Chapter Text
Hwei had never considered himself much of a caretaker. He wasn't much of anything these days.
Over the sink, Hwei’s hands wrung out a sopping towel. It was unnatural, unpracticed, unlike anything he’d ever watched from over a shoulder. He didn't know how his masters had done it so effortlessly, pressing it to his head to ease the blistering heat. His fingers struggled around the fabric, leaving it dripping in some parts and dry in others. It must have been easier than this, he thought to himself, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. I'm missing something that makes it easier.
He glanced back up from his hands, studying his reflection in the mirror through his curtain of bangs. He wasn't a fan of the color that stared back at him. Exhaustion wore him, greyish blue baked into his under-eyes and blended into an ugly reddish streaked down his cheeks. The lighting of the room rendered his skin almost a sickly green. He was frayed, his hair strewn about and stuck to his skin in all sorts of unflattering ways. He frowned to himself as he tried to run his pruny fingers through his locks.
Nothing he was doing made any sense.
Hwei hung the rolled towel over his shoulder. He lifted a shallow tray filled with an assortment of mismatched medical supplies he'd grabbed from the cabinets — the village he'd been residing in for the winter was sparse in amenities, and Hwei was one to only carry his art supplies with him. In these houses, travelers came and went, leaving behind supplies for the next inhabitants. The kindness of strangers was something that Hwei would never grow used to.
There was urgency to his steps, something he attributed to nerves, to the unknown. Hwei opened the bathroom door with an awkward jut of his hip. The body he'd left hours ago lay still as death, slumped over and faced away from the crack of light in the doorway.
He'd moved since Hwei left him last. That was good, wasn't it?
Quietly, shut the door behind him.
EVENING PRIOR.
A mixture of rain and slush pattered down on Hwei's skull, rolling down the side of his face, though he couldn't quite feel it.
With his eyes downturned, Hwei's eyes roved over the body laid limp below him. Death was brilliantly bright, hot like a burning building and blood rushing to the head, but what it left in retrospect was remarkably cold. The weather bathed the scene in another layer of grey — a deep, rotten grey drowning them both that he knew all too well. Even still, there was artistry to it; limbs pulled close to the chest like a final act of prayer — palms were bare and fingers were frostbitten, scuffed and dirtied with still-wet blood. Knees were tucked lazily up towards the stomach in an attempt to preserve warmth, but all it seemed to do was exacerbate the wound. He wasn't shaking, not by the time Hwei found him.
He looked human.
Hwei was experienced with death. More than most, by this point. He'd observed it in silence, behind a cracked door before he was old enough to understand why he hadn't been allowed inside. He'd held it in his hands, charred remains peeling from bone covered in soot and ash. He'd painted death in every color, in mourning, in agony, in peace, but never quite like this.
A deep crimson seeped out from the chest cavity, brilliantly contrasted against the white of cloak, mask, and snow. Even the sky hadn't dulled its intensity. The initial spray had bloomed out along the bare expanse around him like petals, now left messy from heavy bleeding. Ironically enough, Hwei thought that he would have appreciated such a sight, viewing the composition from a third-person perspective. He resembled more corpse than human, and with his face covered, Hwei could have mistaken him for a doll. Something posable, something adjustable.
Ten million and one ways had he imagined seeing Jhin again, all with sorts of metaphor and color. In some, Hwei would be slaughtered by his hand, and in others, the two of them would spend dinner together and talk as old friends. A million words exchanged, maybe a few, but never none. When he'd found Jhin's body, Hwei had almost missed him, defenseless and half-submerged in snow. In the seven years they'd been apart, Hwei wondered then just how many times their paths had almost crossed.
Like this, out in the open air, the biting cold seemed to inhibit his sense of smell. Blood was something loud and pervasive, staining not only the skin, but the back of the tongue. Though the two of them shared such a space alone, there was no stench of death, no rot or bile. Ice had a way of preservation, of making moments last for just a bit longer.
Hwei took to a knee, careful not to disturb the natural pattern the blood took in the snow. His knees had given out, and his limbs were shaking, but the panic that roared inside of him felt muffled, sorted to the back of his mind. He pulled Jhin back by the shoulder, from his side to his back, and led his careful hands to unclasp the mask at the back of his skull. Laying it in the snow by his side, Hwei's fingers pressed urgently into the hollow of Jhin's chest, feeling for an answer he dreaded.
Though subtle, there was a rise and fall to his chest, and a relief washed over Hwei that he hadn't known he was waiting for. It was sickly yellow, like the full body relief that came after vomiting. The feeling itself had given him a sense of whiplash; a heavy breath, lodged for seconds, maybe minutes in his throat, finally spilled out. Bile lapped up his throat, leaving him reeling.
