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The first time was unexpected.
Song Lan felt lost, present in body alone at Xingchen’s side as they departed, passing through the town’s open gates.
“Are you alright?” Xingchen had asked. Song Lan heard him as if through a thick wall, distant and muffled.
Song Lan nodded, paused, and then shook his head. It had taken him time to realize he didn’t have to lie to Xingchen, at the beginning. He didn’t have to close himself off when it was just the two of them, but sometimes in moments like this, he slipped back into old habits.
Xingchen was silent for a moment, then posed another question. “He touched you, didn’t he? In the village?” Xingchen’s posture was casual as he walked, comfortable, but his eyes were attentive.
Song Lan nodded again. The man, exceedingly grateful for their assistance, had placed a hand on his shoulder. It was well-intentioned but unwelcome; someone like Xingchen may have appreciated it, leaned into it even, but Song Lan could not.
A soft noise of affirmation from Xingchen. “Is there anything I can do to help?” His white robes brushed only lightly against Song Lan’s black ones, barely bridging the gap between them every few steps. “Zichen, may I try something?”
Song Lan’s words felt frozen in his chest, failing him in the midst of his discomfort; he still felt the weight of the villager’s hand resting heavily on his shoulder. He gave a third nod.
Somehow with Song Lan, Xingchen always knew what to do; this was no exception.
Wordlessly and soundlessly, save for the near-silent shuffle of clothing as he shifted closer on the worn dirt path, Xingchen touched gentle fingertips to Song Lan’s palm where his hand hung limp beside his thigh.
Song Lan froze but didn't recoil the way he always wanted to when a stranger clung to the fabric of his robes. He would not have offended Xingchen if he had, but usual panic didn’t come.
Xingchen stopped with him. When Song Lan didn’t pull back or object, Xingchen slowly threaded their fingers together.
Song Lan absorbed the warmth of Xingchen's hand. He felt it sink in and seep under his skin, unfamiliar but grounding. He did not return any pressure; he did not hold Xingchen’s hand firmly, nor did Xingchen grasp so hard that Song Lan could not free himself in an instant should he become uncomfortable with the contact.
Xingchen gave him time to consider and watched his face carefully, lightly caressing the dips between Song Lan's fingers.
As the moments passed, stalled on the path leading back into the wilderness, Song Lan felt the tension under his skin start to dissolve. The discomfort lingered on his shoulder, sensitive and wrong, but his attention was drawn to the way Xingchen’s hand felt on his.
Song Lan willed his fingers to bend, pressing lightly against Xingchen's knuckles.
"Is this alright?" Xingchen asked after Song Lan settled into the touch. It was a formality more than anything; Xingchen could read Song Lan like a book, somehow, something Song Lan was grateful for in times like these.
"Yes," Song Lan said, finally finding words through the strain in his chest.
"May we walk?" Xingchen looked on and spoke with no expectation in his voice. "I believe," he said, glancing out into the woods and pointing with his free hand, "we passed a river on the way here. We could stop there if you'd like."
Xingchen waited on Song Lan to take the first step. When he did, stiff but purposeful, Xingchen quickly matched his pace at his side. “It’s not too far, but while we walk, let me tell you about some of the local flora. I recognize many of these...”
Song Lan listened as Xingchen spoke about different types of foliage that lined the path, explaining their unique properties in great detail. He was not meant to truly absorb any of it; Xingchen’s words served solely as a distraction, something to focus on aside from the conflicting oversensitivity and numbness on his skin.
Song Lan had never been so grateful for Xingchen’s company.
They found the river as the sun began to set. Xingchen released his hand, and Song Lan washed himself off while Xingchen set up camp.
That evening, across a small fire, Song Lan thought back.
He considered the softness of Xingchen’s skin. He’d felt it before; on night hunts there were bound to be injuries, and often the only medical attention they had access to was provided by each other. But cleaning a cut or letting Xingchen apply salve to a wound Song Lan couldn’t reach did not carry the same intimacy as the manner in which Xingchen touched him that day.
