Work Text:
Xingqiu’s limbs were cold to the bone. He knew he shouldn’t have his window open all the way when it was this cold out. He stared into the dark wooden desk he had been sitting at for days, trying to remember when he’d last been warm. After a moment or so of filtering through his library of thoughts and memories, Xingqiu grinned (despite the numbing pain running through his arms) as he recalled a fond memory of a boy with warm, sky blue eyes.
-
‘Ah, Qiu, you’re shivering! Here, take my jacket, you’re lucky I have my congenital positivity to keep me warm.’
He’d replied, with a smirk tugging at his lips,
‘I didn’t take my dearest Yunyun to be a flirt, but I’m not complaining.’
The exorcist had promptly turned a shade of red comparable to a jueyun chili. Turning around with a huff, he shoved his warm jacket towards him. ‘J-just don’t get a cold, you’re insufferable when you’re delirious. I don’t want to hear you rant about how flowers should have evolved to have eyes and legs again.’
Xingqiu had laughed, giggles bubbling out of his throat as he took the jacket gratefully.
-
‘If only Chongyun was here now,’ Xingqiu thought as he pressed his forehead against the cold, smooth wood of his table. Nothing felt right. How was he this sad, when nothing was going wrong? If anything, life was getting easier. So why, why was he longing to feel cold steel slicing across his skin again?
He was tired. Tired of having to fake a smile at his friends and family, when all he wanted to do was rip out his own heart and slash at his throat with his beloved knives. Tired. Tired and cold. Xingqiu didn’t get to feel the comfort of crying it out. All he felt was cold, cold and numb.
The weeds of his mind took this as an opportunity to start screaming at him.
‘Do it, give in. Give up, like the weak idiot you are.’
‘You don’t deserve what people give to you.’
‘Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar.’
‘Selfish. Ugly. No one loves you, not even yourself.’
Xingqiu covered his the sides of his head, fully relishing the cold that his hands brought to his ears, and the mind-numbing feeling that followed.
The voices fell silent.
Xingqiu raised his messy head off the glossy piece of furniture to take a look at the digital clock on his desk.
4:43 AM, it read. Maybe the cold had really been getting to his head, but the numbers seemed almost accusing. The time then registered in his empty skull. Xingqiu laughed again, sounding forced and scratchy. How fitting, that he was a minute away from three numbers that spelled death. Nothing felt real. Nothing was real. Maybe he was just dreaming, and maybe he would wake up soon. Maybe he just needed a little pain to help him wake up.
The edges of his vision blurred, and he didn’t quite notice his left hand inching towards his blade. A beautiful bright blue sheen to the wooden handle of the small pocket knife, a birthday gift from none other than his dearest Chongyun (after hearing of Xingqiu’s knife collection, Chongyun had been all too eager to spend his mora on an exquisite blade for his best friend). Xingqiu rolled up the sleeve to his navy blue hoodie without looking down, and pressed the steel against his pale skin. Dragging the sharpened tip across his wrist horizontally.
Xingqiu didn’t dare look down. He knew he’d feel disgusted but proud, and that mixture of feelings made him want to cut more. He felt the warm crimson trail down his arms, and the stinging, throbbing hurt of the fresh wound.
‘Just another stroke on the canvas,’ Xingqiu thought as he laid his head down on his desk once again, not caring for the blood that stuck to his dirty blue hair. His vision began to darken, colours warping and lines blurring. Suddenly, everything seemed to stop, and Xingqiu finally succumbed to the alluring temptation of sleep.
Xingqiu would wake up, but he didn’t want to.