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He feels a faint kindling of warmth in his stomach, first. It builds slowly, spinning itself into a small ball of awareness that radiates out into what he's realizing is a body. It seeps through his torso, and then he gains awareness of his limbs as the warmth crawls down arms and legs. Awareness bleeds through his body like slow moving honey, creating his form in its wake, bringing him into existence. As the warmth flows into each new space he feels that it was already there, waiting, familiar. The sense of forming anew wages a disorienting war with this familiarity until he drops the thought and focuses on the sensations trickling up from his fingertips.
At this point he hears a faint voice, muttering, seemingly across a large room or behind a door. It feels like the voice is drawing him forward, beckoning him.
He resists. The voice wants something from him, but his newly grown bones feel weary, like heavy lead is pooling in his limbs. He can't recall why, but his whole being feels exhausted. He wouldn't be surprised to learn he's been carrying a heavy load through thick mud.
"Xiao Xingchen," the voice calls. "Xiao Xingchen, wake."
It's Zichen's voice. It's instantly familiar, homely, and comforting. It feels like he hasn't heard this voice in a long time. Xingchen is tired, feeling hollow, but surely he can make an effort for Zichen.
A burning gasp of air makes it down Xingchen's throat, inflating his lungs. He feels his body fighting against the force of the air entering his lungs, resisting the unfamiliar movements of respiration. He coughs, and takes a second panicked breath. This time it feels more like breathing.
His eyes snap open. He doesn't see.
His lashes brush against fabric, the familiar weight of a blindfold on his face. But there's no change in the quality of the darkness surrounding him, no matter how hard he strains his eyes.
"Wha-" With another gasp he twitches his fingers into fists, finds control of his limbs. "What-"
The last thing he remembers is crushing weight, his thoughts racing, pain blooming in his neck.
He pushes those thoughts away. Wherever he is, whatever is happening, it's silent. He's blind, but that's familiar. He's lying on a hard surface. He doesn't hear Zichen's voice, but he did a moment ago. Zichen must be nearby.
Xingchen takes another breath and whispers, "Zichen?"
There's a soft rustling sound, fabric shifting as someone moves closer, and then a hand presses gingerly into his own. He flexes his fingers, grabbing hold of the callused palm aligned to his, desperate to grab hold of Zichen before he fades away. Almost as quickly, he loosens his grip again, fighting against his instinct to seek comfort. He's out of practice with minding Zichen's distaste for touch. Surprisingly, Zichen doesn't pull his hand away.
"Zichen, is that you?" Xingchen speaks slowly, no longer whispering but still finding his voice. His throat is sensitive, as though he's woken from a screaming nightmare. He doesn't recall anything like that, but his memories feel blurred and distant.
Zichen doesn't answer aloud, but the hand held against his own squeezes lightly in confirmation.
Xingchen smiles, despite everything. Zichen is here, close enough that Xingchen can touch him, and feel the faint radiance of warmth he's come to associate with a nearby body. Xingchen has spent such a long time trying to ignore the gnawing discomfort of his absence that it's an immediate relief. No matter how confusing and disorienting things are right now, he has a pillar of strength at his side.
The palm against his own is dry, and cool, as Zichen's always was. He remembers another palm, warm, always gripping tightly-
No. He's here with Zichen, now.
He pulls his hand out of Zichen's grasp and levers himself into sitting upright. He has to fight against the solid weight of emotion and memory he isn't ready to deal with in his chest, the desire to remain lying where he is. Xingchen has never been one to sit idly and ruminate, or to be held back by defeat, but whatever process brought him to wake on the floor here has left him feeling drained of energy and overfilled with intensity.
Once he's upright, Xingchen feels the vast emptiness of space settling around him. He immediately wants to lie back against the floor and pin himself against something solid. The sensation of not belonging in his skin is lurking at the edges of his mind, like he could be set adrift at any moment.
His hand reaches out seeking Zichen's almost before he thinks of it, an automatic gesture not fit for present company. Nonetheless, Zichen must see what he's after, and he grabs hold of Xingchen's hand. He's steadier with the solid reminder of Zichen's presence pressing into his skin.
Xingchen takes a moment to feel Zichen's hand against his, tracing the lines across his palm. Touch has always felt like a precious privilege with Zichen, and after years apart it's even more dear.
"Zichen, can I see your face?"
He waits for an answer, or maybe a squeeze of the hand.