He pulled Jhin's body against him, fingers clawing violently into his stained, tattered cloak, hugging him close. Hwei was shaking for reasons he didn't have the energy to name, so he called it adrenaline. His eyes trained over to the column of Jhin's throat to his side, then the eel-skin stretched tautly over his face. Though quiet, labored, the leather puckered and puffed over the impression of his mouth. Hwei could see it in his profile, ever-so poised even like this. His breathing was wet, but steady.
For how long he sat there in the snow, holding Jhin against him, watching him in silence, he wasn't quite sure. There was a wetness to his eyes, but it must have been from the bitter wind. At some point, Hwei's hand had met Jhin's, rubbing at his knuckles nervously with his thumb.
It felt familiar, even through scabbed blood and shallow cuts to his smooth skin. They were back in June, studying the shapes of each other's hands.
MID-NIGHT.
Hwei's hands shook as a pair of fabric shears hovered over the waistline of Jhin's stained top — used for cutting his canvas into shape. Getting him out of the cloak had been enough of an ordeal, his body heavy and clumsy when not held with its usual poise. An artisan had confidence in their movements, and Hwei had more than enough experience to hold his wrist firmly, but Jhin had a way of sapping all of that away.
He had expected to see Jhin again, but never quite like this. He'd only ever seen Jhin in the warmth of summer, in golds and reds and blues framed by the sea. Winter was duller, colder, the interim between the death of autumn and the birth of spring. Both of those could fit Jhin, Hwei thought, but winter was a new perspective.
With a choppy breath, holding the blade of the scissors just below his sternum, Hwei cut the fabric and leather with a quiet tear. When Jhin would wake up, Hwei thought with a wry smile, he would hate to hear what came of his performance attire. It felt expensive under his fingers, held taut to keep the weapon away from Jhin's skin, similar to the silks he'd preferred in Koyehn but unfamiliar at the same time. In seven years, Hwei couldn't believe how he could still remember things so clearly, something as mundane as fingers grazing a leather glove. He moved upwards with purpose, exposing more and more of Jhin's stained abdomen, and, soon enough, the knife was being held against the fabric of Jhin's exposed throat. Hwei stopped for just a moment, watching carefully the way the virtuoso breathed, so unaware of the danger that lay mere inches away. It would have been so easy, so easy to lodge the sharp end into his jugular, just how magnificent the blood would look pouring out from his angle. It would stain his skin, the sheets, Hwei's hands.
He opted instead to rip at the last bit, unclasping the collar of his top and pulling the fuschia apart. He could paint the feeling instead, he reminded himself. The room Jhin had been laid in doubled as Hwei's studio due to a lack of space, and a bare easel stood assembled by the foot of the futon, calling to him. It would have to wait this one time. The weapon was set on the nightstand, forgotten.
The leather underneath, though punctured from the wound, had done an excellent job at keeping pressure down. Without it, thick red seeped out once more. Hwei gasped in alarm and fished blindly for something to cover the gash, biting his lip.
The blood, now, was impossible to ignore. It permeated through the air, sticky and wet on the painter's hands like acrylic. The sweat on his own skin suddenly felt hot, and he swallowed thickly, trying to ground himself in the situation at hand. It was getting onto his sheets now, seeping into the mattress as something to remember this by. If he blinked, and Jhin was gone, at least this would remain.
It felt stupid to admit, but he'd never thought about Jhin's blood before tonight. In the time they spent together that summer, Jhin had been something picture-perfect, more of a concept than a man himself. He didn't slip, he didn't backpedal, and he certainly didn't bleed. Whatever beat and pulsed under Jhin's skin was something forbidden to Hwei, something he never allowed himself to ideate about, not even when he'd painted on his own at night. As Hwei ran a torn piece of canvas down his body, cleaning at the skin that burned to the touch despite its cold temperature, he secured thick strands of the same material around the half-open wound. Looking at it was making his stomach churn something sour, but he couldn't bring himself to look away, transfixed by the way skin split and ripped under such strain. The ends of the gash had started to turn a dull indigo, frayed out by snapped nerves.
Hwei didn't have the expertise to identify the nature of the wound in certainty, but his finger ran over the impression anyway, tracing its shape. It was a single brushstroke, thin and dry, but it must have been deep to leave such a mark. Not over his heart, but on the other side, as if to balance things out.
As his fingers pressed down against the puncture wound, a strained exhale came from Jhin's throat, and Hwei's eyes snapped back up, feeling an ugly surge of red overcome his senses. He retracted his hand, reminding himself of right and wrong, and instead took to taping down the homemade bandages in place. It was an amateur's work, and when Jhin woke up, not if, Hwei was certain he would have something to say about its chafing.
Jhin would speak to him again, in time. He was certain of it. He just had to wait, and both of them knew just how good he was at that.
PRESENT.
