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Sing has always been a light sleeper. With the kind of lives they lead, they all have to be, really, so he doesn’t miss when Yut-Lung starts to toss and turn from beside him.
He dismisses it as he rolls over, slightly miffed at being woken by something so trivial. It’s almost funny how they’ve ended up close enough to be sharing a sleeping space, yet not close at all. So many bicker-ridden meetings that ended up stretching long into the night that there’s no questions asked when Sing sleeps over anymore, yet half the time he can’t tell if Yut-Lung even considers him a friend. Well, at least they don’t consider him a threat. That should be good enough.
His attempt to drift off is interrupted again, this time when Yut-Lung starts muttering something in their sleep. It’s near inaudible, but from what can be made of it, it isn’t pleasant. He dismisses it again. It’ll… probably pass. Yut-Lung would be pissed if they were woken up over something so stupid.
But the sleeptalking doesn’t stop, and it’s starting to sound more distressed as time stretches on. Fuck. He hesitates for a moment before tapping them gently. “Hey, Yue? You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”
Yut-Lung’s eyes stay shut, unresponsive save for the cold sweat and incoherent stammering. Sing… shouldn’t be here. Seeing Yut-Lung in such a vulnerable position without their permission feels so foreign, so wrong. He’s intruding.
“Ngh, no, stop looking at me like that, I can’t—”
Panic creeping in, Sing shakes them by the shoulders, “Yue, wake up!”
But it’s no use. It's like Yut-Lung can’t even hear anything, and he’d rather not resort to harsh shouting and shoving to get them awake.
As he assesses his options, Yut-Lung’s eyes suddenly jolt open. For a few seconds, they stay like that, gaze unfocused and body rigid as a corpse, and it’s like everything freezes before Yut-Lung takes a loud, choking gasp in and time resumes itself.
They’re hyperventilating, practically convulsing in his arms. Shit, shit.
“Yue, breathe!” He shouts. Should he shake them? Would that help or just disorient them further? Fuck, Yut-Lung probably can’t even hear him over their own frantic gasping.
Sing puts one of their hands on his sternum and takes steady breaths, hoping Yut-Lung will at least subconsciously mimic the behavior, the controlled rise and fall of his chest. Yet moments pass and Yut-Lung’s breathing isn’t getting any easier, still loud and labored, and it’s almost as if they’re getting louder? Like—
Like Yut-Lung is laughing?
“Aha-haha—” Yut-Lung gasps out, voice raspy and choking between each inhale.
Anger flares for a split-second. Are you mocking me? But looking closer, Yut-Lung’s expression is a lot of things; desperation, panic, but it's not malicious. They’re not laughing at him. In fact, it’s like Yut-Lung doesn’t even know Sing is there.
“Yue, calm down, please,”
“Of course, of course it’s me, I—”
“Yue!”
Yut-Lung’s hands clutch at Sing’s arms, nails digging into his skin. “Laugh, will you?! It’s funny! Oh my god—hahaha—this is my life—”
“What are you even talking about?!” Sing pleads through their cackling, exasperated. Yut-Lung just continues to tremble in his arms. Vaguely, he knows that he needs to stay calm, that one person panicking is enough, but god, he doesn’t know what to do.
“Don’t you get it,” this time Yut-Lung’s cry is punctuated by a voice crack, their laughter morphing into a choked sob, “I have to be this—until I die.”
Sing wishes Eiji were here instead. His inherent gentleness, composure, god, Eiji would know what to do. Not him, a fumbling street gangster with more experience shooting people than ever helping them through anything.
Yut-Lung goes on like this, a chaotic mixture of laughing and hiccuped sobs, not even trying to calm themself down. At this rate, they’re going to pass out, but it’s almost like… like that’s what they’re trying to make themself do.
He’s… supposed to ground them back in the present first and foremost, right? Ask questions. Have them focus on something real. What's something Yut-Lung can recall immediately? He leans in close, making it so he’s the only thing they can see. “Yue, look at me. Where... where are your brothers right now?”
“Where are they not?” Yut-Lung wheezes like it’s the funniest joke in the world, “Where haven’t they been. Fuck, what haven’t they touched—”
Sing grits his teeth. That didn’t work. “Yue. Your brothers are dead.”
That makes them pause, momentarily stunned.
“We buried them all two years ago. You were even petty enough to work with the morticians to see for yourself that every one of their hearts had stopped beating, remember?“ He rubs circles with his thumbs on the back of Yut-Lung’s hands. “They don’t control you anymore.”
Yut-Lung lets out a shaky breath, seemingly slowing themself, but their eyes betray the residual disorientation. “If they don’t control me anymore, then why…”
“Hey.” He rushes, “Where are we?”
Yut-Lung’s eyes flit back and forth in recollection, “New—New York City.”
“Right. What’s my name?”
“...Sing Soo-Ling,”
“Yeah, good. What’s your name?”
“Yut-Lung,” they pause, a slow inhale and exhale, “Lee.”
They’re breathing normally again. Thank god. Yut-Lung still hiccups from time to time, shivering against him, but it’s quiet. They stay like that until Sing remembers his hands are on Yut-Lung’s shoulders. His face heats up at the contact and he quickly lets go.