After a moment, he feels a tentative touch at his temple. Two fingers trail just above the edge of the bandage, tracing over his skin so gently he can't even feel sword calluses. His breath catches, and it takes him a moment before he can think to interpret the gesture.
Of course, Zichen doesn't know what he means. They haven't spent time together since Xingchen lost his sight, and learned new habits. The little gestures and phrases he's used to, to help accommodate his lack of sight, weren't shared with Zichen. Of course, Zichen doesn't know what it means for Xingchen to see his face.
"Ah, no, I can't see with my eyes. Without my eyes. I mean, can I touch your face, to feel it? It's the best I can do to see, now."
Zichen's hand squeezes Xingchen's as a confirmation. Their palms are still aligned, and the longer they keep hold of one another the warmer his hand feels. The touch may not be familiar, but the support is.
Xingchen squeezes back, gently. Then he lifts his other hand, his left, to where he thinks Zichen's face is. He lets the soft sound of breath guide his fingers. They press against skin - cooler to the touch than he expected.
He hasn't touched Zichen's face much before. It's not familiar under his hand the way it would be under his eyes. But his hand rests against the smooth curve of a jawline he can see in his mind. He curves his fingers gently over Zichen's straight nose, and feels a gentle exhale against his palm. He presses his palm forward, until he just barely senses lips pressing against his skin. It's a new sensation, but the shape of Zichen's face is comforting. He searches for the slight arch of a familiar brow. His thumb finds lashes, brushing gently against his skin, where he expects them to be. Each touch of skin to skin is precious when held up against his awareness of Zichen's discomfort for touch, the years between them, and the reason he left Zichen behind him.
He remembers that the eyes under his hand aren't the ones he sees in his memories. They're an almost more familiar set, the gaze he's always seen in his reflection. It's strange to think that such a significant change hasn't impacted what he feels under his fingers. All eyes are the same shape, even if they tear a friendship apart. Xingchen pulls his hand back into his lap.
"Thank you, Zichen."
He knows there are few people Zichen would permit to touch him, especially in such an intimate way. It feels as though he's stolen a treasure, or tricked Zichen into giving him something undeserved.
Xingchen senses something near his forehead - not touching, but close by. Zichen squeezes the hand still cupped around Xingchen's, and then there is a gentle flow of qi in the centre of his forehead. What spell is Zichen using?
The flow of qi doesn't last long. Then, suddenly, he hears a locationless voice, echoing from everywhere and nowhere.
"Xingchen?"
Xingchen gasps aloud. "What? Zichen, is that you?" He hadn't heard Zichen's voice in years, and it almost felt unfamiliar. It was still comforting to hear in place of the silence that came before.
"It's me, Xingchen." Zichen's voice is soundless, but it still carries warmth and a gentle happiness, as though he's speaking through a smile.
"Zichen! I was sure it was you. But how can I hear your voice in my mind?" Xingchen asks. "Where are we? How- how am I alive?" Now that he isn't speaking into silence, questions come to Xingchen almost as quickly as he can voice them. "What's happening, Zichen?"
"You must be so confused, Xingchen. I'm sorry." Zichen's voice is soothing and confident. "I'll try to answer you questions."
Xingchen takes a breath and nods a little. It's reassuring to have Zichen here, at a time when everything is unmoored from reality. He's not sure what's happening, or how he came to be here, but surely it can't be too bad if Zichen is here with him.
"I'm using a mind-speaking spell created by the Lan sect. I can speak my thoughts to you without using my mouth. It only works one way, I can't hear your thoughts, and you only know the words I want to share with you." Zichen says, or thinks, to Xingchen.
It's kind of Zichen to explain in such detail, and to make sure he knows the limits of the spell, but this is a reassurance that shouldn't be necessary. "I'm not worried about you knowing my thoughts, Zichen," Xingchen says. What would he hide from Zichen?
Immediately, Xingchen thinks again of a warm palm against his own, a familiar voice teasing him, a monster he couldn't bring himself to kill. He smothers the memories before they can catch flame in his mind. Maybe it's for the best that Xingchen is alone with his thoughts until he can get them under control.
"Where did you learn a Lan sect spell?" Xingchen asks. He's never known Zichen to spend enough time associating with other cultivators to exchange techniques - other than himself, of course.
Xingchen hears Zichen exhale. "It's been so many years, Xingchen. Many things have happened, and changed," he says, sounding weary. "Even the sects."
Xingchen absorbs this, furrowing his brow. "Many years? How many? Was there another war?"
