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Fresh bite marks and bruises stand out in vivid reds and purples on Xiao Xingchen’s pale skin. They blossom like sickly flowers across his wrists, his neck…his hips.
A feeling like sickness lurches in Song Lan’s stomach. The marks are mostly hidden now, covered with a soft blanket where Xingchen sleeps peacefully in their bed. Hidden, but still present, every one of them etched into his mind, his heart.
And why shouldn’t they be? You put them there. You. You hurt him.
Song Lan closes his eyes, trying not to think, but his mind refuses to still. The knowledge that Xingchen had wanted this, that he is always the one that plans how it will work and what the limits will be or even how this isn’t the first time or even the tenth that they’ve done this, doesn't seem to help. He’s hurt him, marked him…forced him.
He forces himself to open his eyes, to watch how Xingchen sleeps, a small smile on his lips, no trace of distress on his face. Yet what did that mean? Nothing more than his dreams were safe.
Safer than being with you.
Song Lan turns away. He feels sick with guilt.
He’s helped him bathe, warm water easing any lingering aches from where he’d been bound. He’d brought him the lightly floral tea and the small, sweet osmanthus cakes that are his favourite; he was always thirsty and exhausted after they do something like this, the struggling and crying wearing him out. He’s massaged healing salves into the bruises. They’d be gone in a day or so anyway; one of the benefits of a well developed golden core, but that was hardly the point.
Were those things he’d done really for Xiao Xingchen? Or were they just a trick, something he does afterward to convince him he isn’t a monster? Something so Xingchen will let him do it again and again?
He can’t bother Xingchen with such thoughts. Not when he’s the one who hurt him. How perverse would it be for him to go to him for comfort? To expect him to reassure him that he’d liked what had been done to him.
But it had been Xiao Xingchen’s idea to do this.
Had it really? Song Lan wonders, thoughts chasing themselves round in his head. Who had suggested it the first time? Who had suggested the next? Who had done so this time?
Even if it had been Xingchen who had wanted it, had he truly wanted it to be like this? What if he had pushed him too hard? They’ve set words and signals for him to let Song Lan know if it is getting too much or if it was going to places that he couldn’t bear.
Yet he has never used them.
Is that a sign that he’s never pushed Xingchen too hard or is it that he’s pushed him so hard that he is afraid of him? Is he scared to speak or signal, fearing he’ll only be hurt more if he does?
Is Xingchen afraid of him?
How could he be anything else, after what you did to him? How can you even think he wanted it? How? Why would you think someone as kind and caring as Xingchen would ever want such things?
The thoughts swirl, faster and faster, growing more and more insistent that he is the one at fault.
The kettle on the brazier hisses, boiled half dry where it has been forgotten.
Perhaps if he makes himself some tea, if he can settle his nerves a little he can think.
Yet what is there to think of?
He has to apologise to Xingchen. Surely that is it?
An apology? Pathetic. Why should Xingchen even have to listen to a word he says? If Xingchen picked up Shuanghua and ran him through it would be no less than he deserved.
The kettle hisses again and Song Lan reaches for it.
There is a moment before he realises what he’s done, before the heat of its ceramic handle burns his hand. With a cry he drops it, shards of pottery and hot water covering the floor.
“Zichen!” Xingchen is awake in an instant, looking at him from the bed, barely concealed shock or fear in his eyes.
Song Lan turns away still gripping his throbbing hand. Of course Xingchen is panicked to see him there. He’d hurt him, abused him, as good as rap…
Xiao Xingchen moves around in front of him. “Zichen, oh your poor hand. Come on, you need to get it into cold water right away.”
Song Lan startles, stepping back from him, almost tripping himself.
“You’re shaking.” Xingchen puts a hand on his arm. “How bad is it? Let me look.”
“It’s not bad…it’s not…” He tried to pull away again. The pain is a disconnected thing. Objectively it’s there, but really it’s no more than he deserves. It’s less than he deserves, he should hurt for what he’s done. He’s a monster.
“Zichen? Whatever do you mean?”
Song Lan closes his eyes. Had he said any of that aloud? He feels sick, dizzy, his hand burns like he’s holding a hot coal in his palm. He can’t organise his thoughts. He can’t burden Xingchen, he can’t ask anything of him, not after all he’s done to him. He’s ruined everything.