He’s… not supposed to be here. He shouldn’t be seeing them so vulnerable, so out of control of themself. He can spare them their pride. “I’ll go get us some water,” Sing coughs awkwardly, rolling off the bed.
Yut-Lung catches his sleeve. “No, stay,” they say in a rush, and then pause to add a soft, “...please.”
And how can he say no to that? “Okay,” Sing concedes, falling back, “I’ll stay.”
There has to be more he can do for them than this though, uselessly offering nothing more than just the simple presence of another person. He doesn’t know what possesses him when he works up the nerve to ask, “Can I hug you?”
They say nothing, body still turned away, but scoot closer. That’s as big an invitation as he’s getting. Willfully ignoring the sudden uptempo in his chest, he wraps his arms around them.
After a series of growth spurts, Sing has—finally!—grown taller than them. Yut-Lung will sometimes glower up at him, upset solely because they have to look up at him now, but right this moment, Sing’s grateful he has all the height and bulk to hold them steady.
“Sing,” Yut-Lung murmurs, and god, even now he loves how his name sounds when they say it.
“Yes?”
“I’m so tired,” they admit, fragile and weary. It’s the closest Yut-Lung’s ever been to sounding like an actual teenager instead of the larger than life mafia boss they hold themself as.
Time passes. Yut-Lung’s breathing stills, eventually coming to match Sing’s.
“...That’s embarrassing,” Yut-Lung whispers long after Sing had assumed they already drifted asleep, their voice scratched raw, “I’m sorry.”
His heart sinks. He’s only ever heard Yut-Ling apologize once or twice in their entire life. “Don’t apologize. Not for something like this.”
“Shut up. Don’t lie to me,” Yut-Lung huffs, and he doesn’t need to see their face to know they’re scowling. “I know I’m not… easy to deal with. Just ignore it next time. I can handle it myself.”
He frowns. From what he’s gathered, Yut-Lung’s idea of “handling it” is just forcing themself into unconsciousness again. It aches to imagine Yut-Lung having to endure these moments all alone. Whenever he had rough nights like these, at least he had Shorter—hell, even Lao, as emotionally constipated as he is—to hold him together when he cried. “If you keep treating yourself like a burden, I’m really gonna get mad.”
“...Whatever.” Yut-Lung says, but he doesn’t miss the hesitation before it, the little pauses Yut-Lung makes when they’re surprised by unconditional kindness.
“I’m serious! We’re friends. If there’s any way I can help you, just tell me. You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?”
“Mhm,” Yut-Lung hums dismissively. Sing sighs. Right, they still have that commitment to staying distant and invulnerable in any given situation to uphold. Whatever, as long as they know he’s here.
Sing plays with their hair, gently combing his fingers through the silky locks. He’s being as feather-light as he can, but his hands still tremble imperceptibly. Is he helping? Yut-Lung hasn’t tensed up yet, so he’ll take it as a good sign.
An inhale. “...You really scared me,” he admits.
“Oh.” Yut-Lung says, voice hollow, and starts to pull away.
Agh, shit. “No—not like that,” Sing says, holding them closer, “I’m not good at this. You could never scare me off, Yue. I was scared for you. I just, I want to be there for you, but I’m scared that I don’t know how.”
Yut-Lung lets out a weak laugh. “If it helps, I don’t know either.”
“That’s alright,” Sing says, sidling up to Yut-Lung closer still, “we’ll figure it out together.” There’s a promise in those words that isn’t lost on them, the idea that they’ll be together long enough to one day finally fall in sync with each other’s rhythms.
Yut-Lung shifts a bit. “I don’t know why I react like this,” they whisper more to themself than Sing, “I already know I’m dreaming the second they start—they’re always the same things anyway. And yet…”
“What are they about?” Sing asks, and then internally scolds himself, “Agh, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to though. Of course.”
Yut-Lung lets out a long exhale. “Ask whatever you want,” they relent, “but if you repeat any of what I say, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
Sing rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, your highness.”
“The nightmares… it’s all idiotic, really. I’m used to most of them by now. How fitting that a mind so used to manipulating people would attempt to conspire against me too.” They say with an amused lilt, almost like it’s a brag, “On the milder nights it’s just the random businessmen and politicians. Those don’t really have an effect anymore though, since you kind of learn to stop seeing your body as your own pretty early on, so it’s just… par for the course.” they shrug. Sing already feels nauseous.
“But—” Yut-Lung continues on, beginning to falter, “the one scenario, no matter how hard I try, god, it’s... I’m six and powerless. His hands are on me and she’s dying again, and the only option I have is whether to keep my eyes open for it or not.” their voice hitches, “How am I supposed to get used to that, Sing?”
His head hurts. It’s an obvious answer. You don’t.
“It’s even worse in the ones where she doesn’t die,” they whisper, “a bruised and battered body, but her eyes still trained on me, watching me as I get older, my brothers’ hold on me never letting go. I only ever got more rotten after that day, you know, becoming more like them and less like her. At first it was just to survive, but I—” Yut-Lung chokes on their own breath.
