Work Text:
Historians will call them anything but.
The night was silent, beautiful, yet scarred, and Xue Yang stared confused and in pain at the fragile body laid in front of him. He felt scared, uncertain, and alone. Terror was with him, yet cries made no sounds as he screamed with agony.
“Xiao Xingchen!” he wanted to shout, voice hoarse and throat dry. “Don’t leave me! Don’t you dare!”
But he did not, hands grappling with his hair and reality crashing at every block of his life. Wordless fear tearing at him, he could only stare at the body as tears were ripped from his eyes. His smile was gone, struggling to be started, and his eyes were empty and bloodshot, food wasted near his scents.
The only one who cared for him, the only one who did; the one who conflicted him, fought his nature in every way, and made him struggle in the deepest pits of emotions: Xiao Xingchen. Xue Yang felt crazy, an authentic crazy that was not from his usual desires to kill and cause chaos, yet instead was of his desire to cause mayhem to others because he knew – knew to himself – that he was not the only one who had to suffer such pain.
Such feeling.
His heart was ripped, torn from his chest and stamped on to pieces, carefully reconstructed to only remember his agony. The sweets were hidden away, tucked into corners of the Earth – no longer sweet enough to satisfy his emotions, to replace the empty feeling of happiness.
Sweetness was no longer able to fulfill its need to replacing an emotion he could no longer feel.
Fake smiles and faked laughs of chaos disappeared, and only the same cavity of feelings that sucked up his life remained.
Why was he to pay?
The scales tipped in his head, the knowing feeling of misunderstandings returning to his head. He thought no one else would misunderstand him – not since he met the man blinded by kindness – and the sudden overwhelming feeling of those negative emotions returning pushed him away.
Pushed him back.
With a different madness, a different type of plan. He wanted him back, the person who understood him the best, the person who confused him – made him no longer hate him, no longer want to kill, yet his resistance caused this pain.
Yet this resistance caused him to fade away.
He wanted him back. To apologise, to confess, to hold on tight to and remember the feeling of home again.
“Xiao Xingchen, come back.”
But he did not know how to say that, did not know how to show him he cared, he loved, and he too was human – he too had emotions other than what he showed everyone else.
But history hates lovers.