Work Text:
Thump
It’s the dull thud of a fist against wood, loud and abrupt in the relative peace of the surrounding night. The brief trembling of the wooden table from the impact follows. It’s also the sixth time in about as many minutes.
“Tianzhen, I’m telling you, we’ve outdone ourselves this time.”
“Mmhm.”
“Nectar of the gods!” The conviction in Pangzi’s words as he raises yet another full glass to the sky would doubtless seem more genuine if it weren’t at odds with the way his face twists in obvious disgust as the contents of it go down.
“It’s fucking disgusting,” is what Wu Xie retorts dryly moments later as he knocks back his own glass in a similar fashion.
“Ha!” Another fist to the table, though this time the rest of Pangzi follows suit, face grave and cheeks ruddy as he leans across the table towards Wu Xie, who sits cross-legged at its opposite end, his own cheeks a faint pink, expression deeply unimpressed. “Comrade Xiao Wu,” Pangzi continues, “you should know by now that bitterness is the spice of life.” He sighs. “Disgusting he says—”
“Tastes like ass. ” As if to prove his point, Wu Xie promptly downs another glass with decisive finality.
Pangzi smirks, though he seems to reconsider whatever retort he’d intended to follow with once he ventures a look in Zhang Qiling’s direction, despite Zhang Qiling having thus far offered no commentary on the topic at hand. If Pangzi chooses to believe he has, then that’s his own business. He instead sagely counters with,
“Nonsense! Even Xiaoge agrees that our wine is a rare delicacy!” With that, he turns more fully towards Zhang Qiling, eyes wide and insistent, his brow raised in clear expectation.
“Mm,” Zhang Qiling hums in assent, taking a conservative sip from his own glass of tepid water.
“See!”
Wu Xie snorts.
“Oh fuck off,” he replies, but the amused grin that stretches the length of his face and creases the corners of his eyes belies the tone of his words.
Zhang Qiling has been watching the makings of Wu Xie and Pangzi’s habitual back-and-forth for the past hour, this time sparked by Wu Xie’s suggestion that they take the opportunity to try the last remaining jar of the wine they’d attempted to brew the summer before, hoping to add it to the restaurant’s menu. Zhang Qiling had known from the first jar Pangzi had tentatively opened weeks ago that each and every one would taste as acrid as the next, yet it hadn’t stopped people from buying it, and neither has it stopped either Wu Xie or Pangzi from diligently drinking the final one to the bitter dregs. Zhang Qiling has watched Wu Xie sway ever more precariously beside him as the minutes slip by, and even had he not witnessed the distribution of the glasses between them, that alone would have been enough to know that for all his protests at the taste, it is undoubtedly Wu Xie who has taken it upon himself to down the lion’s share of the foul-smelling concoction. Zhang Qiling has said nothing of it, though he makes sure that each time he sees Wu Xie begin to lean a bit too far to either side, Zhang Qiling will steady him, gently pulling at his arm to keep him upright, or allowing their shoulders to press together, which in turn allows Zhang Qiling to watch as Wu Xie briefly straightens in surprise, then inclines his head in Zhang Qiling’s direction to offer him a soft grin, the kind Wu Xie rarely dares to show in public, but that Zhang Qiling has witnessed enough to recognize the precise shape of.
On one such occasion, he catches sight of Pangzi paused to stare at them from the corner of his eye, eyebrow cocked in amusement. Zhang Qiling tilts his head just so, allowing him to watch as Pangzi leans back to stretch himself lower to the ground, arms braced against the cool wood of the porch as he turns his attention more fully to Zhang Qiling, a sly, knowing grin firmly in place. Here too, Zhang Qiling offers no comment. Even had he felt the need to, it would have proven unnecessary given Pangzi’s consistent ability to provide ample commentary on his own. Once again, he does not disappoint.
“Ehh what’s this now Tianzhen?” he goads, “Can’t hold your liquor?”
Zhang Qiling kindly doesn’t mention that though he’s not yet as far gone as Wu Xie, he’s not all that far behind him either. He feels Wu Xie stir from where he’d begun to slump against his shoulder, the telltale signs of drunken stupor taking hold, abruptly snapping to attention. He straightens, eyes narrowed at Pangzi in indignation as he points an accusing finger in his direction.
“Like hell I can’t!”
