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The heat between both of their bodies feels close to boiling. A-Yao pins Xue Chengmei’s hand above his head, pressing him against the floor. The pressure this requires leaves them both a little off-balance, all their energy going into that one side, all of their shattered cultivation pressing down into that single point, palm against palm, bare skin against unforgiving wood flooring.
Chengmei bucks against the hold, hips snapping, teeth clacking, legs twisting against the pin-point accuracy of A-Yao’s knees alongside his thighs. He’s so different from the young man who could smile and joke when held by ropes in front of the cultivation world.
A-Yao is different now, too. He doesn’t hide his old reflexes, dodging the kicks and flashing teeth. He’d avoided so many cruel hands when he was growing up. Out of necessity, he’d let those skills grow cold for a while, smothered under the weight of his rank. He’d paid for it with the cracking of stairs against his skull, and in a ringing in his ears that hadn’t left since that day.
But he didn’t forget entirely. The reflexes were there when he needed them most. Even with most of his blood on the temple floor, his heart barely keeping a rhythm, he’d avoided Nie Mingjue’s hands. And they had been so much larger than Xue Chengmei’s. Would’ve been so much more welcome. Even then. Even cold. Even with the blood of his own qi deviation caked under his fingernails.
Xue Chengmei is still writhing on the floor, as if he had the strength to break their hands and pull away. As if there's anywhere else he could be, anywhere else he could go.
The time for avoiding grabbing hands had been so many years ago, and all this built-up fury meant nothing anymore. But it was so like Chengmei to only act now, long after it mattered.
There was no point in mourning a pinkie after it was pulp. No point crying for a Daozhang who’s throat was yawning open. No point restoring a soul that didn’t know it was wanted.
A-Yao slipped his fingers alongside Chengmei’s, intertwining them. He let his hand shift sideways, let his fingernails dig into the black glove, and bite into the mangled stump where a pinky finger once was.
Xue Chengmei goes still. He blinks, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.
A-Yao’s gaze is bright for a different reason.
Oh, they are so, so different now.