Jin Guangyao jolts as if struck, and says nothing. Looks at nothing, his expression a mask of serene, downcast, protective neutrality. He hasn't ever had cause to wear it around Lan Xichen before now; then again, prior to this very moment, he's never felt afraid of Lan Xichen. Afraid of what he has seen, of what he knows.
(Afraid of who he himself has become.)
He curls his fingers tight into his sleeves; an old, familiar self-soothing gesture. "Permit this humble one to apologize," he murmurs quietly. "This one is being truthful. Da-ge was alive when I last saw him."
A good place to end the thought: straight forward and simple. An easy story to keep straight. But perhaps Jin Guangyao has begun to acclimate to the culture of this place--or perhaps he's simply spent too much time around white American boys who can't keep their mouths shut, and it's rubbed off on him a little. He cuts his eyes back at Lan Xichen beneath his eyelashes, but his expression is anything but coquettish. "Er-ge, he wanted to kill me."
no subject
(Afraid of who he himself has become.)
He curls his fingers tight into his sleeves; an old, familiar self-soothing gesture. "Permit this humble one to apologize," he murmurs quietly. "This one is being truthful. Da-ge was alive when I last saw him."
A good place to end the thought: straight forward and simple. An easy story to keep straight. But perhaps Jin Guangyao has begun to acclimate to the culture of this place--or perhaps he's simply spent too much time around white American boys who can't keep their mouths shut, and it's rubbed off on him a little. He cuts his eyes back at Lan Xichen beneath his eyelashes, but his expression is anything but coquettish. "Er-ge, he wanted to kill me."