He wasn't meant to be slumped over, not with the wound Hwei had tended to. He had laid Jhin on his back when he had first been cared for, the painstaking steps he'd taken with shaky hands but unwavering resolve. But he'd moved now, curling away to his side and exposing to Hwei the contour of his body. He resembled the drapery below a still-life, an impactful composition on its own.
Though his feet dragged against the floor, preferring his distance across the room, an opportunity to observe but not disrupt, Hwei approached the futon. It was easier to be a spectre than an active participant, but he forefeited that role the moment he decided to bring Jhin back with him. He set the tray down onto the nightstand, keeping his eyes low — the edge to the mattress, the nightstand, his tattered slippers. Something about looking at him made everything feel too real, too vibrant, even if he'd stared at it for hours already.
This would be no different. This could be just like then, at least for now. Until he woke up.
He took to one knee, leaning over the futon to take hold of the blanket laid over Jhin. The off-white fabric hadn't been soaked through yet, but it must have been starting to stain by now. One hand braced itself on the low frame as he pulled back the blanket to get a closer look, glancing down, before —
With a blur of movement, a hand clawed itself into Hwei's loose top. He was knocked off kilter and sent stumbling onto both knees pulled down as a sliver of metal was pressed into the ball in his throat. He didn't move, he didn't breathe, he didn't dare to, staring down at the face mere inches from his own.
It felt different seeing him awake, just as he'd dreaded.
Hwei had hoped that seeing him unconscious first would have lessened the blow, but his eyes were alive now, dilated, an inky black, and everything went blank. His limp body had been nothing more realistic than his visions, approximating the face of a man he'd known years ago, but never quite the real thing. Nothing Hwei ever conjured felt quite like the man himself. His only saving grace was that no one had been around to see his initial break in fortitude, first peeling off the eel-skin from his face.
Hwei couldn't tear his eyes away. Everything up until now had been done without thought, without consideration for consequence or confrontation. It felt natural. And now, naturally, he would die. The scissors pressed into Hwei's throat just enough to tear skin, but Jhin's grip was deathly still, never pressing further. Hwei felt a bit of warmth trickle down his neck. Jhin's brow twitched to betray his apathy.
"Jhin," Hwei tested the word, more of an exhale than a statement. The name felt foreign on his tongue — he couldn't remember the last time he'd said it. Hwei did not move. Jhin did not speak. The blade was warm.
Jhin was the first to falter. His raised arm slumped in place, and Hwei kept his eyes trained forward, careful not to look away. He was still so weak. Neither of them acknowledged the scissor pressed against his neck.
"You should lie back down," Hwei advised in a hush, unable to find anything else to say. He kicked himself for his passive tone. "You'll hurt yourself if you move around too much."
Jhin's grip on the handle faltered, just barely. He stared at Hwei for a moment more, as if he still wasn't all quite there, before he pulled back of his own accord. Hwei watched the way he fell back to the bedroll, rolling his head to the side. The tendon to his neck, stretched at this angle, cut into the shape of his jaw nicely. Jhin had always been composed of such beautiful lines, even then.
The turn, though, stung bitter with disapproval. Hwei stood sat at the edge of the futon trying to peer over and look at him. Jhin had been a mannequin only momentarily given autonomy, and it was already over. His resolve bristled with an jerk of tears, and he reached to up for the towel to busy himself, accidentally knocking it into the other instruments left on the tray. Jhin did not acknowledge it.
"I've, uh… been able to stop most of your bleeding," Hwei tried again, a third attempt at acknowledgement. His own voice felt hollow, trembling, heavy with a weight he couldn't carry anymore. He wanted Jhin's voice too, anything to lighten the load. "I only had canvas on me, so it's probably uncomfortable."
Jhin barked out a laugh, short, incredulous. Hwei jumped in place. They were looking at each other again. The way the light framed Jhin's face left him half-shrouded in shadow. Hwei held his breath.
"Canvas. To, what, delay the inevitable?"
Seven years, and he sounded the same; Hwei almost hadn't caught his words. A wave crashed over him at once, and he almost lost his footing, grounded only by how he hadn't understood what Jhin said.
Hwei didn't answer — he didn't have the strength to. His mouth stalled like a gasping fish, left hooked and writhing in Jhin's hand. Jhin's brow furrowed, displeased, as if Hwei had been being deliberately obtuse.
"I am in no state to be an enthusiastic torture victim," he amended.
Hwei blinked at him once, twice, thrice. He didn't understand where this was coming from, but he knew not to speak that aloud. The room settled into an uneasy purple, sticking to the walls, and he sat himself aside the futon, keeping to his knees.
"I wouldn't… expect such a thing of you," Hwei decided to say, softer than he meant it, still testing the waters. His tongue was too dry, too swollen in his mouth, and he hadn't spoken a word in what felt like days. It only felt right that Jhin would be the first to hear him. Jhin gave him an unnervingly neutral glance, one that Hwei knew well enough to be suspicion. Though neither of them spoke, there was silent communication in the way they locked eyes, the way Jhin's hands settled on his lap.
