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The sword in his hand has never felt heavier, not even when Zhuo Yichen was small, and his elder brother was first allowed to practice with Yunguangjian, and he allowed his Yichen-didi to hold it for a few moments.
But now, lodged in Zhao Yuanzhou's heart with inevitable finality, it weighs more than he could ever have feared. Distantly, some part of him wonders if the weight of this fault, the weight of Zhao Yuanzhou's long life, will ever disappear from his sword and his mind.
Words are stuck behind Zhao Yuanzhou's lips, pierced through and held in place by Zhuo Yichen's sword. All that comes out of his mouth is blood. As Zhao Yuanzhou topples over backwards Zhuo Yichen has barely enough presence of mind to not drop the sword that is the only thing he has left from his family. The sword he has sworn his life to is abandoned easily to catch the great demon. He rushes to Zhao Yuanzhou, and manages to catch him before his head hits the floor– for all the good it will do any of them in this short time that remains.
"Xiao–" blood obstructs his words, and the demon coughs. It's a horrible, gasping sound, of liquid in all the wrong places and air in not enough of them. Yichen wants to shush him, to tell him to shut up, save his breath, and he wants to hear every word the demon wants to say. Who would have thought that he'd want to hear this annoying chatterbox speak yet more? His heart beats as loudly in his ears as those words are soft. Gasping breaths struggle for air still, despite the repeated professed wish to die. Such a contradiction, this annoying demon. Zhuo Yichen clutches the demon's shoulders, holding him close, wishing to hear.
"Xiao Zhuo… daren ," such a useless word, such a waste of precious breath. " Thank you ."
His words are barely a whisper, but those words are the last thing Zhuo Yichen wants to hear. His heart beats a painful staccato, his mind replays memories of the demon imprisoned underneath the bureau, faking tears and faking imprisonment, winking playfully even as he plans to trap Zhuo Yichen in his own jail.
It's too much, all too much, he knew it would be even before he drew his sword but it hurts like he is the one who was stabbed. Zhao Yuanzhou reaches a shaking hand up to Yichen's face, and wipes away a tear he hadn't even noticed. Zhuo Yichen grabs the hand, the skin cold against his own, and presses a kiss to that palm.
"Hah," his demon would be laughing, Zhuo Yichen thinks, if he had the air or the energy. His amusement is obvious even in that short exhale of a sound. Did Zhuo Yichen say he wanted to hear more of this creature? Perish the thought! So, he uses the most reliable way he has to shut his demon up.
He crashes his lips into the demon's, pulling him close, uncaring that the kiss tastes like blood and guilt. He can feel Zhao Yuanzhou grabbing his shoulder, and knows from that touch the demon would be pulling him closer if he had the strength for it. He pushes in closer, obliging, demanding, every touch of his lips a plea and an apology, until Zhao Yuanzhou's hand falls down from his shoulder, limp and unfeeling, and his body starts to glow in that soft golden light Zhuo Yichen has never feared more.