[ The memory is darkness and smoke and remnants of fire and the thick, cloying scent of fresh and drying blood. He's kneeling on the roof of Obscuria, in the wreckage and aftermath of the long battle against the Glow-pumped up Barbarus and Janus's personal army of bodyguards, but there's no one around, just Shen Qingqiu and the man he's dragged into his lap, the man whose eyes are dull and whose lips froth with bubbles of blood and who has gashes large enough for Shen Qingqiu's hand to fall inside on his chest, between the layers of black fabric that have frayed and become partly engrained in the bloody, raw lacerations. It's a miracle no artery has been hit, but the blood won't stop flowing, already in the handsome, beautiful young man's hair, matted and thick, painted across his face, turning his black suit and black over-robe glittering and beautiful and wet with blood. There's blood on Shen Qingqiu too, smeared across his face, across his torn-up, ripped up shirt, across the pristine chest that lies beneath. He's speaking, pleading and pleading and telling this man, telling Luo Binghe he cannto die, he has to live, and he's kissing his forehead and the blood-red mark that glows so faintly there, kissing an unseeing eye as the lids slide lower, kissing bloody lips and finding that the one he kisses rallies his effort, what little life he has left, and clings to Shen Qingqiu, kisses him back with a horrible, sad desperation as Shen Qingqiu cries tears he doesn't even know are falling, leaving trails through the blood on Binghe's face, falling down between them as their lips meet and he's trying not to let his breath hitch in a sob as he says, please, please, please each time he remembers to come up for air.
It doesn't last long, it lasts for ages, it's until Binghe loses strength in his arms to hold around Shen Qingqiu's shoulders, and all there is in that moment is the silent tears that stream unchecked and unnoticed down Shen Qingqiu's face as he cradles Luo Binghe close, runs a hand over his hair, says nothing, can't speak, because that's the death rattle and as quick as an eye can blink Luo Binghe is here as a weak and pitiful pale thing and then he is dead. He is covered in his hearts blood, his life's blood, he is covered in Shen Qingqiu's tears, there is blood smeared on Shen Qingqiu's lips and acorss Luo Binghe's slack mouth and there is no breath in his lungs and that is not the end. That is not the end, because the crystals start crawling across his body, growing over Luo Binghe's skin and clothes and the blood and his matted hair, trying to grow over Shen Qingqiu's hands and fracturing as he moves, until he's forced to set Luo Binghe down as the crystal growths rage and build like a tide that crests and spills over the rest of him, encasing Luo Binghe in light, in light, in light, countless reflected, refracted colours of imperfect, smooth crystal, and the small, animal sound it pulls from Shen Qingqiu's gut is almost soft enough to be ignored, to be forgotten, as he holds trembling fingers out and presses them against the crystal that has grown over Luo Binghe's cheek.
It is his worst recent memory. It is his worst memory in years. It's the memory he revists in broken fragments most nights, even now, with Binghe alive, breathing, moving, speaking, functioning again.
And when he's living it again, not fully unexpected, because he had taken her fears and thoughts on her powers to heart, he swallows against a thick throat and ignores the tears that have gathered on his lashes, a fresh plunge into that deep grief and his own helplessness in the face of it not welcome, but accepted, acknowledged, and set aside. ]
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It doesn't last long, it lasts for ages, it's until Binghe loses strength in his arms to hold around Shen Qingqiu's shoulders, and all there is in that moment is the silent tears that stream unchecked and unnoticed down Shen Qingqiu's face as he cradles Luo Binghe close, runs a hand over his hair, says nothing, can't speak, because that's the death rattle and as quick as an eye can blink Luo Binghe is here as a weak and pitiful pale thing and then he is dead. He is covered in his hearts blood, his life's blood, he is covered in Shen Qingqiu's tears, there is blood smeared on Shen Qingqiu's lips and acorss Luo Binghe's slack mouth and there is no breath in his lungs and that is not the end. That is not the end, because the crystals start crawling across his body, growing over Luo Binghe's skin and clothes and the blood and his matted hair, trying to grow over Shen Qingqiu's hands and fracturing as he moves, until he's forced to set Luo Binghe down as the crystal growths rage and build like a tide that crests and spills over the rest of him, encasing Luo Binghe in light, in light, in light, countless reflected, refracted colours of imperfect, smooth crystal, and the small, animal sound it pulls from Shen Qingqiu's gut is almost soft enough to be ignored, to be forgotten, as he holds trembling fingers out and presses them against the crystal that has grown over Luo Binghe's cheek.
It is his worst recent memory. It is his worst memory in years. It's the memory he revists in broken fragments most nights, even now, with Binghe alive, breathing, moving, speaking, functioning again.
And when he's living it again, not fully unexpected, because he had taken her fears and thoughts on her powers to heart, he swallows against a thick throat and ignores the tears that have gathered on his lashes, a fresh plunge into that deep grief and his own helplessness in the face of it not welcome, but accepted, acknowledged, and set aside. ]