After far too long, Hwei spoke again. "How do you feel?"
"String wears thin with time, does it not?"
Hwei tensed his jaw, weighing his options. Back in Koyehn, his method of answering questions with more questions was enlightening and charming, but now, it only served to frustrate him. Hwei's hands settled in his lap, nervously feeling at his palm with his thumb. Always about semantics, never the big picture.
"… You're tired," he clarified, "is that it?"
Jhin scoffed. "In so many words, perhaps. Exhaustion of the mind, the body." He lifted one of his hands, tracing the outline of his gash through the wrapped canvas in a set of four. "Trauma can be such a fickle thing on the psyche. You must be patient with me."
That wasn't an answer, and both of them knew it. It stung bitter in the back of Hwei's throat, and the room settled back into that uneasy silence. The absurdity hit him then, again: what he was doing here, how they were sat together, this strange, unspoken tension between them both. There was so much to say that Hwei couldn't bring himself to say anything at all, instead keeping his eyes trained ahead on Jhin, certain that he would disappear if he looked away.
Jhin wasn't looking at him again. "You have been painting," he remarked, ever-still. Hwei's fingers twitched around the towel, wishing he had a pencil instead.
"Whenever I have the chance to," Hwei replied, keeping his eyes trained on him. There was no reason to be dishonest, especially now. He needed Jhin to look at him. "I do."
"And what is it that you paint?"
Another loaded question, crafted specially for him. What was it that he painted? Whatever came to mind, really. Creativity came naturally to him, and inspiration was everywhere he looked. It was in color, in feeling, in experience. He'd painted the feeling of frostbite, the mourning of a mother, the lotus flower. The wind batting heavily outside rendered silent in his mind.
"Everything," he answered, finally. It was what felt most honest. When he looked up, Jhin was looking at him. His heart caught in his throat, frozen stiff. The cold from the oncoming storm was carrying in, burying them both.
"Is that so?" Is what Jhin's eyes said, though nothing had been spoken aloud. Hwei understood. Jhin knew that Hwei understood. Hwei's heart ached, because this was what he'd missed so much: that silent understanding, that ability to read between the lines, another artist that saw the world in so much color.
There was still so much Hwei had to ask. Why had he been out in the snow? Who had struck him? What of him? Of Koyehn? It was all lodged in his throat, leaving him lightheaded and nauseous. He was a mess, and all Jhin had to do to unravel him was sit there in silence.
Hwei's attention only focused ahead of him when Jhin had been reaching out, mere inches from his eyes. Calloused fingers slipped under his curtain of bangs — longer now than Jhin must have remembered — feeling at the skeleton protruding out from his skin. A thumb smoothed over his teeth through his cheek, and Hwei was back in the studio, letting Jhin feel at every corner of his face to aid in his study of the human form. Bones, then musculature, then skin, then hair. Now, Hwei knew Jhin to be far more familiar with what made up a body than he'd first led him to believe.
Without a word, Hwei rose to his feet. His head was spinning, and where Jhin had touched him burned bitter with summer. He could feel himself spiraling already, with far too much on his mind and nowhere to put it, and he retreated to the door, uneasy on his feet. The towel lay forgotten on the ground — he couldn't do anything like this, not before painting. If he could just lay down a few colors, then…
"Longer hair suits you," called the voice from behind, and Hwei turned even though he knew he shouldn't have.
His hand was already on the door, but his feet were frozen in place, mid-stride. Back in Koyehn, he had been expected to cut his hair each year, before it could reach his collarbones. There was no one to dote over him now, to keep him presentable, and Jhin knew that as well as he did. They were the only people in the world who did.
Jhin was sat up now, reclined back with both hands. The scissors lay with him still, but Hwei couldn't bring himself to ask for them, to even acknowledge the attempt on his life. Mercy wasn't something in Jhin's repertoire, Hwei had learned by word of mouth, but he should have been dead twice by now.
Perhaps he was dead, bleeding out on the floor. Or maybe he was buried under the rubble seven years ago, one casualty among countless others. Or he could have been here now, standing across from Jhin, a spectre in flesh and blood. He had died that day, at least in part, but his heart was still beating, for better or for worse.
"Will you leave me?" Hwei asked, almost too quiet for his voice to travel the room. It dripped with doubt, more of an accusation than a question, a plea for reassurance. Jhin's face didn't indicate the slightest reaction, and Hwei was swept under by the current.
"You have quite some faith in my legs," Jhin smiled, another non-answer, another attempt to skirt the point.
"Jhin," Hwei whispered, weak, tired. Jhin watched, drinking it in. "Please."
And then he laughed, and Hwei wished he could have trapped the sound in a jar, kept it forever.
"I haven't seen everything I wish to see yet."