Grabbing his wrist, Xiao Xingchen pulls him over to the bed, carefully avoiding stepping on the broken shards of the kettle. “Sit down. I’ll get a bowl of water.”
Song Lan feels breathless, like he’s going to break down. It’s so unlike his usual self it’s disturbing, but he has no idea how or even if he should make it stop. He has hurt his friend, his only friend, so surely he should be feeling awful about it. Words don’t come to him easily even at the best of times, but he’s got to say something. He owes Xingchen that.
The breath that is supposed to be steadying catches in his throat, sounding somewhere between a gasp and sob.
“Zichen?” There’s something close to fear in Xiao Xingchen’s voice. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Sorry.” It feels like it tears a hole in his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s just a kettle. We can buy another.”
“Not that.” He closes his eyes, unable to look at the fading ring of bruises on Xingchen’s wrist. Where you tied him down.
“Then we can talk about whatever you think you’ve done wrong later,” Xingchen says kindly, although there is an unmistakable underlying firmness to it. “Right now I need to take care of your hand.”
The plunge of his hand into cold water feels almost as agonising as the burn itself. Xingchen’s grip on his wrist remains firm, keeping him from flinching away. “You need to keep it there until the heat has gone from the burn. I know it hurts, but it will help. It will need at least the time it takes to burn through an incense stick, maybe even two.”
Song Lan sits there, certain that the pain is all he deserves. Yet it still isn’t enough to make up for what he’s done. How can he have done what he did? How could he have enjoyed it? How could he have ignored Xingchen’s struggles and tears beneath him? How could it have felt good?
He’s a monster.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Xingchen asks when the first stick is almost burnt through, the silence dragging out between them. “You’re so careful with everything, this isn’t like you. Is this because of what we did earlier?”
How can Xingchen be so calm? Song Lan wonders. His throat feels closed up, the utter disgust he has for himself is wound so tight around his neck he’s not sure how he can still breathe. He can’t ignore him, but he can’t look at him either. So he nods, eyes hot with barely controlled tears.
“Zichen?” Xingchen’s voice is soft now, filled with concern. “You need to tell me what’s wrong. I don’t know how to help until you tell me. Was there something we did earlier that upset you?”
“Hurt you.” Somehow it feels even worse to speak it aloud. Tears fall and he feels wretched for making Xingchen bear witness to them. “I hurt you.”
“Only as much as we’d agreed.” There is a slight catch in his voice as he replies. “It was everything I wanted. You did nothing I didn’t want. Please don’t cry.”
“I hurt you. I forced you.”
“No.” Xingchen strokes his wrist as he talks, like he is trying to calm a frightened creature. “There was a very fierce bandit chief and a reckless young monk that he’d caught and was punishing for ruining his plans. It went just as we had talked about. They are gone now. It’s just us. You and me.”
“I’m sorry,” Song Lan says again. What Xingchen says makes sense, but still he can’t believe he should be forgiven so easily. How can he have wanted to do such things to him? To make him cry and beg. To hurt him. How could he have enjoyed it?
“It’s what I wanted.” Xingchen says, still petting his arm, finding calm for them both in the repeated action. “You’re always so careful, I know I’m safe with you.”
“You’re hurt. I hurt you.” It’s the only thought that seems to want to stay in his mind. Dark bruises blooming against soft skin. The livid finger marks left on his slim hips where he held him down, where he’d taken him, used him as he’d cried.
“Barely,” he replies, still being gentle with him, although his own tiredness is growing more apparent. “I know your limits aren’t the same as mine, that what I like might be too much for you to give. So I try not to ask you to give more than I know you can give. Did I ask too much this time?”
It’s meant to be reassuring, confirmation that Song Lan hadn’t passed any point where Xingchen did not want to go. Yet all it feels like it is another way that he’s failed him. He’s had so much trust placed in him and he’s let him down. “I want to make you happy.”
“You do.” Releasing his wrist, Xiao Xingchen slowly puts an arm around him. “But this is for both of us. We're both supposed to want it. You do know that, don’t you?”
