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It’s almost midnight when he tells him there’s a monster inside his ribs, some contorted thing he’s had the pleasure of inviting it out to eat. But that last word is not precise. He doesn’t mean it. But it’s what he’s got. He says the monster couldn’t be happier about a fistful of his blood; and its greediness must be studied. It always bothers him for a meal. It demands him to feed it now. It’s never satisfied. It’s never full. And—it’s at this point he is tapping some of his fingers on his chest, like a pianist when they measure if that written chord fits their hand. But when it doesn’t it’s not the end. They can improvise. They can split. And then the early problem is not a problem because it’s possible for them to play. So he taps himself a little more. He rummages around his chest, pushing flesh away in his journey to trace the outline of his ribs. They’re a shut door he hasn’t jostled to make this monster fucking leave. It’s been easier trying to poison it, trying to scare it, and hearing it howl. And—then he tells him he used to hate it. He’s even pushed it off a roof. But at some point he found it funny. Now he likes it. Is that weird?
It takes a moment to piece together that Nice is talking about his heart; and that he’s found something that makes it worth it when it’s hard for him to want to live. And in the only way he can admit it, Nice needs him for validation. And who is Lin Ling to deny him when he scoots up to hug his back: when there’s a place for him above the ribs, when there’s a place for him to tap him back. The warm continent of his body makes it easier for Nice to melt. Where the forests are, where the mountains, where the soft haze becomes the rain, where the gentle slope of a coastline thumbs the glaciers back to sea. And breaks him slowly: breaks him fondly, breaks him once more—with every breath, breaks him once more—to hear him whimper, hear him whisper that’s enough. And he is softer while they cuddle. He is soft enough—for a bit. He isn’t breathing like before. It’s like he actually fell asleep. But his tapping fingers at his centre, where his softness starts and ends, where he’s not allowed to be this gentle when he is Hero Nice dashed in white, conveys the opposite. And he must be thinking. It might be too much. Or not enough. It might be too much. His contingencies could even rival Luo Li’s plots. But that’s the last thing he ought to carry, he ought to tell himself he has to think, and Lin Ling tells him his own opinion when he tucks him beneath his chin. And nothing murmurs quite as loudly as his pillow when it’s pushed: when it whines a bit, when it buckles, when it pushes back for a breath, when it consolidates where they are, when it preserves them like a fossil.
There isn’t anything really weird about a monster you’ve come to love. Even monsters deserve it too. Lin Ling presses this to his neck. And at the same time he is tracing every fracture he can see: lips following where they go, lips tasting bits of fear, lips demanding for even more, lips messy where they stick. But it’s gentle. But it’s as gentle as him tapping here on his chest. It’s as gentle as him embracing all the parts of him he can hold. And when he breathes in he can feel Nice try to follow him to the end. Because he opens up beneath his hand. Because he collapses just as slowly. Because he opens up—with some nudging. Because he collapses on his own. And when he’s tucked in there is room here for a touch—or two—in-between, for a fingernail—or his whole hand—here to tug Nice by the ribs. And to lift him up—just a little. Just enough now. Just to feel. And feel his muscles puffing outwards—and his lungs too—and his heart. Because when he breathes in these are full. These are tight enough. These are big. And there’re wet sounds he can touch, he can rearrange when he taps. And then he tells him it isn’t weird to find connection with a monster. It’s not a bad thing to find it funny. Or find it beautiful. Or be annoyed. Or be surprised—too. Or be affected. Or that you see yourself in its face.
While he says this he taps—hello—behind a small place he can reach. And then he pulls away. He saunters up. He holds Nice—here—beneath his palm: he holds him safely against his chest, he holds him tight enough to make him blush. And all the fault lines on his body click together to make him whole. It’s hard to make out he’s made of fear. It’s hard to recognize what he’s not. Because he dips down for his pulse, for his adam’s apple, for his throat, and he kisses him until a whimper is on a sideswipe up his brow. And when his eyes are up—there’s an angel. There’s an omen. There’s a myth. There’s a lighthouse in those eyes: it’s a warning, it’s also hope. And they blink at him so slowly it’s like they want him unafraid. But that part of him doesn’t change. It will never. He isn’t scared. And he convinces him when he climbs up for a soft bite on the jaw. He doesn’t break away when he does it; the eye-to-eye means a lot. And he nips him. And he tells him. And he shows him that he’s loved. And it doesn’t matter if he’s a monster. He deserves this. He’s enough. Because—
“You’re everything,” Lin Ling whispers. “You’re my everything. You’re who I am. You’re all the parts of me I want to save. And now I’m strong enough to do it too.”