despicable

The air was cool, gently tugging at Ruìsāng’s hair, as he sat with his back against the door leading to the roof. In his lap rested a guitar, its strings glimmering faintly under the moonlight.

Beside him, a bottle of tequila, half-empty. He took a swig, letting the liquid burn its way down his throat, hoping it would somehow ease the frustration boiling inside him.

His Mawile sat a little distance away, watching him with an expression that was hard to read. Its large jaw clamped shut, it seemed to be patiently waiting, knowing well the storms that often raged within her owner. A little ways off, the new Vulpix lay asleep, curled into a small, peaceful ball.

His fingers faltered against the guitar strings. He tried to play, but a sharp pain shot through his hand, causing him to wince. His fingers, stubbornly, attempted to find their place again, but it was no use. He knew he should be resting his injuries, allowing them to heal, but the urge to lose himself in music, to drown out the memories and thoughts that haunted him, was overwhelming.

In a moment of frustration, Ruisang slammed his hand against the guitar, regretting it instantly as pain shot through his hand. He cursed under his breath.

Leaning against the rooftop door, Ruìsāng's senses sharpened at the sound of someone attempting to make their way onto the roof. His initial impulse was to shift aside, to grant passage to the newcomer. Yet, the words that slipped through from the other side halted that courtesy in its tracks. Typical of him, he chose instead to stay where he was, defiantly placing one arm over his knee, his head resting casually against the door.

“Public space?” he echoed, his tone laced with a sardonic edge, the cheeky grin practically audible. “Last I heard, the rooftop was off limits. So I’m really doing you a favour here, helping you be a law-abiding citizen and all,” he retorted. The words danced with mockery. There was mischievous delight in not making things easy, especially when the request from the other side was articulated so nicely.

The man’s impatience seeped through the door, palpable and biting. His demand for Ruìsāng to move, laced with an unrefined suggestion to ‘fuck off’, was almost comical. It seemed the rooftop had become a popular retreat for those seeking solace with a drink in hand, a trend Ruìsāng found both amusing and mildly irritating. He mused over the lack of safety measures on this rooftop – no railings, no barriers. It was a wonder, almost a disappointment, that no one had yet stumbled over the edge in a drunken stupor.

The stranger’s next jab struck a nerve. In a reflexive motion, Ruìsāng’s elbow collided sharply with the door. “My music is fine, it’s my hand that sucks,” he snapped back. The guitar wasn’t just an instrument to him; it was a connection to Alastor. He hadn’t cared much for music initially, but his desire to keep Alastor close had driven him to master the guitar. Over time, what started as an obligation had blossomed into a genuine passion.

With a resigned sigh, Ruìsāng finally relented. He slid sideways, his movements deliberate, still maintaining his defensive posture with his back against the wall. “Come out then. Because you ask so nicely,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Then go fix your hand. Ruìsāng, with a trace of bitterness, retorted under his breath, “Thanks, Sherlock. Wouldn’t have thought of that myself.” It wasn’t like his hand even seemed to be fixable at this point. No matter what he’d try, it was ruined. It would look like a mess and he wouldn’t be able to hide it unless he’d spend the rest of his life covering it.

As the man finally emerged onto the rooftop, Ruìsāng’s gaze drifted to the stranger’s hand. The man's offer of a refill was met with a dismissive wave from Ruìsāng. “Any more and I’ll fall off this rooftop,” he said. He shouldn’t be drinking here to begin with, but after the girl had called him out on it, it didn’t seem to matter much anymore.

When he was offered a cigarette, he should refuse. Yet, he hummed affirmatively and grabbed one, putting it between his lips with practised ease before raising a brow at the man. “That’s your idea of fixing a hand?” he wondered.

The stranger’s suggestion for Ruìsāng to see a ‘ripper’ left him momentarily perplexed. His mind immediately conjured images from his binge-watching sessions of ’The Vampire Diaries’ with a friend, but a medium-ugly vampire hardly seemed like a solution for his mangled hand. Confused, he murmured a soft, “A what?”

However, the man’s gesture towards his own metallic arm cleared the misunderstanding. Ruìsāng’s initial bewilderment gave way to a mix of reluctance and distaste. “I’d rather not become a magnet’s worst enemy, thank you,” he responded, half-joking yet entirely serious. The very thought of replacing part of himself with cold, unfeeling metal was unsettling.

His curiosity piqued despite his reservations, Ruìsāng couldn’t help but inquire further. “You can’t feel anything with that, right?” The prospect of losing the sense of touch in his dominant hand was a horrifying one.

The term 'ripperdoc' swirled in Ruìsāng’s mind. Was that what they called it? He found his nose wrinkling in distaste at the thought. The whole concept, with its implications of lost limbs and mechanical replacements, unsettled him deeply. It was a reality he preferred not to dwell on, the very idea of missing a part of oneself sending an involuntary shudder through him.

As the conversation shifted, the man mentioned there were worse enemies than magnets. Ruìsāng hummed thoughtfully, the gears in his mind turning. “Ah, airports must be a nightmare, right?” he remarked, nodding with an air of seriousness. He remembered his own experiences at airports, courtesy of Alastor, and he couldn’t help but imagine the added complexities for someone with a prosthetic.

The man continued, sharing that while he could control his prosthetic limb, it lacked any sense of touch, and was plagued by constant pain. Ruìsāng’s expression contorted once more, his nose scrunching in empathetic discomfort. “So, it’s pain and nothing else you feel with it? That’s harsh, truly drawing the short straw,” he commented, his tone a mix of sympathy and disbelief. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, “Jí yè chéng qiú – I guess.”

* 集腋成裘: make do with what you have.