Work Text:
The overhead light stabs into Lu Guang’s skull. He makes an aborted motion as if to get out of bed, pausing only because he doesn’t trust himself to not fall all the way to the floor.
“Oh, shit—sorry!” Cheng Xiaoshi apologizes, and the light flicks off. More hushed, “I didn’t… sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Lu Guang buries his head under the pillow.
“I’ll just go—”
“Don’t leave,” he rushes out, raising his head. He’d dreamt of blood and screams that shattered the earth. His skull aches something awful.
A pause. “…okay,” and the bottom bunk creaks with a comforting weight.
“You’re such a baby,” he says, later, when Qiao Ling’s had her revenge. “Faking illness isn’t funny.”
“It was a bit funny,” Cheng Xiaoshi protests. “You were worried, weren’t you?”
“Of course I was,” Lu Guang snaps. For all that irritation bubbled under his skin, there remained a singular what-if, one he contemplates often. Cheng Xiaoshi’s mouth snaps shut, and he looks steadily at Lu Guang, head tilted.
“What?”
“You’re cute when you get like this,” Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. He drapes himself across Lu Guang’s shoulders; sparks alight on Lu Guang’s skin. “I’m not going anywhere, you know.”
(Aren’t you?)
“You worry so much,” Qiao Ling tells him.
Lu Guang looks at her levelly. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” she looks out the window, staring at the sunset reflected off the rows of glass windows across the street. “But I have to calm down, or I’ll be getting in his way.”
“He got shot, Qiao Ling-jie,” he’s startled at the honesty encasing words, unable to help himself when he adds, “you—you almost did, too.” (I watched you die.)
She laughs, bumping him with her shoulder. “We survived,” she says, fondness coloring her gaze. Except: Lu Guang knows better.