Song Lan thought he might want to feel it again.
He looked up from his hands to where Xingchen was sitting, poking at the burning wood with a stick and somehow looking quite comfortable on the rocky ground.
“How did you know that would help?” Song Lan asked.
“I didn’t,” Xingchen said, glancing up from the fire, “Not for sure. I hoped I could distract you long enough to bring you here.” He paused, seeming almost nervous. “I was worried I would make it worse.”
Song Lan felt a stiffness in his chest again, distinct from earlier. He didn’t want Xingchen to worry, not about him.
“You didn’t make it worse,” Song Lan said, just in case Xingchen needed to hear it. “Thank you.”
Xingchen smiled softly, face glowing in the firelight. His eyes were so bright.
After that, it became a routine.
They would accept thanks, politely refuse payment of money or gifts, and be on their way.
When the two of them stepped out through the gates of the town or village they’d assisted, tension would build in Song Lan’s stomach like he was being stuffed full of butterflies, aimless and listless.
The anticipation was the worst part, with anyone else. The grating question of when, not if, someone would reach out to touch him in a kind gesture that almost always meant “thank you for your help” in his and Xingchen’s line of work. The sentiment was not lost, but the way Song Lan jerked reflexively under their grateful hands would have offended anyone who was not already apologetic about their own forward behavior.
With Xingchen, it was different. The anticipation was part of the process, part of the warm-up before he gently intertwined his fingers with Song Lan’s.
That, paired with the slow creep from “too far away” to “too close together for polite company” as the two of them found themselves out of sight of the curious townspeople, was always a welcome gesture.
Depending on the geography of the place, Song Lan could never be sure how long it would take until Xingchen asked the question. But he always did.
“May I?” he would inquire, hand hovering a short distance from Song Lan’s.
Xingchen knew the answer as clearly as he knew his own intention, and when Xingchen laced his fingers between Song Lan’s he settled into it like it was the only thing in the world he’d ever need.
When Song Lan passed through the gates of Yi City for the last time, consciousness returned and intact, what remained of Xingchen’s spirit felt like smoke. Not billowing, heavy and thick, but like the soft wisps from dying embers. Weak.
If Song Lan squeezed the pouch that held it, he worried those invisible tendrils would sneak through the woven fabric and slip through his fingers like air.
Tendrils slipping between his fingers, like Xingchen's own used to, he thought. Delicate and thin. Grounding, like the light breeze that brushed across his skin and kept him in the moment of here and now.
It had been so long since he allowed himself to think of Xingchen like this.
One can only bear witness to a still corpse for so long before they have to draw a line in their thoughts labeled there is no use lingering on the dead and shattered; Song Lan drew that line years ago, keeping watch over Xingchen’s lifeless body in the coffin home with the man who broke him.
But with the non-weight of Xingchen's spirit resting in his palm, real in a way that it hadn't been in Xue Yang's hands, Song Lan allowed himself to reminisce as he glanced back at the now-distant gates of Yi City.
He could almost picture Xingchen at his side, inching closer as he walked.
It was easier to think, like this, of Xingchen’s presence. Easier to imagine the way his hands would feel again, in this life or the next.
Suddenly the pouch in his hand felt less like a reminder of his mistakes and more like a two-way promise. Song Lan would carry him, and Xingchen would try to pick up his pieces.
Song Lan let himself consider a time where he could anticipate Xingchen’s hand lingering near his own as they departed a town. He thought of a future where he could feel that soft flutter in his gut until finally, to Song Lan’s relief, Xingchen would ask, “May I?”
Song Lan held the spirit pouch in his hand for a few moments longer, feeling the faint whisper of movement within the confines before tucking it away in his robes, next to his heart.
With renewed resolve in his chest, Song Lan made his decision; he would spend all the time in the world searching for a way to feel Xingchen’s touch again.