"Not a war, no. Just changes brought on by the passage of time. I hoped to bring you back sooner, but it was… complicated. I am sorry."
"Oh, Zichen, no." Xingchen can't bear the sorrow in Zichen's voice. "For you to work so hard, over so many years. It's more than I could ask. You must have been frustrated, and lonely." He imagines Zichen tirelessly searching and struggling, for all that time, just for Xingchen's sake - it's more than he deserves. More than he wanted.
"I always had you by my side," Zichen says.
"And that's what you wanted?" Xingchen asks. "Even after…" He can't bring himself to say what he did to Zichen out loud. He can't think about it. Even as he edges his thoughts carefully around the shape of his own horror, something in the centre of his chest winds tightly into a heavy, nauseous ball.
"Of course!" Zichen tightens his grip on Xingchen's hand, which had grown slack through their conversation. "Xingchen, I drove you away without thinking, after you made such a sacrifice for me. Because of that you suffered the company of Xue Yang for three years, and endured his torture. I just hope that you will accept my apology, and be my companion as we were before." His voice rings with passion, rivaled in intensity only by the argument he's now apologizing for.
Xingchen is stunned. His companion - Xue Yang - had always insisted that Zichen was in the wrong, and needed to beg for Xingchen's forgiveness. He never would have expected Zichen to agree with him on this point. "No, Zichen. No, that's not right. You can't apologize to me, after I - after what I did to you."
"That was Xue Yang's doing." Zichen's voice is confident, with a ring of finality. "I don't blame you, Xingchen. You didn't know."
Zichen is right that he didn't know. Xingchen would never have brought Xue Yang into his home, his heart, if he had. It doesn't erase that it was his hand holding the sword. It doesn't change that he did such evil things. The weight of those actions still falls on Xiao Xingchen's shoulders. The weight of not knowing, of not seeking answers, not noticing what his own hands and sword were doing. That was why, one last time, he used his sword to-
"Xingchen, your eyes." Zichen's voice cuts urgently through the thread of Xingchen's thoughts, and the heavy weight building in his stomach falls away.
"What?"
"Your eyes are bleeding." Zichen's undeserved concern rings in his ears."Are you hurt?"
"Oh." Xingchen brings his free hand up to his cheek . His fingers come away damp, with something thicker than tears. This is familiar, too. "No, this is just something that happens. I was thinking about what I didn't know. About what I wish I had known. Zichen, I'm sorry that I didn't-"
"The past is in the past, Xingchen. I'm sorry that you have to hold onto those memories." Zichen truly sounds mournful, like he'd be happy to let Xingchen wipe his slate clean.
Xingchen expects a gentle hand to stroke his face, or a warm grasp on his shoulder, but it doesn't come.
Of course, this is Zichen, who doesn't take comfort from touch, and wouldn't think to offer it. Once again, he's thinking of his false companion when his beloved Zichen is loyally here by his side. How could he possibly deserve Zichen's absolute forgiveness? How could he forgive himself?
Xingchen pushes away his guilt and frustration with himself. Zichen deserves his attention.
"My memories aren't that clear," Xingchen explains. "Things were so overwhelming, toward the end. I was so overwhelmed by this feeling of horror, and regret." Xingchen shakes his head. "Maybe it's best not to know exactly what happened."
"I was there," Zichen says. He seems to hesitate for a moment. "If you really don't want to know, I don't have to tell you more."
"You were there?" A spark of embarrassment takes light when Xingchen realizes that Zichen saw him collapse in on himself. It's a shamefully vain feeling, on top of everything else.
He considers the tempting prospect of ignorance. It's exactly what caused this disaster, exactly what led to Zichen's death, but with Zichen offering it to him it could almost be a safe option to take. They could put everything behind them and start over.
It wouldn't truly be behind them, though. Not for Zichen, at least. Xingchen can't ask him to hold the memories of what happened with Xue Yang alone, on top of the loss of so many people he held dear, the loss of his life.
Xingchen tries to recall what happened, not surrounding his own death, but something about Zichen. "I don't remember," he says slowly. "I was so focused on my fr- on Xue Yang. I know I thought of you, Zichen. Maybe - was there something about Fuxue?"
"Yes, that's right," Zichen says. He's patient, understanding. It grates at Xingchen to need his patience. "You felt Fuxue, and recognized me that way."
