Movement attracts his attention, where Shen Qingqiu doesn't speak. Yue Qingyuan turns, shifting his weight easily so he might be prepared for whomever it is, or whatever it is, arms easy at his sides, lips prepared for the sociable, apologetic smile of a man overwhelmed by the oddity of circumstance.
He isn't prepared for Shen Qingqiu, or the gutpunch when he sees him. Thoughtlessly, he steps forward, gasping, eyes widening, taking in nothing of the oddness of what Shen Qingqiu wears. Taking in everything that shows within that outfit is a man standing on his own legs, and his heart stutters, his chest goes tight.
"Xiao Jiu," he says, and he's crossed the distance between them, his face stricken in a way it's never stricken. He had died, he must have, but if that is one truth, then here is another: if Shen Qingqiu had died as well, then he'd failed again, failed completely, and he already knew that was true.
Yue Qingyuan, who had been unable to bring himself to cry in their begging acts as slaves on the streets in their childhood, doesn't realise there are tears in his eyes now. Doesn't feel the warmth of them, or understand why his vision wavers, or that the thickness in his throat is emotion and physiological response twinned. What he knows is it's his fault, and it's Shen Qingqiu's fault, and it's Luo Binghe's fault, and no chain of faults made any of it better or worse, but Shen Qingqiu stood on his own legs, and Yue Qingyuan enfolds him in his arms with the shock and shudder of a man who doesn't understand what it is to cry, and cries.
shakes hand, what are icons anyway
He isn't prepared for Shen Qingqiu, or the gutpunch when he sees him. Thoughtlessly, he steps forward, gasping, eyes widening, taking in nothing of the oddness of what Shen Qingqiu wears. Taking in everything that shows within that outfit is a man standing on his own legs, and his heart stutters, his chest goes tight.
"Xiao Jiu," he says, and he's crossed the distance between them, his face stricken in a way it's never stricken. He had died, he must have, but if that is one truth, then here is another: if Shen Qingqiu had died as well, then he'd failed again, failed completely, and he already knew that was true.
Yue Qingyuan, who had been unable to bring himself to cry in their begging acts as slaves on the streets in their childhood, doesn't realise there are tears in his eyes now. Doesn't feel the warmth of them, or understand why his vision wavers, or that the thickness in his throat is emotion and physiological response twinned. What he knows is it's his fault, and it's Shen Qingqiu's fault, and it's Luo Binghe's fault, and no chain of faults made any of it better or worse, but Shen Qingqiu stood on his own legs, and Yue Qingyuan enfolds him in his arms with the shock and shudder of a man who doesn't understand what it is to cry, and cries.
"I'm so sorry. I was too late again."