“You don't have to tell me everything, it’s okay!”
“No,” Yut-Lung coughs, “I can finish what I start.”
Sing sighs. Fine then. It’s just… hard to see them in pain like this.
“I just… I don’t care what happens to me anymore, Sing, I just want to have dignity again. I thought I'd get some semblance of it back once I killed them all, but I still feel so… ugh. Sing,” they plead, “I don't want to be this forever,”
“You’re not going to,” he reasons, “there’s still time to change—”
“There’s no point. It’s all so stupid. If I ever see her again, would she even want me?”
“Of course she would! You didn’t do any of this to her.”
They ignore him. “They say a mother’s love is unconditional,” Yut-Lung quotes sarcastically, “but there has to be a limit to that. Come on! I've done too much! What kind of parent would want to look out for me? I’m not proud of a single thing I’ve ever done!”
“Hey—”
“She was dying, you know. And yet she was still reaching out for me, and I—I couldn’t do anything. How could I? All I ever did was weigh her down—and what a pathetic thing to die for, really!”
“Yue!”
Their voice turns icy sharp. “All my talk of Eiji damning Ash to hell, but I’m the one who damned her first.”
An uneasy silence settles in the weight of those words. Yut-Lung’s body is tense, fully wound up and ready to recoil at the slightest agitation.
“...Yue. You know that’s not—”
“Don’t. You don't have to say anything.” they say, voice dry of emotion, “In fact, I’d prefer if you didn't. Oh my god,” they laugh, the scratchy, gut wrenching sound, “thats—it doesn’t matter anyway, all I’ve done this evening is play the fool and thoroughly humiliate myself—”
“Yue,” He pleads, and oh, is he crying? “That’s not true! I don't see you any different. You’re not weak or stupid or whatever for dealing with this shit. You’re still the same Yue I know and respect and who gets on my nerves on the daily, okay? I don’t pity you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I couldn’t if I tried.”
Yut-Lung pauses, trying to find a lie in his words. It’s useless though, Sing could never lie to them. They relax ever so slightly. “That’s… that’s good, I guess.”
“And… look. You wanna know what I think?”
They sigh. “Might as well.”
He could say something like it’s going to be okay, or you’re not alone anymore, but those are all blanket statements. Yut-Lung’s too smart for that, they deserve better. Sing can give them his honesty, at the very least. “I think…” he starts, “you’re too absolute for your own good. Like, okay, slap me if I’m wrong, but to you, it’s like there’s only two kinds of people in the world. Good people like your mom or, like, Eiji, or evil people like your brothers, and it’s all… fixed positions that you’re born into and can’t change. You think that you’re destined to be, or already are on the same level as your brothers, and every day, you try to pretend that you’re okay with that.”
“Make your point.” Yut-Lung snaps, but there’s no bite to it.
Sing huffs. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that not everything revolves around you—!” Ah. He cringes immediately. That could have come out a lot better.
“Sing.” Yut-Lung warns.
And yeah, he’s not too good at the whole comforting thing. But he’s not Eiji or Shorter, he’s just Sing and these fumbling words are the best he can do. He presses on. “What I mean, is that not everything is so cut and dry! You’re a complicated person—really complicated actually,” he groans, “but you’re not inherently evil, Yue. For some reason, you think that somewhere in your life, you did something wrong, and that’s why bad things happen to you. But it’s not true! Your mom wasn’t cursed because she had you. Bad things happen whether you think you're good or not. Life’s a bitch like that, but it’s not your fault that you were loved. It’s not your fault that your brothers hated her. It’s not your fault that you survived.” he stresses, “It’s okay if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth.”
“...You’re right. I don’t believe you.” Yut-Lung says. Sing winces, he’s definitely fumbling through this. “But,” they continue, voice strained and contemplative, “I’d… it sounds like it would be nice to believe that, maybe. Maybe someday.”
Yut-Lung shifts in his arms, and if Sing imagines hard enough, it’s almost like they’re trying to move closer into his embrace. “Yeah. You’ll get it. I promise.”
Yut-Lung eventually falls asleep like that, head resting on Sing’s bicep like a pillow. God, hopefully his muscles are comfortable enough.
Their hair is silky against his skin, and a content warmth radiates between both of them—it’s really, really hard to ignore how well they fit together. He doesn’t know how he ever manages to sleep when his heart is beating against his ribcage this hard.
The morning after, Sing wakes up to sunlight slipping through the blinds and illuminating the room in golden lines. The space beside him is empty. It’s nothing out of the ordinary; Yut-Lung always wakes up early to do their assorted skin and hair routines.
He’s still working his way to consciousness when Yut-Lung steps back in, hair done up and shiny, the blotchy tear tracks exfoliated and washed away. All traces of last night are gone.
He stares, stunned. If he were any dumber he’d chalk all of last night up as a fever dream. How many times have they had to do this, to practice wiping away all evidence of ever having a moment of weakness? After all, they’ve had an entire decade to perfect it.
But then Yut-Lung meets his eyes, gaze a touch softer in an unspoken, timid thank you.
Oh. Sing smiles in return, that warm feeling in his chest again. “Good morning, Yue.” Anytime.