Zhang Qiling is sure he would have been very convincing if not for the particularly loud volume of his voice, or the way he only barely stops himself from lurching too far forward in his fevered momentum. Zhang Qiling’s eyes narrow. It seems Wu Xie is further gone than he’d originally thought, though from how the strength of the wine’s smell alone had been enough for even Zhang Qiling to scrunch his nose in distaste when the first jar had been opened, he’s not entirely surprised the stench is proportionate to its potency.
“Wu Xie,” he says, the first words he’s spoken since the first glass had been poured. Wu Xie pauses, blinking in momentary surprise before he carefully turns towards him, eyes wide and questioning. It speaks to how much of the wine he’s had that Wu Xie would be so openly candid in ways he only rarely is, though perhaps it speaks just as much to Zhang Qiling’s character that he can’t help but be endeared by it. “You’re drunk,” he adds matter-of-factly, because he undoubtedly is.
He watches as his honest confusion gives way to unabashed bafflement, as if Wu Xie hadn’t considered the possibility that he was, in fact, drunk, or that Zhang Qiling would have no qualms telling him as much. His cheeks, already dusted pink from the wine, darken to a pleasant rose as Wu Xie gapes at him, for once at a loss for words. He wobbles precariously under Zhang Qiling’s watchful gaze, until he finally settles on an indignant cry of “Xiaoge!”.
When Zhang Qiling offers no further comment, preferring instead to continue watching intently as Wu Xie flounders in search of words that elude him, taking another sip from his glass of water, Pangzi erupts into laughter so loud he chokes on it, his barking laughs abruptly turning to desperate wheezes and hacking coughs as he falls onto his side on the ground, pounding it with his fist. Wu Xie lets out a laundry list of expletives in his direction before he too succumbs to laughter, loud and unapologetic. His cheeks red from mirth and wine, his grin so wide his eyes narrow to mere slits from it, this too is part and parcel of the Wu Xie who has carved himself a place in a nook of Zhang Qiling’s so often untethered heart. It’s a feeling that doesn’t need words to be expressed, nor does it need to be expressed to make itself known. It simply is, much as the contentment he feels as he watches Wu Xie’s unbridled joy simply is.
Pangzi, once he’s recovered enough to pick himself up off the ground, wastes no time in proposing yet another toast that Wu Xie agrees to with great enthusiasm. Zhang Qiling briefly considers stopping them, but ultimately decides against it. The jar is almost empty, and the damage is already done. There is nothing more for Zhang Qiling to do, and so he watches in satisfied amusement as Wu Xie and Pangzi indulge in their drunken antics, sat calmly at Wu Xie’s side.
Half an hour later, once the last of the wine has finally run dry, their raucous energy seems to dwindle in turn. Pangzi now leans against the wooden support beam further back from the table, as if lost in thought, though from the way his gaze keeps pointedly straying to Wu Xie, Zhang Qiling knows he’s not quite as drunk as he seems. Wu Xie, however, is undeniably beyond even that. He’s at long last given into the pull of gravity and pitched forward onto the table, chest and arms sprawled across its wooden surface, cheek pressed to it as he occasionally mumbles words Zhang Qiling can barely make out with how quiet and slurred his speech has become. In the moments when he falls silent, he simply smiles, unassuming and guileless in a way Zhang Qiling knows he would never allow himself to be if he were in any state to realize it. His openness is such that Zhang Qiling isn’t sure he’s ever seen Wu Xie quite so unguarded, save for moments of shared intimacy Zhang Qiling alone is privy to. He’s more certain he’s never seen Wu Xie quite this drunk, though that too is this wine in particular’s doing. Wu Xie, it seems, had not realized the unsuspected effectiveness of his own dubious creation.
It’s just as Zhang Qiling begins to contemplate the very real possibility of having to take matters into his own hands to steer Wu Xie from his prone position on the table back into the house—he’s more than doubtful that he could manage to do so under his own power—that Pangzi breaks the relative silence with a snort.
“Look at the state of you Tianzhen. You’ll be troubling our Xiaoge to haul you back upstairs at this rate.”