Xingchen's fingers twitch, as he remembers the clean edges of the familiar characters under them. Once upon a time, when Zichen was his close companion, they'd shared swords as easily as they'd shared conversation. The first time Zichen had handed him Fuxue, Xingchen had been surprised. It was such a personal thing to trust a friend with your sword, and he hadn't expected it from someone so uncomfortable with touch. In time Xingchen had understood - had worked hard to understand - that Zichen showed his love in other ways.
He remembers that last time he felt Fuxue in his hand, in a moment when he felt so unworthy of Zichen.
"You didn't speak," Xingchen says. He doesn't phrase it as a question, he's certain he would remember if he heard Zichen's voice in that moment.
"Xue Yang cut out my tongue," Zichen says.
"Xue Yang did?" Xingchen asks.
A memory seeps into his mind like rolling fog, inescapable. He hears his friend's voice saying ‘If I hadn't cut out their tongues, they would be crying and screaming so loudly'. He remembers begging Zichen to speak, to say anything. He remembers his own desperation, trying to turn away from the awareness of what he had done. He gasps, fighting a wave of nausea, and pushes the memory away. He feels the damp trickle of blood on his cheeks again.
"I remember," he tells Zichen. With his free hand he feels the floor under him, pressing his fingers down until he can discern the faint ridges of the wood grain against them. He's not in that moment, not facing that confrontation. He's here with Zichen, now, who already endured so much for Xingchen's sake. He deserves Xingchen's presence and his attention.
"It's okay, Xingchen. Xue Yang is dead," Zichen says. His voice is soft, offering the words as comfort.
Xingchen breathes into the silence. His lungs don't seem to be working as well as they used to, seeming to struggle to expand in the steel cage of his ribs. He should mention it to Zichen.
"Dead?" he asks. His brow furrows, under the bandage.
It seems impossible to imagine in the face of Xue Yang's vivacity, his evasion of capture, his endless chattering into the long nights. Now that he knows his companion was Xue Yang, the edges of his memories are starting to blur, but the pieces fit together seamlessly. The persistent liveliness of Xue Yang's energy burns across all their encounters.
"I killed him," Zingchen responds, his voice still gentle, aiming to reassure. Xingchen realizes he must seem like he's doubting his friend and savior, after all the trouble he went through for Xingchen's sake.
"Oh. I'm... glad," Xingchen says slowly. His voice is steadier than his betraying heart, if only just.
Zichen earned his revenge, for the deaths of everyone he knew, for his own death, for Xingchen's betrayal. Xingchen's offering, returning his sight, was nothing in the face of the suffering Xue Yang inflicted on Zichen. Xue Yang earned his death, and now Xingchen is without - is free from him.
"You deserved that, after everything." As Xingchen says it he senses the truth in the statement, but it tastes bitter.
"I did it for both of us," Zichen says. His voice is insistent, almost echoing through Xingchen's mind.
"Zichen," he whispers. He can feel the seams where Zichen sewed his being into this body straining. He's not sure if Zichen knows how fragile he is right now.
Their palms are still pressed together, but Xingchen's other fingers are growing numb. He slides his hand across the rough floor boards until he can feel Zichen's robe. His fingers twist in it, anchoring himself to Zichen in this moment.
"I did it for you." This is as passionate and intense as he's ever heard Zichen. It's hard to believe his voice is truly silent, only heard in Xingchen's mind.
Xingchen is certain that his weak, new heart can't endure this strangling pressure. Xue Yang is dead by Zichen's hand, for Xingchen's sake. He can't turn down this unwelcome gift, no matter how undeserving he is, no matter how it pains him. He feels the weight of this debt fall upon him like an iron yoke, a burden dragging his tattered conscience to sink below the ground. The irony of his feelings isn't lost on him.
This is justice, though. Xue Yang committed terrible acts, forced Xingchen to do the same, destroyed and snuffed out Zichen's life. His fate was inevitable.
"How?" Xingchen asks. He doesn't want to know, but he needs to hear it. He deserves to hear what Zichen has suffered for Xingchen's sake. He needs to know what happened to Xue Yang.
"Are you sure you want to hear about it?" Zichen is still using a kind voice, even as he forces Xingchen to endure choosing the truth.
"Yes. Zichen, I need to hear." Xingchen forces himself to respond with a confidence he doesn't feel.
Once again, Xingchen hears Zichen take a breath. "I was under his control for a long time. Years. He made me kill, and torture, and help him with his demonic rituals." His voice sounds strained, laden with hurt or anger, or more likely both. "I wasn't always myself, I wasn't always aware. But I knew he was trying to revive you, to bring your soul and body back together."
