liquid gold in the hollow of my throat (you call me kintsugi)
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Sometimes Shen Yi dreamed of drowning.
He had told Du Cheng about when he was pushed into the sea after painting Captain Lei’s portrait. A part of Shen Yi expected the rest of the team to find out after that, but they never did. Du Cheng had kept the vulnerability between them even without Shen Yi asking him to.
Years removed from the incident – and his guilt eased by their eventual success regarding Captain Lei’s case – Shen Yi didn’t care much anymore. However, it was still a memory Shen Yi did not enjoy revisiting.
Yes, Du Cheng knew it happened. But he hadn’t told Du Cheng how long he had struggled against the tide, or how long the pain in his chest lingered after. He never mentioned the grueling hours of respiratory therapy, the terror of waking up alone in a hospital bed, hours of memory missing and lungs raw and wounded. Shen Yi never told anyone how close he had actually come to never waking up again.
His drowning incident on the police force was equally terrifying, of course, but Du Cheng had known to look for him. Shen Yi’s old haunt was so remote that he had only been saved because a passing fishing vessel happened to catch sight of him. No one had known to look for him, to be concerned.
Du Cheng knew Shen Yi did not enjoy large bodies of water, or swimming, but that was the extent of it. Shen Yi had carefully kept hidden just how much of a grip his terror still had on him.
The ocean had taken so much from Shen Yi, after all. It was impossible to walk away unscathed.
So, sometimes, Shen Yi dreamed of drowning.
He would close his eyes, and somewhere between the sluggish blinks of falling asleep, Shen Yi hit the water. His limbs felt like lead, moving through liquid as if it were syrup. Realistically, Shen Yi knew it was the weight of too many layers of saturated clothing weighing him down. But this was a dream, and Shen Yi’s subconscious mind informed him of the sea’s malcontent, of hands too similar to M’s holding him hostage beneath the waves. The pressure in his chest where his lungs strained, caught between autonomic survival and somatic rationale, burned fiercely.
Shen Yi’s mind supplied a snapshot memory: a pile of canvases burning, the pigment and gasoline permeating the air, a toxic tango of pollutants. His chest ached now like it did then – unable to draw a proper breath as his life vanished before his eyes. Too caught up in surviving, Shen Yi neglected to note the incorrect chronological order of his thoughts.
Shen Yi thrashed against the suffocating pressure of the water, vision going grey. He had no reason to survive other than that he did not want to die.
Even as he urged his body to struggle, to swim up toward the fading light at the surface, his body slowed. Sinking further under the weight of his clothes and fatigue, Shen Yi watched the shadows creep in.
The autonomic reflex to inhale finally won out as Shen Yi exhaled bubbles and swallowed a desperate lungful of water. Dimly, he tasted salt on his tongue as his chest ached and burned. Body thrashing as it tried to keep Shen Yi alive, he shut his eyes, hoping for a reprieve he wasn’t sure he had earned.
Shen Yi sucked in a sharp breath, eyes opening, and stared at the blurred shadows of the ceiling for a moment before the adrenaline caught up. He sat up abruptly, the blankets tugging against his chest like hands dragging him back beneath the waves. He heaved a ragged exhale against the pressure and clumsily shoved them away, blinded by the settling sediment of fear in the darkness of the bedroom. Everything felt off-kilter, but Shen Yi got his feet on the floor to stand on shaky legs.
The oxygen hit his lungs like a drug to the nervous system, leaving him dizzy and relieved.
After he dreamed of drowning, Shen Yi would tuck himself into a specific corner of his room to anchor and breathe. Sometimes he sketched, but mostly he breathed.
He was halfway to the corner when Shen Yi bumped into a piece of furniture that wasn’t supposed to be there. Confusion derailed his panic, Shen Yi groping in the darkness for something to orient himself. There should be an easel to his left, his drawing desk nearby. The stool Shen Yi seldom sat on to sketch was supposed to be two paces in one direction but none of those items presented themselves to him.
Taking a stumbling step back, Shen Yi’s calves hit the edge of the bed behind him. It was the only anchor he could find so Shen Yi dropped to the floor, pressing his back firmly to the bed frame and heaved ragged gasps. His throat felt rough and torn, like he had actually been inhaling salt water. The fine strands of hair at his temples were plastered to his skin and the inky darkness of the bedroom pressed in with all the weight of a far away ocean. Somewhere in the shadows, dream and reality merged like wet ink on paper. Shen Yi could no longer identify them from each other.
