( the gift of opportunity was never squandered for agui. he read as much as he could, learned indeed as much as he could. for a person whose each breath could be their last, there could be no waste or absence of efficiency once he understood that truth. and it is still true; now with bu chonghua's words a godless prayer pressed into his mouth into his force-fed winter into into into; never out of. bu chonghua takes what wu yu gives him because neither of them would have it any other way, but bu chonghua also gives wu yu what he thought so certainly would never be his to call.
it is an easier to easiest thing to let his lips part, to gasp contrasting heat and brightness back as an echo of love. it is everything.
wu yu once opened his palm to a dream of a world beyond the hell flowers known as poppies, beyond the fields of the dying and the dead. when he thought that place had been lost to him, that hand closed. no one is more surprised or afraid or compelled to find those folded fingers holding onto someone else. the fact of not having been forsaken; the matter of having had to live as if he had been even so; the wonder to think he's breathed his last and find himself sharing one after the other with an individual shaped as close to inevitability as wu yu has ever known.
bu chonghua says 'so i waited for you' and wu yu kisses him a little harder for it. they aren't dead. they aren't safe. they are, at least, alive. they are, at least, together. and, not knowing what waits ahead of them, one might argue it does not matter. the battlement of wu yu is the dragon and bu chonghua is his home at any given moment, location negligible because the heart is a traveler.
he does not need to be told there are monsters; he knows better than most and the way his teeth catch onto bu chonghua's lower lip, the way his shivering fingers clutch life and loyalty into his husband's collar, well. there are only so many ways to say it: i refuse the loss of you.
that he is concerned of their whereabouts is true, that he can do little about it for the first few days will likely also be true; lesser wounds are still wounds, and wu yu will be as bad a patient as ever, consecrated to holding onto bu chonghua like a possessive cat, never quite out of sight even if they aren't touching. he trusts bu chonghua's insight as to this having nothing to do with shark, and yet the lack of answers fosters room for the narrowest percentile in which the acute mind of bu chonghua is wrong. unlikely. but wu yu can't help accounting for every possibility. and though he doesn't say any of it out loud, he thinks bu chonghua knows. he almost always does.
for now, it is enough to ignore the shivering in his lungs and the persisting throbbing of the injuries carried over, in favor of a love that rejects death in all its forms. he doesn't mind pinning it through with the knife of his own heart to make sure of it — the liminal yet often sought intersection of 'you' and 'me'; the place it will always be for the two of them. )
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it is an easier to easiest thing to let his lips part, to gasp contrasting heat and brightness back as an echo of love. it is everything.
wu yu once opened his palm to a dream of a world beyond the hell flowers known as poppies, beyond the fields of the dying and the dead. when he thought that place had been lost to him, that hand closed. no one is more surprised or afraid or compelled to find those folded fingers holding onto someone else. the fact of not having been forsaken; the matter of having had to live as if he had been even so; the wonder to think he's breathed his last and find himself sharing one after the other with an individual shaped as close to inevitability as wu yu has ever known.
bu chonghua says 'so i waited for you' and wu yu kisses him a little harder for it. they aren't dead. they aren't safe. they are, at least, alive. they are, at least, together. and, not knowing what waits ahead of them, one might argue it does not matter. the battlement of wu yu is the dragon and bu chonghua is his home at any given moment, location negligible because the heart is a traveler.
he does not need to be told there are monsters; he knows better than most and the way his teeth catch onto bu chonghua's lower lip, the way his shivering fingers clutch life and loyalty into his husband's collar, well. there are only so many ways to say it: i refuse the loss of you.
that he is concerned of their whereabouts is true, that he can do little about it for the first few days will likely also be true; lesser wounds are still wounds, and wu yu will be as bad a patient as ever, consecrated to holding onto bu chonghua like a possessive cat, never quite out of sight even if they aren't touching. he trusts bu chonghua's insight as to this having nothing to do with shark, and yet the lack of answers fosters room for the narrowest percentile in which the acute mind of bu chonghua is wrong. unlikely. but wu yu can't help accounting for every possibility. and though he doesn't say any of it out loud, he thinks bu chonghua knows. he almost always does.
for now, it is enough to ignore the shivering in his lungs and the persisting throbbing of the injuries carried over, in favor of a love that rejects death in all its forms. he doesn't mind pinning it through with the knife of his own heart to make sure of it — the liminal yet often sought intersection of 'you' and 'me'; the place it will always be for the two of them. )