Im Late But Happy Vday Everybody

im late but happy vday everybody

unhinged binggehua posting because I can’t be stopped

CW for kidnapping and general bingge behavior

Bingge, who has wrenched gods from the heavens and made use of countless divine treasures, ripping through the folds of time-space with xin mo to find and crush the orchestrator of his misery. He does not think it will be hard. He expects his creator to be an old creature, immortal and mighty as time itself; perhaps they will be calm and speak of fate, as though bingge’s suffering was naught but an ant struggling in the dirt to them; perhaps they will be cruel, having taken true delight in making his life agonizing.

But in a dingy apartment, small and cramped and stained with water leaks, he finds sqh working. The night is late and the only thing that lights up sqh’s face is the glow of his laptop. It’s almost divine. But bingge catches a glimpse of sqh’s face, and see’s him - so young, and yet impossibly weary and aged by the dark circles under his eyes and the weary blankness of his expression. This is no lofty god, conducting fates from upon a cloud. This is a creature who needs to eat and sleep as bingge once did.

Sqh turns when bingge steps on a crooked floorboard wrong, making it squeak. There is a bare fraction of a second where sqh looks upon bingge, and his eyes widen with emotion- recognition, panic, awe, fear. In that moment, bingge leaps forward, and knocks sqh clean out before a scream can even begin to form in his throat.

For a moment, bingge holds sqh. His creator, his god. Sqh is a faint weight in his arms, made haggard and pale by years of being shut away. But his face is softer in sleep, younger. Bingge enters his mind through his dreams.

He learns all there is to know of ‘Shang Qinghua’. There is no great tragedy to his life; he is no wayward orphan, or abused stepchild, or prince fallen from grace, or any other physically beaten and bereaved creature. But abandonment still lingers around him, the hurt of rejection buried deep. He is as resigned to his life of unpleasant work for survival as bingge is to his shallow existence and hollowed heart. Where bingge clings ever tighter to any love he can unearth, sqh shies from it, afraid to gain something for fear of the slight chance of losing it again. Here, in sqh, bingge finds the root of himself. He finds that which birthed him - that which held him close and nursed him, and released him onto the world as both a survival tactic and a buried cry for help.

Here is his creator, his god. His.

Perhaps it is not love bingge feels, not in the way he sees married couples love one another (not like his own marriages, no - he has long since learned that his marriages, even to the women he genuinely cares for, are not born of a true love). But it is a bone-deep feeling of belonging, the sense that a mechanism has clicked into place and is running properly for the first time. Here is the connection he has so craved; an utterly undeniable binding of red thread, a bond that cannot be broken by things like distance or emotion. Sqh is his, inasmuch as he is sqh’s. Creator and creation, god and vessel, mother and child.

Bingge’s suffering was molded by sqh’s hand, yes. But it was not without purpose, no - it is bingge’s suffering that has been given the dual purpose of keeping food in sqh’s mouth and kept him from going mad with lack of catharsis. Bingge has always, always been able to suffer any hurt if it would aid someone, and so he cannot help the thrill that he feels to know that his agony had meaning. It is a flaw he shares with his creator; for why else would sqh change the story of his heart to suit the whims of faceless people, to cater to their desires? Bingge feels every ounce of resentment flood away.

Bingge cradles sqh’s body on the apartment floor. The light of the laptop continues to pool over them, washing out the color in sqh’s skin, making him look as delicate as porcelain. Bingge wonders what color he is under the light of the warm sun. He gently tugs sqh’s hair free of it’s tangled hair tie, loosening the unwashed strands. The room smells of sweat, and salty noodles. Sqh’s strange clothes fit him ill, bulky and oversized, as though he was trying to trick himself into believing there was someone nearby.

He is small and dirty and weak, but bingge finds this irrelevant, if not comforting. Here is one who would not scorn his child self, grubby-handed and shoeless and starving. What is a physical state, in the end, when it can be changed so easily? Bingge will wash him and drape him in fine clothes, and feed him by hand until he is radiant, and then people will look upon sqh and see what he is - bingge’s.

(He knows, from looking, that mbj is sqh’s most beloved creation. His favorite. A toy made just for himself, carefully hidden from the greedy gazes of his readers. Bingge does not mind - for he is the first, and he will not be jealous of the little pet sqh made for himself. Perhaps mbj would be better suited to a bed than the battlefield anyway, he muses.)

Without another look or another thought, bingge rends the world with his sword again and steps through the hole, god cradled in his arms

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purplepapriika

3 years ago