[un: Chengmei] video

[thesuspense]

Did any good come from your parents?

[Perhaps that seems like a personal question. He does not care.]

What's the point of family?

[Now, this may seem cynical, and it possibly is, but he doesn't really sound it. He doesn't seem bitter, he smiled a little, then looks to a point off-screen.]

See, daozhang? I'm trying.

[A pause, then he corrects himself with a wave of one hand.]

Hear.

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[thesuspense]

[This is far from the first time they've sat like this or similarly. But it's been a while, in a different life in a way, and Xue Yang knows better than to expect his hair to be petted. However, he also knows that it has to play on Xingchen's mind, from force of habit if nothing else, and knowing that Xingchen is thinking about touching him, there's satisfaction in that too.

So he smiles and shifts a little, settling down more comfortably.]

I've always shared when there was no reason not to. And sometimes because it pissed me off. The way they were treated.

[And there's a distinction, even so, between 'they' and 'I', but the sentiment stands, to some degree.]

I don't feel what others feel. The way you do. [Empathy is not something that seems accessible to him, for better or - generally - for worse.] But I know what it feels like to go without. Might as well share, when there's no reason not to.

[binghua]

[It's too familiar. To have that memory so near and yet unattainable. He wishes he could just silence his thoughts and his conscience and take some of it back. Just find some happiness in these loneliest years of his sorry life.

It gets worse, of course. Xue Yang is despicable, that isn't up for debate. But to listen to him speak of his childhood, before everything went wrong, tugs - claws - at his heart. There is goodness there. It's just warped and overshadowed and not quite right.

Xingchen can't stand it anymore, though. He reaches out and presses his hands to either side of Xue Yang's face. His thumbs rub gently back and forth over his cheeks.]

That's... Is there no more of that kind of justice in your heart?

[His breath shallows and his heart beats faster.]

I want that.

[thesuspense]

[Truly, he hasn't expected that. He falls still, doesn't even dare to breathe at first as Xingchen touches him like that, off his own volition. Finally, his breath hitches, but he still doesn't dare to move, because he's not sure what made this happen and he's not sure what could make it end.]

There is. When there's no reason not to.

[binghua]

[There's something here that connects their moralities. Finally, Xingchen has found this fragile thread that he feels really means something, that tells him Xue Yang isn't entirely lost. Maybe. He hopes. (He hopes?)

But it is a fragile thing. It could snap in an instant or for reasons Xingchen doesn't understand, just as Xue Yang doesn't understand how he sees the world.

Xingchen just holds Xue Yang like this for a time, trying to memorize this moment.

One hand shifts, fingers brushing over Xue Yang's hair. He whispers, afraid to shatter whatwver this is.]

There's always a reason.

[thesuspense]

[Xingchen is his reason. For anything and everything.

But he doesn't say that, because he has a feeling that it wouldn't be received well, even if he also suspects that Xingchen knows that it's true. He has certainly voiced similar sentiments before.

It's as if his scalp is on fire with the sensation of Xingchen's touch and Xue Yang breathes out slowly, pressing his lips together to keep from saying the wrong thing. He doesn't know what the right thing is, however.]

If you drink some, daozhang, then I'll be sure to share the rest.

[binghua]

[Such a simple touch, something so easily taken for granted. Xingchen allows himself to drown in it for now, to just touch a warm face and feel soft hair and remember a friendship severed but that never really was. He's found a precious bead of goodness in this wretch. He feels so, so lonely for it. Just for a while he wants to forget.

He can't save Xue Yang. This is a knowledge that blends with the marrow of his bones. He knows. He knows. But what would it be like to try? Xiao Xingchen is already a ruined man. He can't even save himself.

His hands frame that familiar face again, fingertips tracing defined brows and cheekbones, following the line of a nose, resting softly on pursed lips. And then, they fall away, back into his lap, resting against the water pouch left nearly forgotten.

He can't save Xue Yang, but he still gives into him, taking that water in his hands and sparing himself only a sip.]

Mn. Please.