Zichen's hand trembles faintly in Xingchen's, and he squeezes it. Zichen pulls his hand free. It hurts, even though Xingchen knows touch is rarely a comfort for his friend.
"I knew you wouldn't want Xue Yang to revive you." Zichen's hand comes to rest on Xingchen's shoulder, gripping tightly through his robes, and he feels even more foolish for his hurt feelings. "You wouldn't want to spend more time with him."
"That's not-" Xingchen cut himself off. More time with his friend - no, with Xue Yang. That should be his objection.
Xingchen wants more fireside nights with his misfit family, teasing him about his hopeless naivety in the face of crafty merchants. He longs for gentle scoldings from his friend who thinks turning down money for night hunting is foolish when they have so little to eat. He craves sleepy mornings in the coffin house, feeling the sun fall across his face but not stirring to avoid disturbing the companion wrapped around him.
But he doesn't want more time with Xue Yang. He doesn't want to be tricked into killing more innocent people. He doesn't want to be around Zichen's murderer, the person who slaughtered the Chang clan. More time with his friend - Xingchen knows that wouldn't be worth the constant awareness of who his friend was, of what he had made Xingchen do.
It doesn't matter what his objections would have been. Zichen brought him back into a world free from Xue Yang. He should be grateful for a second chance to live with his companion, and to do good in the world.
Xingchen does not think about living with those memories, with Zichen now at his side. Zichen with his skin cooled due to Xingchen's blade. Zichen who has worked so hard for him, after losing so much.
"I'm glad he didn't find a way to bring me back," Xingchen says. "I'm happy to be at your side again." He thinks these things are true.
"I'm sorry that it took me so long to find a solution." Zichen truly does sound repentant.
"How long did it take? You said that Xue Yang was trying for years." It's difficult for Xingchen to imagine his flighty, selfish companion dedicating himself to one task for such a long time. It's just as difficult to imagine him failing at a task he was truly persistent with. His companion, Xue Yang, was brilliant, and stubborn in the face of failure. If Xue Yang spent years on something, and didn't find the solution, how much longer must Zichen have searched? Xingchen's mind reels away from the idea of missing such a long span of time.
Zichen doesn't answer for a few moments, seeming to hesitate. "Are you sure that you want to know all of this now? You can take your time, Xingchen."
Xingchen supposes it's fair for Zichen to consider him delicate. He witnessed Xingchen collapse under the weight of the knowledge of his companion's identity, after all. Knowledge that Zichen has lived with for such a long time he doesn't want to speak of it.
"I think that I need to hear about how Xue Yang died," Xingchen admits. "It's not that I don't believe you, or don't trust your ability to deal with him. But after how things ended, for me, it feels unfinished." It's selfish to ask for this, and to accept Zichen's offer to not reveal how many years Zichen has devoted to reviving him. Somehow, Xingchen's need to know how Xue Yang's life ended outweighs his shame.
"I understand," Zichen says. Xingchen wonders if he truly could. "I'll explain what happened. Hopefully then you'll feel like it's really over."
Xingchen hopes so as well. Zichen deserves better than a companion with his thoughts and feelings in the past.
"I was under Xue Yang's control for many years. I tried to fight against it, to free myself, and to free your soul from him. But he had nails that made it even harder to resist him, and harder to think. I lost track of time." Zichen's voice is steady, but he pauses and Xingchen can hear him taking a deep breath.
Xingchen squeezes Zichen's hand, where it's still in his grasp. It's incredibly satisfying, almost indulgent, to have this comforting contact with Zichen for so long. He hopes that it's offering Zichen some reassurance, as well. Zichen briefly grips his hand in return, and then continues.
"I don't know how long it was, but much later Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji came to Yi City. Wei Wuxian freed me from the nails, and from Xue Yang's control. Xue Yang hid in the haze of Yi City, but A-Qing helped Lan Wangji find him. He cut off Xue Yang's arm, but they left him for me to finish. I put Fuxue into his heart. He laughed right to the end, Xingchen." Zichen says this last point with disdain.
Xingchen is overwhelmed by all of the details Zichen gives him, one after another. Zichen, A-Qing, Wei Wuxian, and Lan Wangji were all united against Xue Yang. They were right to be, of course, but his companion must have fought very hard in the face of so many opponents. Was he so desperate to bring Xingchen back to life, or just to escape with his own life?
