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He is furious. Unfathomably so. The familiar electricity of rage simmers and boils under his skin, and it surprises him that there are no visible blisters blooming all over him. As it often does, this viciousness in him blows up, aiming at the closest target, whether that be himself, or someone else. He can’t even count the times he’s turned tables over and broken mirrors, letting blood flow down his arms as he screamed himself hoarse.
This time, the target is one Xiao Xingchen, currently huddled in on himself, closer to the wall than before, tears and hurt clouding his eyes. And yet, Xue Yang can’t feel the guilt yet. The vulnerability of the man across from him only makes him want to hurt him more. In a fight, you never give your opponent the chance to get back up; at least not in the fights in dimly lit alleys and ditches Xue Yang has been in.
He’s ready to start talking again, the venom gathering under his tongue like a serpent -so many people had likened him to one- when the lock makes that distinct sound at the front door, and all his focus gathers there. He knows who it is, the only other person with keys to this place, and his brain automatically prepares for another fight, this one worse; physical.
Song Lan comes through the door, almost instantly sensing the tension in the room. His eyes draw over Xue Yang, defensive and ready to strike, then Xiao Xingchen, mouth slightly agape, as if he’s searching for words that just won’t come, and back again to Xue Yang, now angry.
Song Lan never needs an explanation, no one that knows Xue Yang ever does; he’s a pain in the ass that hurts people. He’d be offended, though the truth in it, and the fact that he leaves an impression, make him sort of proud.
The hit never comes. Instead, Xue Yang’s vision is filled with long black hair, and white cashmere.
“Everything is okay, Zichen. We’re alright.” Bulshit. And by the look on Song Lan’s face, he agrees. They both know that Xingchen would never admit to anything different. But Song Lan is too weak to call him out on it. He sighs.
“What happened?” He steps forward, towards Xingchen, and Xue Yang instinctively steps back. He’s fast. In the time it would take for Song Lan to bypass Xingchen he could make it to the kitchen window and be out of here. The jump would be a bit high, but it wouldn’t kill him.
Distantly, he recognises the panic starting to set in after the fury is starting to die down. It creeps up his missing pinky, over his arm and to the nape of his neck, raising the hair there as it goes. Xingchen wouldn’t hit him, couldn’t. Song Lan is not as safe a bet.
“A-Yang is just not in the best mood today, that’s all. We got into a bit of an argument.” That’s one way to put it. Another, more accurate one would be that Xue Yang had been screaming at Xingchen, who in turn simply tried to placate him, but stopped after it only made Xue Yang angrier.
“Are you hurt?” Song Lan asks, after a nod, and Xue Yang can’t feel offended at it, though he does feel small, like the walls are swallowing him up. He could’ve hurt Xingchen; Song Lan believes he might’ve.
The air is growing thinner, the bristling comes back with a vengeance. He looks at the kitchen window again. When he looks back, Song Lan’s inquiring eyes are on him.
For a moment, he doesn’t understand. What is he supposed to say? Xingchen also turns to look at him.
“Xue Yang. Are you hurt?” Song Lan asks. Xue Yang just stands there, frozen. His brain is not working, reflexes also shut down. He’s not hurt, but it shouldn’t really matter, should it? He’s at fault here. Fault means pain, but he’s not in any.
Xiao Xingchen approaches him, close, yet not overly so. He doesn’t touch him. A part of Xue Yang wants to grab him, to force his hand to touch him, make him feel like less of a stain among these pristine four walls. Another needs him to stay as far away as possible.
“A-Yang, do you want to sit down maybe? Or some water?” He eyes Song Lan, who is hesitant to leave his post as Xingchen’s guard, though he eventually does, because he can never deny him anything.
Xue Yang stays there and stares. It’s the part he’s always hated the most; the silence after the rage, that feeling of energy draining out of his body, leaving him stranded in awful situations like this one. It could be worse, if he’s being fair. He’s lucky that neither of the men here are violent, though they still have the potential to be.
The touch on his hand jolts him enough to force words out of him, along with a flinch.
“I’m fine!” He bites out, and relief floods Xingchen’s face. How bad must he look if that reaction is a pleasant surprise?
