Falling to pieces

Much of what unfolded caught Ruìsāng off guard, but nothing prepared him for Míngzé's revelation about carrying ‘death’ with him. His heart seemed to pause, eyes widening as he took a step back, holding his breath in disbelief. The world twisted and turned around Ruìsāng, prompting him to cling to the railing for stability, desperate not to succumb to the dizziness.

If Míngzé sensed it, did others as well? Was his fate sealed, destined to either fall victim to some lunatic or imprison himself in isolation until he became one himself?

At this moment, Míngzé had seen too much. While a part of Ruìsāng longed to open up and explain, the formidable walls he had erected made it an insurmountable challenge. So, he resorted to the only tactic he knew: driving the other away.

“You say I walk around with death all over me, and yet you seek me out?” he hissed, his voice low and cutting, closing the distance towards Míngzé. Though the other couldn't see him clearly, Ruìsāng's intense gaze bore into him. Nails dug into his own skin as he clenched his fist.

“Maybe you should learn to run from danger, Míngzé.”

It was better like that.

“Go home.”

Death, as Míngzé called it, held Ruìsāng’s heart hostage, its cold claws pressed against his ribs as his heart kept beating in its defiant rhythm. The eerie noise of the cold autumn wind outside seemed to beg for entrance, as if the chill indoors were not cold enough.

Míngzé’s refusal to run ignited a wildfire of anger within Ruìsāng, reminiscent of the fury he had seen in his father’s eyes. It clashed against the icy tendrils of that accursed deathly feeling, burning brighter, fiercer, as he resisted the thought that Míngzé might be right. The undeniable truth was there, death’s grip coiled around his heart, biding its time until it decided to squeeze, to constrict, to kill.

“You are not dangerous.”

Ruìsāng's right fist clenched involuntarily, the pain from the still-healing wounds protesting the movement. “I…” he began, a primal instinct urging him to prove that he was, to confront whatever held him, to affirm his strength and prove he wasn’t weak—he was dangerous.

However, Ruìsāng had never truly been a monster, despite his self-perception. He wouldn't harm Míngzé, despite the fear that surged within him—fear of himself.

With a frustrated noise, he pivoted, unleashing his pent-up rage on the wall as his fist collided with it. Pain screamed through his hand, drowning out his ability to speak, forcing him to stifle a groan and cling desperately to the railing with his left hand. Tears welled up, the physical agony momentarily overpowering the emotional turmoil. He grimaced, for once thankful that Míngzé wouldn’t be able to witness.

“You don’t…” Ruìsāng struggled, his voice strained with pain, a tear tracing its path down his cheek. “You don’t know that.” How could he?

Ruìsāng didn’t get it. He expected the other to retreat, to recoil from the perceived danger he supposedly exuded. Yet, Míngzé stood there. When Míngzé acknowledged that Ruìsāng hadn't proven to be dangerous yet, the question echoed in Ruìsāng's mind—why?

As Míngzé drew closer, Ruìsāng shook his head in a futile attempt to ground himself. Why was this man still here, facing death?

Míngzé asked if he was hurt, and Ruìsāng's hand throbbed in response, blood seeping through the fresh bandages. A twisted laugh escaped him, morphing into a sound that sounded more like a sob.

“Why aren’t you afraid?” he snapped, a plea hidden beneath the anger. Why linger in the proximity of someone who carried death like a shadow? Shouldn't Míngzé, like everyone else, have fled the moment Ruìsāng revealed how fundamentally wrong he was?

“I am,” he confessed, the admission lingering softly in the air. Uncertain whether he responded to Míngzé's question or his own. The fight in Ruìsāng began to wane, and a weariness settled in his bones.

He was so tired.

Ruìsāng had navigated a life strewn with pain, a narrative etched in the calloused hands of his father, the fleeting warmth of foster families, the complicated relationship with his mother, and the relentless cruelty of the outside world. In this unforgiving arena, he had learned the language of survival, a symphony that whispered ‘eat or be eaten’.

Ruìsāng had carefully constructed walls around his heart long ago. He grappled with the unfamiliar territory of vulnerability, unable to discern friend from foe. Alastor, Luci—no one had been granted entry to the depths he guarded so fiercely. Secrets were his armour, his only defence against a world that thrived on causing pain. Peace had only been offered once and he carried death as a reward.

“I want to believe I was right for trusting you.”

“You aren’t,” remained unsaid.

Ruìsāng's gaze descended to his injured hand, attempting to clench his fist. A hiss escaped his lips as the bandages scraped against the freshly opened wounds. Another muffled blend of a sob and a laugh escaped Ruìsāng. “I'm not sure ice will help, Míng-gē,” he sighed, reverting back to the nickname.

“Let's just... I should really...” His voice trailed off, hesitating to complete the thought. He should get some food, do some groceries. But he couldn’t exactly do that with his hand still bleeding.