Xingchen isn't sure what to say to Zichen. All that comes to mind are inane questions. Which of Xue Yang's arms was cut off? What became of his body? Was his laugh happy?
Of course his laugh wasn't happy.
"It's a lot to absorb," Zichen says gently, and Xingchen realizes he's been sitting in silence for too long.
"I'm sorry. It is helpful to know, Zichen. Thank you." Xingchen pulls the sides of his mouth up into a smile. "What happened after Xue Yang was dead?"
"I left Yi City, with the spirit trapping pouch Xue Yang used to hold you, and with Shuanghua."
Xingchen gasps. He hadn't even thought to worry about Shuanghua's fate, yet. That should have come before his concerns about Xue Yang.
"Don't worry, Xingchen. I have Shuanghua here for you. Xue Yang had it for a while, but I've kept it safe over all these years as I tried to revive you," Zichen says, using a gentle voice once more.
It's strange to think of Shuanghua in Xue Yang's hands. Zichen had held it before, of course, when they cultivated together. But his companion in Yi City had never used a sword at all, even though Xingchen could tell he must have some skill with one. He wonders if Xue Yang coveted it in their time together. Were there envious gazes that he didn't see? If he had his own eyes, would he have seen Xue Yang's Jiangzai?
That's a silly thing to wonder about, though. If Xingchen had his eyes, he would have known Xue Yang by his face. He never would have had a companion in Yi City.
Everything that's happened, everything Zichen described, seems so unlikely. Zichen would never lie to him, he believes this with all his heart. He still can't convince himself that he's died and returned to life. That Xue Yang is dead. It seems like fate has put him on an impossible path, and he has no precedent for how to live after all that has happened.
"Zichen, I keep wondering what you expect from me now, " Xingchen says. He's sure his despondent, lost feelings are evident in his tone. He can't help imagining letting Zichen down, after all these years of building hope.
"Xingchen, I don't expect anything! Whatever you felt for me before, for my living body, I know it's in the past. This new life is your own."
"No, I didn't mean- I would never assume you'd have expectations like that," Xingchen protests. "Not that it's a problem, but I know you don't expect repayment."
Xingchen is tripping over his own words, failing to communicate with Zichen in a wholly unfamiliar way. It was never like this between them before. At least, Xingchen was able to get his thoughts across in whole sentences. Surely this is just part of an adjustment period as they settle back into a routine, and then they'll understand one another again.
"There's no need to rush, Xingchen. I know it will take some time for you to be yourself again."
Despite Zichen's consoling tone, Xingchen doesn't feel settled. Which self is he expected to become? No matter what he says, he must have some expectation of who he spent all these years reviving. He must have more of an idea than Xingchen, who feels as fragmented now as he did in the moments before his death. Zichen is patient, unlike his companion, but even he might lose patience before Xingchen can return to the cultivator Zichen loved so long ago, let alone whatever idealized image of him Zichen has held in his mind for all these years. He can't bear the thought of disappointing him after the undeserved forgiveness and devotion Zichen has shown him.
Xingchen shakes his head slowly, unsure of how to respond.
"I can leave you with your thoughts for a while," Zichen offers.
"I think a bit of time alone could be helpful," Xingchen says. "It's just so much to understand. Things have changed so quickly."
"I understand," Zichen says.
Of course he does. Xingchen should know better than to try to explain himself to Zichen.
"I'll go to town for some food," Zichen says. There's a rustling sound, like Zichen is picking up a basket or bag. "You shouldn't be disturbed, no one else comes to this mountain. It's ours, for as long as you need."
"We can't keep an entire mountain to ourselves," Xingchen says. It seems like a small concern, compared to everything else that's happened, but he doesn't have much left beyond his principles.
"Sure we can," Zichen says, and the voice in Xingchen's mind is almost lilting. If he were speaking aloud, Xinchen is certain he'd hear a smile in his voice. "You're just following your master's example."
Against all odds a quiet laugh finds its way out of Xingchen's mouth.
There's a quiet creak as the door closes behind Zichen.
Xingchen is left in the stillness of this unfamiliar room. He touches the tips of his fingers to his mouth, startled. He hadn't expected to laugh again so soon, after everything. Especially not at a joke from Zichen.
Zichen had never been one for humour. In fact, that comment seemed much more like something his companion- Xue Yang would say.
He wonders-
It's too improbable, too horrific, maybe even too cruel. But a tiny, deplorable seed of doubt blooms shamefully into hope in Xingchen's heart.