because of what losing the smallest finger and re-knitting the others on the crushed hand did to its muscle and bone growth, xue yang's left arm has a different bulk, curve, and tension than his right, and he doesn't limp but he does FLOW differently than other men. a syncopation

one arm just a little bigger than the other; one shoulder blade with a little more bulge. parts of him knobbled and polished like stone, the pieces and angles he has tamed and sacrificed to meld with jiangzai. and parts of him so sensitive they can barely withstand a hot breath

he's two-sided, like his sword. someone who knows him well can paint a picture with the ink starkness of his blacks and whites, if he lets them close enough. he well knew how to batter at those fate blew him up against, but it was jin guangyao that taught him how to really fuck.

the storm created by the meeting of two flexible and scapegoated weapons was interesting enough to keep it and them both alive throughout the years; sometimes their meat was not rotten. sometimes their table held sweet and treasured things. only their graves know now.

and those who are drawn by red thread inexorably back to them will learn. the blinded sylph, the man who was a mountain and the man who is still a deep lake, spring-fed; someday the vibration along those strings will tell them that he, named xue chengmei, was sometimes a good boy