It hurts, to say and to hear these words spoken aloud, but there's a sweetness to the pain of them, too. Because even beneath the aching knowledge that Jin Guangyao is dousing hope's little flame in his heart, there is something like relief in having the truth of what they feel for each other spoken aloud. (Even though, even now, they still speak around it delicately. But that isn't unusual, and they both know the word that describes how they feel, and yet cannot say.)

Maybe a little of it shows in his eyes, a flicker of faint joy behind his eyelashes, before it cracks like spun glass. He looks down at Lan Xichen's hand under his and gently strokes his thumb over his knuckles, a cruel indulgence, stealing tenderness from him like this, but he's always been this kind of person, hasn't he.

"In another life," he promises quietly, "this Jin Guangyao will find a way." But of course he can make promises like that now; they both know there is no way he can ever be held to his word, not even in Trench.

He doesn't want to let go of Lan Xichen's hand because he knows that when he does, he will never be able to indulge in a gentle touch like this again without bringing them back to this moment of heartache. The years of plausible deniability around this, and all the allowances those years had granted them, have come to an end. There's a bit of a tremble in his fingers, and his lower lip, as he forces himself to let go.

"I'm sorry, Xichen."