Zhang Qiling watches as Wu Xie blearily raises his head from the table, having, it seems, not expected there to be further conversation. He squints heavily in Pangzi’s direction, brow furrowed in a visible effort to make sense of the words he’d just heard until their meaning dawns on him, pulling a snort from him in turn. Wu Xie’s head lazily sinks back down to lay on his arm, his body now turned to the side, looking profoundly amused as he looks up to Zhang Qiling beside him.
“No he won’,” he answers, his grin easy, tone disbelieving.
Well.
Zhang Qiling is fairly certain nothing of his thoughts is made visible, though from how Pangzi howls with laughter mere moments after Wu Xie speaks, some part of him must reveal something of them all the same. Pangzi’s answering grin is sharp as he goes on.
“Oh really? Why, because you think you can walk, or because you think he won’t do it?”
Wu Xie’s eyes narrow, gaze growing unfocused as his nose scrunches in offense at the question, before sagely replying,
“Because he won’.”
Contrary to popular belief, Zhang Qiling does, in fact, know how to have his own fun.
He rises from the ground in one swift motion to stand beside Wu Xie, who hasn’t yet had time to register that Zhang Qiling is no longer sitting down. Though he often favors efficiency, and has hauled Wu Xie over his shoulder or lifted him onto his back on more than one occasion, Zhang Qiling decides that for once, he would rather indulge himself instead.
He crouches back down beside him just as swiftly, pulling at his shoulder until he’s been pried off the table, one arm braced behind Wu Xie’s back to stabilize him, all while his other arm slips beneath his legs to settle at the bend of his knees. Zhang Qiling has Wu Xie off the ground before he’s even had time to react, cradled in Zhang Qiling’s arms as if it were nothing new at all.
Zhang Qiling expects any number of predictable reactions, ranging from Wu Xie flushing in embarrassed silence to marked protests insisting that he be put back down.
What he gets instead, however, is something else entirely.
There’s a brief moment of silence during which Wu Xie blinks up at him, eyes wide in surprise, as if he’s unsure of how he wound up in Zhang Qiling’s arms instead of sprawled across the table as he had been moments earlier.
Then, abruptly, Wu Xie bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
His head tosses back from the force of his mirth, the long line of his throat taut for one breathless moment before his arms throw themselves around Zhang Qiling’s shoulders, pressing their chests together as Wu Xie buries his face into the crook of his neck, his laughs now muffled exhales against his skin. It leaves Zhang Qiling stunned for the space of a moment before he takes it in stride, only to pause again when Wu Xie lifts his head up from where he’d hidden it, his smile wide and eyes crinkled in happiness before he plants a wet kiss to his cheek.
Zhang Qiling blinks, unsure of what to make of Wu Xie’s uncharacteristically open affection—he ultimately fails to be anything but warmed by it.
Pangzi loudly clears his throat from somewhere to his right, shifting Zhang Qiling’s attention briefly towards him to see mild surprise etched onto his features at the open display, scratching nervously at the back of his head. He lowers it with a tired sigh, looking back up at Zhang Qiling with a long-suffering look.
“If Tianzhen’s getting the grabby hands, it’s definitely time to haul his ass to bed.” He snorts. “He’s trashed. ”
Zhang Qiling hums in agreement.
“Hey! ‘m right here y’know!”
Wu Xie pushes himself up in Zhang Qiling’s arms to turn to Pangzi, face grave, an accusing finger pointed in Pangzi’s direction in support of his protests, though the only real support he has at the moment is the secure grip Zhang Qiling has on him that prevents him from toppling to the ground. Pangzi laughs, loud enough this time even Xiaomange lazily raises his head from where he’s been dozing by the doorway all evening.
“Sure you are Tianzhen. But since you’re already right where he wants you, why don’t you let our Xiaoge take you to bed huh?”
Zhang Qiling doesn’t miss the implications of Pangzi’s words though he chooses not to acknowledge them. The way Wu Xie twists in his arms to face him, arms looped back around his shoulders and expression endearingly puzzled, is far more appealing.
“You want to?” Wu Xie asks softly, the question genuine enough that it tells Zhang Qiling that the possibility that he might want to carry Wu Xie to bed had never occurred to him. Zhang Qiling would carry Wu Xie to the ends of the world if need be, but this and that are different matters entirely.
“I do,” he replies instead, nodding decisively.
