought. He is able to wonder what he's doing here, why he isn't in his bed, especially with Shen Yuan's warm weight on his lap—

Not warm. Luo Binghe's eyes fly open, and red fills his vision. Shen Yuan, limp in his arms, blood all over both of them and the floor. He cups Shen Yuan's face—right where he must have already cupped it, if the fingerprint smears of blood are any indication—and sheer panic, as strong and sudden as pain, overrides the dullness throughout his body. "Shen Yuan," he gasps, putting a hand to his lover's chest. Dried blood nearly obscures the small, deep wound there. He leans down to put his cheek next to Shen Yuan's lax mouth. No breath. No qi emanates from his body either, not even as much as a mortal human would have, as though Shen Yuan were an inanimate object.

Luo Binghe stares, frozen. An old darkness is stirring in him. His mother, lifeless on her sleeping mat in their little shack, unable to take even a bite of the congee he'd brought her. He knows how it is to lose something irreplaceable; his body knows the path of it. What seems impossible, in time, comes to feel inevitable. Luo Binghe can no longer imagine what his life would have been like if his mother hadn't passed. But here, in the suspended instant of loss, it still feels possible to reverse it. The world has shifted, but not yet settled into its new shape. Shen Yuan was just here—the last thing Luo Binghe remembers is welcoming him to their anniversary dinner—and it seems trivially easy to reach back, pull him out of that memory and overwrite the bloody tableau in front of him. He gazes at Shen Yuan, seeing without understanding, his mind fighting for each last moment of blankness before comprehension ruins him.

Magnus, he thinks, his mind moving slow as honey. He needs Magnus; Magnus will help. He gathers Shen Yuan in his arms and pushes himself to his feet, swaying dangerously. He feels scoured out, limbs numb, his body pushed past some breaking point he doesn't remember hitting. Xin Mo is at his feet. The sight of it rouses fear that Luo Binghe doesn't understand; his mind is too preoccupied keeping itself empty to think about it. He leaves it on the floor and stumbles toward the hallway, Shen Yuan nauseatingly limp in his arms. Magnus lives outside—or did he move inside?—no matter. Luo Binghe will check every room in this place if he has to.