No one who could actually see him would even ask if it was that bad, because it was, and there was absolutely no denying it whatsoever. The crimson hue seeping through the bandages served evoked a sense of nausea and a haunting recollection of the unnatural black blood that had once stained him. Concealed beneath the fabric, his upper body wasn’t in a better shape, but at least those wounds remained closed.

“Yeah... pretty bad,” Ruìsāng conceded with a simplicity that didn’t suit the situation.

Míngzé approached, prompting a worried furrow in Ruìsāng's brow. A struggle between concealment and revelation had him on edge. Perhaps, just this once, he could speak up. Míngzé had already sensed something was wrong— had hit the nail right on its mark. He should speak up. He should—

“I bit a grandma and she cursed me.”

Míngzé said they were going to see whether they could do something about it, and Ruìsāng offered a soft hum in agreement before reluctantly deciding to share a snippet of the truth. It wasn't easy for him to be honest, and he fumbled a bit as he tried to convey the situation. He sensed Míngzé’s confusion, realising that maybe he should have used more words.

“There’s more to it, but that’s the gist of it,” Ruìsāng nodded. “It was really weird and I don’t— It was… a lot,” he struggled to articulate the experience, avoiding delving into the unsettling details that haunted his memory. The thought of the sharp claws—

Focus.

“But she got mad. And she did— something to me. That’s what you feel,” he finally managed to explain softly. After uttering those words, he turned away, ascending the stairs with a deliberate effort to avoid any expression that might show on Míngzé's face.

While explaining the gist of what had transpired, an overwhelming urge to flee, to retreat into the shadows and remain unseen, surged through Ruìsāng’s entire being. He hated continuing the conversation, yearning to stop and convince Míngzé that it was all a joke. But it wasn’t, and they were way past the point of pretending. Once again, he appreciated Míngzé being unable to see the deflated look he sported now.

Ascending the stairs, Ruìsāng deliberately avoided meeting Míngzé's gaze when the latter inquired about his understanding of the curse. He shook his head, momentarily forgetting that Míngzé couldn't see the gesture.  “I don’t. I’ll figure it out,” he lied through his teeth. The situation felt like a ticking time bomb, an ominous countdown to an inevitable fate. If only there were a button to trigger its detonation, Ruìsāng mused, so he could reclaim some semblance of control over his destiny.

“It will be fine. I’m sorry.” He had never been a good liar.

Míngzé seemed to have more confidence, insisting that Ruìsāng could break the curse. Ruìsāng scoffed softly. “You weren’t there,” he simply stated. If Míngzé had been, he would understand why Ruìsāng believed he couldn't. Escaping was already unheard of in situations like those. Headbutting a monster and coming out alive? It was only a matter of time until she would take him again.

When he apologised, Ruìsāng wasn't sure for what. For pushing Míngzé against the wall? For lashing out? Or was it for burdening him with the truth? If only he had pushed a little harder, he'd be on his way to get groceries now. It would be better.

When Míngzé suggested talking more about it at his place, Ruìsāng turned around in surprise. “No.” He swallowed. “Just… let me wrap this and then forget about it,” he continued. There was no reason for anything more than that.

Discussing a situation like what had transpired would solve nothing. It wouldn't make it any less real, get rid of the curse, or heal his tainted skin. He had experienced it, and talking about it would only force him to live through it again.

After climbing the stairs, Ruìsāng let Míngzé walk in front, silently following him with his head lowered. He didn’t speak until the door to Míngzé’s apartment opened, and Ruìsāng scrunched his nose in disgust. Míngzé didn’t seem to notice—or at least didn't respond to—it, so Ruìsāng assumed it was… not new?

“Míng-gē? Did you have an accident in the kitchen?” he wondered, walking into the kitchen and filling two glasses with water. With expert finesse, he held both glasses in his left hand before settling on the couch as if he owned it.

Míngzé’s sister almost burned the place down. Ah, that explained—

What?

Ruìsāng blinked, processing the information. As Míngzé continued, cautioning against any blood on the couch, Ruìsāng nonchalantly waved his good hand in dismissal. “I’m used to it, don’t worry,” he assured, his curiosity piqued. However, a lingering question brought a furrow to his brow. “What do you mean she accidentally almost— Why is the smell still here?”

The suspicious gaze he cast upon Míngzé lingered as the man settled beside him, placing the necessary items on the couch. When Míngzé offered to remove the old bandage, Ruìsāng shook his head with a dismissive smile. “It’s… not great. I’ll take care of it,” he told him, before gently unwrapping it.

Unwrapping the bandage was a ritual he had grown accustomed to over the past few days. His non-dominant hand moved with deliberate precision, unveiling the tapestry of angry wounds and bruised skin beneath. The flaring pain elicited a wince, but Ruìsāng gritted his teeth, biting through the discomfort.

The cleansing phase was the most challenging. Antiseptic wipes in hand, he meticulously swept over the wounds, moving from knuckles to lower arm. Each wipe brought a sharp sting, making Ruìsāng clench his jaw. “Tell me something fun, Míng-gē,” he requested. A distraction, if only for a moment.