“That’s good, that’s good. Come sit with me, a-Yang.” Xingchen’s gentle voice is grating.
“I don’t need to be babied Xingchen. For fuck’s sake, I was just screaming at you!” It comes out as something between a shout and a laugh. Xingchen is not deterred in the slightest. He sits down on the sofa and simply waits, knowing that Xue Yang will give in.
He manages to hold back until Song Lan returns, a glass of water in his hands, which he leaves on the table, taking a seat in the armchair, following Xingchen’s example without the need to ask. It leaves Xue Yang sitting between them, curled up as far away as he can get from both of them (which isn’t all that much).
“Do you want to talk about it?” Xingchen offers. Xue Yang scoffs.
“Fuck no.”
“Too bad.” Song Lan retorts bluntly, and Xue Yang wants to dig his eyes out. He’d wear them as a necklace and parade them around for other fools to see-
“It might help. It would certainly help me understand.” Xingchen is somehow closer to him now, albeit not close enough to touch.
“Or I’ll just leave.” He makes to get up, but Song Lan is quick to stop him.
“That never solved anything and you know it.”
“Maybe I don’t want to solve this, have you thought of that Zichen?” He lets the name drawl out, mockingly saccharine. It used to pry a reaction out of Song Lan, way back when they had started this dance. It doesn’t anymore. Song Lan’s hand remains firm around his arm.
“If you didn’t want to solve this, you’d already be out of here. Now sit down and tell us what’s got you acting like this again, so we can all get over it and get the fuck to bed. I’m tired.”
Despite being in this limbo of a relationship for two years now, Xue Yang is still surprised to have a bed after a fight. And a warm one at that, with a warm body on either side. His past relationships didn’t last long after fights, and he always ended up sleeping in an alley at worst, or a couch at best.
But Xingchen is a hippy who believes in not going to bed angry and without having resolved conflict, and he somehow finds a way to drag Xue Yang into it. He forces him to actually consider what it is that made him angry, and explain himself in words that are not really his. And he does it, because that bed really is warm, Song Lan’s hand is always a pleasant weight around his waist, and Xingchcen will always talk to him until he falls asleep.
When did he start to crave it, he wonders. When did things start getting close enough to hurt, when did he unknowingly let them? He has let them make him soft, and his anger is what they get in return. They deserve it. The old Xue Yang wouldn’t have been so enraged at being talked down to in a job interview, and if he were, he would have simply beaten up the arrogant prick across the table.
Then these two came, a hurricane that knocked his breath out, and they made him complacent, so they deserve the consequences, don’t they? Xue Yang finds it fair. He tries to convince himself of it, even as the image of a scared Xingchen flashes before his eyes as a reminder.
The foreign words tumble out of him, jumbled and probably incoherent, yet somehow the two understand. Xinchen takes his hand and rubs his thumb over his knuckles.
“It’s fine a-Yang. You’ll find a job soon, don’t worry so much about it.”
Xue Yang would love not to worry about it. He can’t. He won’t be anyone’s house pet, likely to be thrown out any moment for being disobedient or pissing on the carpet or something. He never has been, ever since he was twelve.
Part of him wants to explain that to Xingchen, but he’s just so, so tired. He looks at Song Lan, finding something in the other man’s eyes. He settles with the knowledge that Song Lan, at least, understands.
“Can we go to bed?” His voice is audible only because of the silence stretching over the house. It makes him feel like a kicked puppy, but all the adrenaline has drained out of him, and Song Lan does not look like a threat.
Xingchen simply nods and gets up, never letting go of his hand, leading them both to the bedroom. Song Lan follows like a quiet shadow watching over them. They disregard their usual routine, narrowing it down to wearing pajamas and filing under the covers. As usual, Xue Yang takes the middle.
There are a couple seconds, after the lights are turned off, that Xue Yang realises with dread, that maybe this night will not be like the others. He can’t realistically expect it to be. Then Song Lan’s arm comes around his waist like every night, and the worry is driven out by Xingchen’s gentle, airy voice. Xue Yang surrenders to the exhaustion of the day.