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Song Lan wakes to the sound of Xingchen’s nightmare.
It is a sound unlike any other Xingchen ever makes, a choked whimper, and it brings Song Lan out of his meditative slumber almost instantly. He never truly sleeps now, and a part of him still keeps vigil over Xingchen, so when Xingchen makes this tiny little sound of building terror, Song Lan wakes.
Their inn room is dark, the outlines of the walls and the sparse furniture only faintly illuminated by the moonlight outside, but even in this almost complete lack of light, Xingchen’s white robe glistens. He is on his back next to Song Lan in the bed, one hand over his chest, the other clutching at his side, and he makes that sound again, small and pained and filled with fear. There is hardly any distance between them but Song Lan still scoots closer and gently shakes Xingchen’s shoulder. The gasp of breath when he wakes is almost a scream, and Song Lan hurries to take his hand and sign to him:
I’m here.
“Zichen?” Xingchen’s voice is raspy as though it has not been used for a long time, but shrill. “Zichen?”
Yes, Song Lan signs with a tap of his finger, and then again: I’m here. I’m here, Xingchen.
He is not sure whether Xingchen understands the signs – they are still only beginning to build a vocabulary of tactile signs, and Xingchen is so recently and abruptly awake – but he seems to catch the meaning, and turns towards Song Lan to bury his face against his shoulder.
“I had that dream again” Xingchen whispers, “of waking up. It hurt, Zichen, everything was just emptiness and too close and it hurt, everything hurt.”
Song Lan wishes he could say something, anything, to take at least some of the horror away, but all he can do is wrap his arms around Xingchen’s trembling body and hum consolingly to him. It is the closest to speech he can come and while it is not good for communicating anything other than presence, his presence is perhaps the most important thing to convey right now. So he hums, and tries to imbue the sound with all the things he wishes he could put into words.
It will be alright, he wants to say. You will be alright. It was only a dream, a bad dream of a true memory, but a dream all the same. Breathe, Xingchen, breathe, and you will find your way back. I’m here. We’re both here.
It is an immeasurable time before Xingchen’s breathing evens out and the trembling in his body subsides. His hands are still clutching Song Lan’s robes though, as if he is afraid of letting go, and that just will not do, not if Song Lan is to have any chance of talking to him. He eases his embrace and raises one hand to Xingchen’s face, caressing his cheek and jaw before carefully tracing his lips with his finger in their new I love you. Xingchen answers with a small sigh and when Song Lan moves his hand to Xingchen’s, Xingchen releases the fabric and places his palm over Song Lan’s hand instead.
I’m sorry, Song Lan signs. He wants to continue, wants to say ‘it was selfish of me to put you through that’ and ‘would you ever tell me if you thought I shouldn’t have?’ but they do not have the tactile signs for that, and writing the characters into Xingchen’s palm would take too long. Instead, he signs, I did this.
“What? You… Zichen, no.”
Xingchen burrows his face closer against Song Lan’s robes, placing his lips just above where Song Lan’s heart once beat.
“It’s not your fault” he whispers. “Zichen, my dear Zichen, it’s not your fault.”
But it is. This, this nightmare and terror, they are Song Lan’s fault. He made this choice for Xingchen, but more than that, for himself. Because he could not stand the alternative; because he thought Xingchen would rather live again than have them both be dead.
“If anything” Xingchen continues, “I should be the one to apologise. All the things I did. Running away. Leaving. Ki-”
He chokes on the word, and Song Lan cannot tell if he is crying.
“Killing you, Zichen. Killing myself. None of that is your fault.”
Not yours, either, he signs. I should…
But he is running out of signs. Their tactile language is too limited, too mundane. It can convey information about the road ahead or a place to seek shelter, it can offer food or reassurance, but something as complex as this… there are no gestures to carry this much depth of meaning between them, and he retracts his hand with a jerky motion.
“Don’t stop” Xingchen says. “Please. Tell me.”
He shakes his head, almost pulls away, but Xingchen’s hands tighten on his robe again, hold him in place long enough for Xingchen to be able to move his hands to Song Lan’s face. His thumbs move over Song Lan’s eyebrows, down over his cheekbones and out almost to his ears before tracing the line of his jaw all the way down to his chin. Slowly, deliberately, as though he is sculpting Zichen’s face with his hands.
“How else will I know what you want to say?” Xingchen asks, and Song Lan feels his dead heart stagger. When Xingchen places his palm over his hand again, Song Lan gives him what signs he has.
Speak. Anger. Not you. Truth. Stay.
It is not enough. It can never be enough.
See you. Find. Soon. Speak. Truth. Snow. Not you. Sorry. Not him. Not find him. You. Speak.
His hands tremble under Xingchen’s palm.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so-
“I’m sorry too” Xingchen interrupts him, but his hand is still in place over Song Lan’s, so he continues:
Tonight. You. Sleep. You. Death. Sorry.
“No, Zichen, no, listen to me.” Xingchen grabs his hand, preventing him from signing and holding it tightly. “That nightmare, those memories – don’t ever be sorry about those. I’m here. I’m here with you thanks to you. Don’t ever apologise for that.”
There is a flare in his voice, an anger that Song Lan knows only too well, and one that he cannot help but yield to. When he squeezes Xingchen’s hand in submission, he can feel some of the tension drain from Xingchen’s body.
“We carry so many regrets already” Xingchen says, his voice softer now. “So many mistakes, so much remorse. But not this, Zichen. Not us being together again.”
Yes, Song Lan signs with a single tap.
He would like it to be so. Would love to walk by Xingchen’s side certain that he did the right thing, that being together again, even if it is like this, is something they both wanted. He is not there yet, though, does not quite dare believe it – not when Xingchen still wakes up at night making those same sounds he did when he was brought back, reliving the experience of being brought from death with terror and pain. But maybe, one day, he will.
Will you sleep? he asks, once he has eased his hand free of Xingchen’s grip and replaced it under his palm.
“Not quite yet, I think. Is it alright if I stay like this?”
Yes.
Nothing could be more alright, and he moves his hand away from their discussion to wrap his arm around Xingchen instead, to hold him close. It still feels like something imagined, like this is a dream he has woven together for himself, but it is not. It is real. Xingchen is here, warm and alive in his arms, and however guilty he might feel over having made that decision for him, Song Lan cannot regret it.
“I love you too, Zichen” Xingchen says quietly against his chest. “Still, always.”
Yes, Song Lan taps against his shoulder, hoping that he understands its true meaning: ‘yes, always, me too’.
Almost since the day they met, ever since they first started travelling together and from the first time they sparred against each other, Song Lan has loved him, and he will continue to love him. Smiling at those memories, Song Lan traces the first few strokes of a character on Xingchen’s back. It is barely half-finished before Xingchen chuckles with laughter and hums in sleepy satisfaction against his chest.
“Yes” Xingchen whispers. “Still, always, Zichen, my zhiji.”
Song Lan hugs him a little closer, and they fall quiet. Tomorrow, they will leave this little inn room behind and go wherever the road takes them, side by side like they always have. What does it matter if, along with their swords and their horsetail whisks, they carry their regrets as well? They will share that burden between them, and they will walk together.
In the end, that is all that matters.