Good. [ he says, quietly - more for the recognition of latching onto the same technique than for the fact that she could name the bones because like, of course she could, she could probably name them in three different languages comparatively, but that's besides the point.
this continues for another round. metacarpal i to metacarpal v, thumb to pinky, connecting to the proximal phalanges. each digit contains proximal, intermediate, and distal phalange, except for the thumb, which lacks intermediate. it continues until they both seem to be calmer, or at least grounded into this godawful moment, but if i have to look up more bones on two hours of sleep im going to die.
...by the time they're through naming the bones of the hand, lu bixing takes in a big, deep breath - holds it for a moment, like a silent guide, and then exhales, big. it's then and only then that he shifts, leaning back against the edge of this terrible hole and closing his eyes. ]
... I'm sorry. [ is what he says, but, it's not a sorry that happened to you so much as it is a sorry soaked in empathy, something a little more bitter than what lu bixing has ever really shown. a sorry that she carries the same weight that he does. a sorry that it was thrown out like that - that maybe whatever hell mechanic this carries made it so the memory chosen for him was the worst possible one for harrow to see, if only because it could've easily been a chain reaction. there's guilt in his stomach, roiling and unhappy, the same kind he always feels when the rainbow virus's miserable little continuation stays, when he remembers the way his own existence could only have been formed from the sorrow of billions of others.
quietly, in that same tone of just-slightly-bitter empathy, of calmness, the back of your mouth blood that comes from having that story shared. ] Is it better or worse, that someone else knows?
[ because really, he doesn't know the answer, either. ]
no subject
this continues for another round. metacarpal i to metacarpal v, thumb to pinky, connecting to the proximal phalanges. each digit contains proximal, intermediate, and distal phalange, except for the thumb, which lacks intermediate. it continues until they both seem to be calmer, or at least grounded into this godawful moment, but if i have to look up more bones on two hours of sleep im going to die.
...by the time they're through naming the bones of the hand, lu bixing takes in a big, deep breath - holds it for a moment, like a silent guide, and then exhales, big. it's then and only then that he shifts, leaning back against the edge of this terrible hole and closing his eyes. ]
... I'm sorry. [ is what he says, but, it's not a sorry that happened to you so much as it is a sorry soaked in empathy, something a little more bitter than what lu bixing has ever really shown. a sorry that she carries the same weight that he does. a sorry that it was thrown out like that - that maybe whatever hell mechanic this carries made it so the memory chosen for him was the worst possible one for harrow to see, if only because it could've easily been a chain reaction. there's guilt in his stomach, roiling and unhappy, the same kind he always feels when the rainbow virus's miserable little continuation stays, when he remembers the way his own existence could only have been formed from the sorrow of billions of others.
quietly, in that same tone of just-slightly-bitter empathy, of calmness, the back of your mouth blood that comes from having that story shared. ] Is it better or worse, that someone else knows?
[ because really, he doesn't know the answer, either. ]