He does, but in that moment it makes it all feel worse. How can he want to cause the beautiful, gentle man comforting any kind of harm? How can he find holding him down and taking what he wants from him in any way arousing?
“Does it always upset you so much? You’d tell me if it did, wouldn’t you?”
“No, no it’s not.” Normally the fact that Xingchen is so into it is enough that he can deal with any misgivings or odd feelings afterwards. Tonight had been…he doesn’t even know why tonight had been far too much.
“I don’t want you to do it only for me. There are things you enjoy about it, aren't there?” Still holding him, he rests his head against Song Lan’s shoulder. “You like how you’re in control of everything, that there won’t be any surprises. You like how you can decide where and if you’re going to be touched.” His voice grows soft as he adds, “And I know you like making me behave.”
It’s true and feels good and awful all at the same time. Surely there is something wrong with him that he can enjoy any part of hurting someone he cares about so deeply. Yet didn’t that also mean Xingchen was wrong for wanting it? He cannot believe that, even if he doubts himself, he cannot find fault with him.
Song Lan looks down at his hand in the basin of water. A red, a bubbled line of blisters have formed across his palm. It hurts, but it doesn’t burn in the way it did. In the same way he is still unsettled and even upset by things, but it isn’t consuming him, he can attempt to be rational about it now.
The thought of talking through it all is daunting, but for Xingchen he has to try. Yet where can he begin?
“Tonight don’t say anything, it’s already late,” Xiao Xingchen says, still holding onto him, seeming to pick up on his hesitancy. “I’m too tired. And so are you, don’t deny it.”
It is a sensible choice, but he wonders if, with the weight of such a conversation hanging over him, he’ll be able to sleep at all. He doesn’t do well with uncertainty or having too many choices. It’s one reason why this has worked for him.
“Zichen, please don’t look so worried. I’m not angry or disappointed in you. I really am tired and so are you.” Lifting his head from where it’s been resting against his shoulder, Xiao Xingchen looks at him. “I don’t want to rush talking about this. I want us to take out time. I want to know what you like, what you don’t, what you want to do more of.” There is a bright fondness in his eyes. “I want you to feel as good as I do when we do this.”
“I want to make you happy,” Song Lan replies, tonight and all its unsettling fall out still weighing on his mind. “Is that not enough?”
“Zichen as sweet as that is, I think I need a little more to work with. Which is why we need to wait until we’re both less tired.” Xingchen looks at him, “Lets get your hand wrapped up and then go to bed.”
It doesn’t take long for Xiao Xingchen to locate some suitable healing salve amongst the things they carry with them while their are travelling. They don’t have the backing of wealthy sects to provide for them, so money is often in short supply. Being self sufficient has become a necessity.
Nor does it take him long either to apply it to Song Lan’s hand and cover it with a bandage – the salve needed to stay on his hand rather than getting transferred to the bed covers while they sleep.
They lay in bed together, Xiao Xingchen curled in close against his chest, asleep already, within moments of them laying down.
Song Lan looks at the small, contented smile on his face and holds him a little tighter, able to believe once more that he is welcome. The sleepy murmur of approval and the movement to try and press even closer against him, help more of the lingering tension and uncertainly ebb away.
His hand still throbs faintly, like a pulse against the salve covered bandage around it. It will heal quickly enough, a few days and it will just be a faint mark. There will be no sword practice until then - opening the blisters would be a miserable experience. Or anything else much that will require using that hand.
Which will leave plenty of time for them to talk.
Making his own needs known feels impossibly embarrassing, but for Xingchen’s sake, to not have him to have to deal with this again, Song Lan hopes he can overcome it. It might take time, but they are young and have their whole lives ahead of them.
They are still learning, and unlike skills in the martial world, there aren’t really any teachers that they can seek out for this. Possibly there are secret manual in existence somewhere, but it seems such a personal thing to him that he can’t imagine there being one where the writer’s interests match his or Xingchen’s own.
Closing his eyes, Song Lan listens to the sound of their quite breathing slowly aligning with each other. The sound from outside are muted, just the faint sound of light breezing the trees outside and even more trickle of water in the stream.
The world is at peace and so are they.
Finally, Song Lan drifts into sleep, holding Xiao Xingchen close, content in the comfort that they both find in each other’s presence and understanding.