Wu Xie openly gapes at him, as if the answer is entirely unexpected. The whispered “Oh…” that follows is quiet enough that Zhang Qiling knows Wu Xie had likely never meant to say it out loud. Wu Xie is rarely, if ever, as guileless as Pangzi’s name for him would suggest; his sharp wit and sharper tongue would never allow for it, and it’s one of the many parts of him that Zhang Qiling holds in high regard and cherishes unreservedly like he does little else. He finds that this version of Wu Xie, stripped of inhibitions and pliant from over-indulgence as he is, is one that appeals to Zhang Qiling just as much.
When no further comment seems forthcoming—Wu Xie content to continue staring at him as though he might find the answer to some yet-to-be-voiced question if he did so for long enough—Zhang Qiling tightens his hold on him, settling Wu Xie more securely in his arms before making his way towards the house at an unhurried pace. He remains mindful of his cargo, though Zhang Qiling has little reason to believe he might falter even as he carefully steps over Xiaomange to cross the threshold of the door, slipping into the dimly lit interior, content to leave Pangzi to his own devices. In the meantime, Wu Xie, it seems, has grown tired of his staring, and has let himself go pliant in Zhang Qiling’s arms, his head laid back onto Zhang Qiling’s shoulder, allowing himself to be carried without further protest just as Zhang Qiling allows himself to once again gently tighten his hold on him, if only to soothe the warm ache that has nestled itself in his chest.
From there, it’s as easy as anything for Zhang Qiling to navigate through the half-light to reach the sturdy staircase that leads to his and Wu Xie’s shared space. It’s as easy as anything for him to take each upward step at a steady pace as he looks to Wu Xie in his arms, seemingly on the cusp of sleep, each of his breaths warm against the bare skin of Zhang Qiling’s neck. It’s just as easy to slip into the darkened bedroom through the open door, to lay Wu Xie down on the soft blankets of their bed to then gently coax him to sit upright so that Zhang Qiling can help him out of his rumpled clothes. Because he expects nothing more than the final, simple act of easing Wu Xie back down to sleep before joining him, Zhang Qiling is entirely unprepared for the quiet, slurred words that begin to seep from Wu Xie’s mouth as he turns to rid himself of his own clothes.
“Xiaoge…” he calls, quiet and hoarse, as if uttering some unspeakable secret.
Zhang Qiling turns his head back to face him, the movement accompanied by the delicate brush of cloth against skin as he slips his shirt off, casting it aside for the time being. He finds Wu Xie still sat upright on the bed, feet to the floor, his face partially obscured by the late night shadows as he stares at him resolutely, though the faint moonlight is enough for Zhang Qiling to discern his usually vibrant eyes have grown distant, and yet despite this, remain imbued with a strange urgency. He waits, recognizing that Wu Xie has more yet to say.
“Xiaoge…” he calls again, swaying forward enough that Zhang Qiling begins to make his way back towards him, prepared to offer a hand to steady him should he prove to need it. “Y’know…” He pauses, oddly hesitant for all his eagerness to speak has made the once loose lines of his body tense.
“Y’know you’re my favorite person, don’ you?”
Zhang Qiling freezes.
Though he recovers quickly enough, he doesn’t move from where he stands, halfway between where he’d been and where Wu Xie looks up at him still, something desperate that Zhang Qiling couldn’t begin to name etched into every part of him that he can see, into the distant gaze he somehow succeeds in directing at Zhang Qiling who doesn’t yet dare to move, doesn’t yet dare to answer, aware that Wu Xie has crossed a line he may yet retreat behind.
“Don’ you?” he whispers, his tone not so far from a plea, and though he’s unsure of how to respond otherwise, Zhang Qiling slowly nods, the need to assure Wu Xie of this truth, at least, imperative. The soft smile that blooms on his face in response tells Zhang Qiling he’d made the correct choice.
“Good… tha’s good…”
Wu Xie leans forward, his momentum only halted by his arms that brace themselves against his legs as he finally turns his eyes away, casting them down towards his hands from where they don’t rise again. Zhang Qiling watches as his delicate fingers tangle, untangle, then tangle again in haphazard, barely conscious movements, the fruit of the uncertainty that lingers on him still like a shroud. Zhang Qiling’s own fingers itch with the need to cast it aside though it is not a physical thing that can be touched.
