past the point of pain

Ruìsāng's nightmare was a repeating memory, a vivid replay of the encounter that had left him battered and broken. In the dream, the monstrous woman's malevolent grin cast a sinister shadow, each of her movements resembling a predatory advance toward defenceless prey.

Abruptly, the nightmare shape-shifted, transforming into a grotesque reflection of his past. His mother's anguished wails interwove with accusing voices that echoed betrayals and failures. A sudden jolt thrust him awake, yet the nightmare lingered like a shadow in his consciousness. The disorienting reality of his mother's continued wailing enveloped him, disorienting him momentarily.

Compelled by an urge to escape the suffocating noise, Ruìsāng navigated the apartment with stealth, avoiding creaking floorboards that could betray his movements. The air inside reeked of despair and he needed to breathe.

Upon reaching the door leading to the rooftop, he stepped into the cool embrace of the night. Silence welcomed him like an old friend.

Seated with closed eyes, he allowed the gentle breeze to sweep over his face. Though the wounds on his chest pulsed with each heartbeat, the nocturnal silence provided solace. The city's distant hum, the subtle rustle of leaves, and the occasional hoot of a Noctowl served as far better companions than the relentless wails of his mother.

His right arm rested on a pulled-up knee, the bandages, stained with dried blood, visible in the faint, silvery glow of the moon. Dressed in an oversized, worn-out sweater that offered warmth but hung loosely on his frame, he was somewhat protected against the cold.

The lingering darkness within his chest, manifested in the form of four scars and felt down to the very essence of his being, became less conspicuous in the cold. When cocooned in blankets, concealed from the world, the cold touch of that monstrous encounter still haunted him within those wounds, penetrating his skin, delving into his bones, and chilling his very soul. Yet, in the cold, at least every part of him succumbed to its freezing tendrils. It was an almost welcome sensation, a numbing chill that briefly overshadowed the darkness.

His eyes fluttered open only upon hearing a voice. Glancing over his shoulder, Ruìsāng instantly recognised the girl from their previous encounter. The anger that had once clawed at him after their fight now seemed inconsequential and irrelevant.

Ruìsāng sighed, attempting to recall her words. She had asked if he needed a hand. Raising his right hand into the air in a dismissive wave, he winced at his own movement. “I’m good,” he replied, gently placing his hand back on his knee. His left hand tightly gripped the Pokéball in his pocket, well aware of how he’d stand absolutely no chance against her like this and—

He let go, taking his hand out of his pocket.

“Something you want?” he asked. If she intended to provoke a confrontation, he would prefer it at another time.

Ruìsāng had long surpassed the point of exhaustion. A pervasive darkness had taken residence in his chest, a curse tightly wound around his heart like an ominous shadow. Each heartbeat echoed with a sense of cold emptiness, an unsettling knowledge that something was fundamentally wrong with him. Even summoning anger seemed beyond his capacity; the flame of rage had been replaced by an icy chill.

A heavy silence lingered until the girl casually suggested that jumping off the ledge might improve her mood. Ruìsāng hummed thoughtfully, leaning forward slightly to peer down at the city below. He didn’t flinch when she approached, fully aware that she could have pushed him off without hesitation. He didn’t resist; instead, he just waited.

When she sat down, Ruìsāng furrowed his brow, a mix of confusion and weariness. How casual, as if they hadn’t fought on this very rooftop the last time they saw each other. She produced a bottle of tequila, and he averted his gaze, adjusting his position to rest his arm on his knee more comfortably.

She spoke again. Her words prompted a scoff from Ruìsāng, followed by a shake of his head. “You punched me pretty hard too,” he confessed. The aftermath had forced him to cover his face in makeup, a messy solution to evade questions at work. It had been a complication he hadn’t anticipated. Ultimately, it mattered little.

“I wouldn’t stop you,” he confessed, his red eyes meeting hers. If she chose to hit him, he would let her. There was nothing he could do about it, especially with his dominant hand torn to pieces.

The girl expressed her disappointment at not seeing Ruìsāng with a black eye. He scoffed. “It’s a little discoloured still if that makes you happy,”  he sighed. In that regard, the aftermath of getting hit in the face was advantageous. At least it healed rapidly. Lately, he hadn’t bothered covering it up, and while it was somewhat hard to discern in the moonlight, the skin wasn’t fully healed yet, displaying an odd yellowish tint over his cheekbone and jaw.

“Sympathy?” Ruìsāng echoed, before scoffing and shaking his head. “Nah. There’s no reason to fight lost battles,” he asserted, waving his right hand in the air. The motion made him clench his jaw. “I’m at your mercy,” he continued, a hint of sarcasm in his tone, though the truth lingered in his words.

Ruìsāng glanced down at the bottle pushed in his direction. A part of him yearned to succumb—to be like his mother. Crack open the bottle, let the liquid touch his lips, and drown his sorrows. Wouldn’t it be simple? Perhaps he’d feel a little better. Maybe he’d find someone on Charm and ensure he forgot his troubles for the night.

“I came here to avoid the smell of alcohol,” he said, his nose scrunching in disgust as he pushed the bottle back toward her.. “But do enjoy. Your taste is god awful,” he continued, staring at the label of the bottle. Drinking tequila straight from the bottle wasn’t something he could recommend unless one was already terribly drunk.

Yeah, you are. Ruìsāng scoffed at her words. A few weeks earlier, he would have picked a fight right then and there, refusing to ever accept any kind of weakness. Feeling powerless was the worst thing one could do to him. Now, there was little he could do but accept it. “Hǎohǎo,” he absentmindedly agreed with her.

Ruìsāng had assumed that mentioning that he had come here to avoid the scent of alcohol would be enough to explain that he wasn't here to drink. Yet, he was immediately told off for being on a high horse. Ruìsāng furrowed his brow as he looked at her, a little confused.

Life is worthless enough to plunge off a roof, but not worthless enough to drink cheap liquor.

Barking out a laugh, red eyes found the bottle again as Ruìsāng considered it. He had always tried so hard not to end up like her—to avoid alcohol in moments where it would leave him sobbing and broken. He wasn't against some drinks for fun, in company, but this…

Did it matter, though? He wouldn’t live long enough to see it become an addiction.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured, before bending a little awkwardly to take the bottle in his left hand. He looked at it with a frown for a moment, finally deciding to stick it under his left arm, open it up with his left, and then take it out with his left hand again to take a sip. His nose scrunched at the taste, but the burn was warm—pleasant. A welcome contrast against the cold in his chest. He awkwardly fumbled with the bottle again before pushing it her way once more.

“Happy now? What are you out here drinking for anyway?” he sighed.

Tension lingered between them, and Ruìsāng couldn't fathom why she was here. Was it an attempt to prove she wasn't afraid? If so, she needed to grasp that there was no reason for fear; even if he wished to harm her, he lacked the ability. His hand was ruined, his chest a constant source of pain with every movement. Drained of energy, the prospect of collapsing before a fight initiated seemed more plausible than victory.

When he questioned her reason for being there, she scoffed, retorting with a dismissive remark. Following that, she asked why he cared. “I don’t,” he asserted bluntly. It would be a mistake to think he cared about anyone but himself.

“You do know that you punched me first, right?” he asked, lifting a brow as he rolled his shoulder, attempting to alleviate the persistent ache that had settled within his body.