"I handled the thing in yellow," Jedao mutters. "I could've knocked you out if I was smart about it." Instead of I was a dick to Eiffel, which he's also miserable about, but doesn't want to talk about.
"Maybe," Gonou says. "That me underestimated you."
He can't help sounding a little smug about it: there are a lot of things that 'Hakkai' had thought he'd known about which he had been very wrong. Jedao's strength is only one of them, but it still makes him smile to think about just how much stronger Jedao is than Hakkai had given him credit for.
"But there's a difference. Between -- could have done better -- with better information. And failed. And fucked up.
Gonou curls in more comfortably around him, closing his eyes, and reluctantly lets the last thread of energy he'd been maintaining fade to nothing. He does have more sense than to try to focus on sharing qi while he's falling asleep.
(He can imagine the face Xie Lian would make at him if he were that stupid very distinctly.)
It doesn't take long for his breath to even out as he slips back into slumber.
Gonou isn't very good at sleeping in, even -- it seems -- with a death toll to help; he murmurs something incoherent into Jedao's hair bright and early in the morning, cracks an eye open, and smiles.
"Good--"
-- which is about when he's struck with a coughing fit that curls him up like a shrimp, pulling away from Jedao's embrace to prop himself up on his less-aching arm and try to clear his throat.
Jedao blinks awake, still aching in a few places where Hakkai's claws went particularly deep. He kneels in the bed and rubs Gonou's back gently until the coughing subsides.
"Tea would be good," Gonou croaks, pulling a face as he wipes the back of his aching hand across his mouth and straightens up. His other hand, the one that doesn't hurt, he lifts to cup Jedao's cheek affectionately before he lets go.
It's a relief to hear -- yes, of course, he's still the one who'd done all the damage, but he's glad that he can at least alleviate it.
He'd seemed to have a much finer control of that healing power as his older self, he reflects, considering his clawed hands. It's a skill worth developing.
His kettle is tucked among the pots on his windowsill; the kettle itself, bought in New York, rests on a solar-powered base. He's found it doesn't get quite enough energy to work unless he pushes it up beside the window most of the time.
"The water jug is on the sideboard," he offers, trying not to feel too useless as he relaxes back against the comfortably fussed-over pillows. "I feel -- better too. I think you're medicinal."
"Physical touch releases a number of hormones that reduce the activity of the stress system, which in turn promotes more effective healing," Jedao tells him absently; he had plenty of lectures from his therapists on the interactions of oxytocin and cortisol when they were trying to talk him into sleeping with a professional.
"Mm, I see," Gonou says very seriously, pulling his knees up into a half-folded seat and resting his hands on his ankles as he smiles at Jedao. "It also helps that it's you."
"You definitely haven't tested that," Jedao teases, instead of ungratefully pointing out that if it was someone else, Gonou would probably have spent less of his own energy healing them.
"Well," Gonou admits, smiling a little, "no. It's unscientific. Tea in the top drawer, under the water jug."
He settles back into his pillows and watches Jedao make tea, something wistful lingering on his face even as he smiles. He's letting himself be, selfishly, intensely grateful that the past versions of people couldn't change the past.
Jedao leans over him, catches Gonou's chin and tilts it back up, gives him a slow, deep kiss.
"I don't want to not be me," Jedao tells him, just a little bit surprised to hear it in his own voice, to realize with a faint quaver of trepidation, that it's completely true. "I want to be me, here, now."
Gonou's stubborn for a second as Jedao catches his chin, but yields quickly, melting into the kiss despite his initial moment of resistance.
Softly, he confesses, "I want you as you are, here and now, too. But I still wish there could have been less pain on the way." For Jedao himself, for people he cared about... but if there's no helping the pain, then he can at least be glad that Jedao is who he is now, and -- and that it's who he wants to be.
"I don't know if there was any saving him, really," Jedao muses, eyes closed, resting his forehead briefly on Gonou's. "Nobody gets out of their first war unscathed." There's an urge to add, also, he was an idiot, but they both have enough self-hatred to deal with without Jedao wallowing.
"Maybe not," Gonou murmurs. "But you were so young."
He -- isn't hating himself about this, particularly, to his surprise. He's worrying about Jedao and Eiffel, he's upset about remembering his claws carving into them while he didn't care, but he also feels...
... as if that really wasn't him, no matter how well he remembers his actions. He's not even convinced that future-self knew him. He'd just been-- wrong. That's all. It's a strangely freeing thought.
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He can't help sounding a little smug about it: there are a lot of things that 'Hakkai' had thought he'd known about which he had been very wrong. Jedao's strength is only one of them, but it still makes him smile to think about just how much stronger Jedao is than Hakkai had given him credit for.
"But there's a difference. Between -- could have done better -- with better information. And failed. And fucked up.
"I'm grateful you tried."
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"Sleep here?"
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"Love you. Goodnight, Gonou-shei."
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(He can imagine the face Xie Lian would make at him if he were that stupid very distinctly.)
It doesn't take long for his breath to even out as he slips back into slumber.
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"Good--"
-- which is about when he's struck with a coughing fit that curls him up like a shrimp, pulling away from Jedao's embrace to prop himself up on his less-aching arm and try to clear his throat.
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"I'll make tea?" he offers.
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"How do -- you feel?"
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He drops a kiss on Gonou's forehead and fusses for a few seconds over making sure his pillows are comfortable before he goes to find the tea kettle.
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He'd seemed to have a much finer control of that healing power as his older self, he reflects, considering his clawed hands. It's a skill worth developing.
His kettle is tucked among the pots on his windowsill; the kettle itself, bought in New York, rests on a solar-powered base. He's found it doesn't get quite enough energy to work unless he pushes it up beside the window most of the time.
"The water jug is on the sideboard," he offers, trying not to feel too useless as he relaxes back against the comfortably fussed-over pillows. "I feel -- better too. I think you're medicinal."
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He settles back into his pillows and watches Jedao make tea, something wistful lingering on his face even as he smiles. He's letting himself be, selfishly, intensely grateful that the past versions of people couldn't change the past.
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"I'm -- thinking I'm glad that the past couldn't change."
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"I don't want to not be me," Jedao tells him, just a little bit surprised to hear it in his own voice, to realize with a faint quaver of trepidation, that it's completely true. "I want to be me, here, now."
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Softly, he confesses, "I want you as you are, here and now, too. But I still wish there could have been less pain on the way." For Jedao himself, for people he cared about... but if there's no helping the pain, then he can at least be glad that Jedao is who he is now, and -- and that it's who he wants to be.
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He -- isn't hating himself about this, particularly, to his surprise. He's worrying about Jedao and Eiffel, he's upset about remembering his claws carving into them while he didn't care, but he also feels...
... as if that really wasn't him, no matter how well he remembers his actions. He's not even convinced that future-self knew him. He'd just been-- wrong. That's all. It's a strangely freeing thought.
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"So young. Poor Kujen. He went to so much trouble to make himself a general and all he got for it was a whole baby."
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