“Shen Yi?” A quiet voice came from behind him, on the mattress above him. Shen Yi could not find the strength to answer, wheezing in response.
There was a rustle of sheets as the weight atop the mattress shifted. Shen Yi could not recall why there would be someone else in the frigid depths with him. There never had been before. There was never a savior, never M’s elusive visage after she succeeded in holding him under – nothing but the ever-darkening ocean as it swallowed Shen Yi whole.
The mattress by his head dipped with weight before the person was on the floor too. A knee pressed into the side of Shen Yi’s hip where he was curled into himself on the floor. Soft light flooded the bedroom as a lamp was switched to life. Shen Yi blinked against the beams that chased the oppressive ocean of shadow away, temporarily blinded.
Warm fingers, slightly calloused and firm, pressed into the curve of Shen Yi’s shoulder. The weight was grounding, reassuring, and a more solid anchor than the bed at his back.
“Shen Yi,” the voice called again, less of a groggy question this time and more of a command. Shen Yi turned, blinking his eyes into focus and found Du Cheng.
Right. Shen Yi had spent the night.
There were none of Shen Yi’s art supplies haphazardly strewn about like he had expected because this was Du Cheng’s apartment.
“Are you alright? What happened?” Du Cheng asked, voice soft but urgent and eyes searching. It was a question more of courtesy, because Shen Yi thought it must be fairly obvious what had happened. As always, though, he indulged Du Cheng.
“I…had a nightmare. It’s nothing, though. I’m sorry I woke you.”
Du Cheng shook his head, shaking off the apology as his brow furrowed with concern. He swept another look over Shen Yi, his free hand moving to unstick the sweaty strands of hair at Shen Yi’s temple.
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
“This isn’t the first time,” Shen Yi said, attempting to reassure Du Cheng that he was used to this routine. Shen Yi wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night, would likely work himself to the bone throughout the day, and collapse into dreamless slumber at the next given opportunity. He would be fine.
Du Cheng heavied the hand he had against the junction of Shen Yi’s neck and shoulder, his thumb sliding over Shen Yi’s clavicle. Shen Yi swallowed against the sensation of Du Cheng’s skin on his and focused intently on the wall just past Du Cheng’s ear. The pad of his thumb slipped into the hollow between Shen Yi’s collarbones, right at the base of his throat. The weight was grounding, and despite Shen Yi’s racing pulse, his breathing evened out.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Another question of courtesy, because they both knew Shen Yi would say no. One day he might be able to meet Du Cheng halfway, but not tonight. Not when Shen Yi could still taste the brine of the ocean at the back of his throat and every inhale felt undeserved.
He shook his head and Du Cheng nodded in return.
Shen Yi expected it to end there, anticipated Du Cheng hovering for a little longer in that quiet, sweet way of his. He would maybe offer a glass of water to Shen Yi, never pushing and never over-bearing; just a present, silent sentinel while Shen Yi found his feet.
Instead, Du Cheng leaned forward, his knee against Shen Yi’s hip cracking quietly. One hand gently smoothed back Shen Yi’s sweaty fringe so Du Cheng could press warm lips to Shen Yi’s forehead. He lingered there, right above Shen Yi’s brow line, long enough for Shen Yi to process the touch and melt into it. Whatever stability Du Cheng possessed was transferred to Shen Yi from that single, soothing point of contact.
Shen Yi lost track of how long they lingered there, but eventually Du Cheng pulled away, only enough to murmur against his brow.
“We should go back to bed.”
Shen Yi tensed at the thought of sleep, fingers curling around Du Cheng’s wrist in a desperate bid for reassurance.
“You don’t have to sleep,” Du Cheng promised before Shen Yi could even protest. “But at least get back in bed and do your back the favor of getting off the floor.”
Shen Yi still hesitated, long enough that Du Cheng pulled away enough this time to look him in the eye. He had one hand at the base of Shen Yi’s skull, fingers tangled with his hair, and the other still at the base of his neck, thumb pressed into Shen Yi’s sternal notch.
“I’ll be right beside you.”
With effort, Shen Yi uncoiled the tension in his muscles and gave his weight to the anchor of Du Cheng’s touch. Ever steady and reliable, Du Cheng kept him upright and whole. There was conviction etched into the grooves of pigment of Du Cheng’s irises, something so certain it was impossible not to believe in.
“I know.”