“Y’know…” comes Wu Xie’s voice again, low and quiet, though the particular inflection of it is strangely unhesitant, at odds with the way Wu Xie’s body seems to cower under an invisible weight. Zhang Qiling has the sudden, marked impression that Wu Xie himself is unsure of the words that so clearly bubble at the surface of his muddled mind, just as Zhang Qiling is unsure of whether Wu Xie even realizes that he is, in fact, intending to speak them. It leaves him just as tense, alert in ways that suggest an oncoming threat, but the threat is nothing more than whatever Wu Xie so adamantly wants to tell him that Zhang Qiling knows with absolute certainty he never would were he sober.
“Sometimes…” Wu Xie continues, his voice hoarse enough that it crackles, his head tilted to the side, body swaying slightly to and fro as if under the influence of an invisible breeze, eyes lost to some great distance though they haven’t yet strayed from his wringing hands. “Sometimes… it feels like you exist somewhere far above the res’ of us… like you’re out of reach.” His fingers twist in tandem with his features that gain a sudden pained quality to them that Zhang Qiling resents more than he has most things in this life. “And...” he pauses. “An’ I know it doesn’ mean you’re a god. I know…” he sighs, frustrated, “I know you’re jus’ a man. That i’s alright if you live like that, b’cause you’re Zhang Qiling.” He scoffs, as though his name that is not a name is explanation enough. Zhang Qiling supposes that it is, for better or worse. “An’ b’cause… b’cause it’s jus’ who you are in the end.” Wu Xie’s lips quirk into the smallest of smiles, tired yet honest, and though it fades moments later, its ghost still lingers. “I don’ always understand… but i’s ok… b’cause you’re down here anyway, aren’ you…?” His voice trails off, fading into the quiet.
Zhang Qiling says nothing in response—though he doesn’t fundamentally disagree with Wu Xie’s assessment, there is a flaw in it that Zhang Qiling feels, in hindsight, he may be partially responsible for. Though he knows that he and Wu Xie have gained an understanding of each other that few, living or dead, could hope to achieve, there will always be things Zhang Qiling cannot share with him, or that Wu Xie may never understand, simply because he is a man who belongs to the world, while Zhang Qiling is a man who has long walked its fringes. It is something that neither of them, as things stand, have the ability to change, and he knows that Wu Xie has also accepted this as an inherent and immovable truth. Zhang Qiling, however, has never consciously placed himself out of reach; it is the world, it is others who have endeavored to make him be so. It is simply that he has no interest in bridging the sizable gap that separates him from most other things by design, content, for better or worse, with its continued existence. He hopes, however, that Wu Xie has at least understood this—that Zhang Qiling has long come to see that for all he had never intended it, there now exists a single point of connection where the gap has been bridged, and that that single point is Wu Xie himself. He’d once told Wu Xie that he was his sole connection to the world, and he had not lied; Zhang Qiling reaches back for no one, but for Wu Xie, he always will.
Whether Wu Xie has truly understood this or hasn’t, it doesn’t stop the urge to comfort him from rising in him unsolicited, as if the act alone could banish Wu Xie’s troubled thoughts, and so Zhang Qiling does nothing to curb it. He pads across the rest of the short distance that separates them to sit at Wu Xie’s side, placing his hand atop both of Wu Xie’s still twisting ones, to tell him in the way he knows best that he has heard his grievances and understood them. Perhaps it’s his touch that gives rise to Wu Xie’s next words, pulled from a deep, buried place. Perhaps it’s the wine that has done its part to make it so Wu Xie lays himself bare in ways that make Zhang Qiling feel as raw as Wu Xie sounds. Perhaps it’s both. Zhang Qiling only knows that he aches as his words settle in his mind like weighted lead.
“When you were gone…”
Wu Xie’s voice has dwindled to little more than a rasp, its coarse quality at odds with its fragility. One of his hands slips free of its entanglement to thread his fingers with Zhang Qiling’s, who curls his own around them. It’s only then that Wu Xie starts again.
“When you were gone… I missed you. I r’lly did y’know. It’s… not somethin’ I like to remember.”
This too is something Zhang Qiling knows. They’ve never discussed it at length, or at all really; but Zhang Qiling knows. The scars those ten years had left on Wu Xie’s mind and body alone are proof enough that it had been a time of considerable hardship for all parties involved. He cannot begrudge Wu Xie for not wanting to revisit it. It has never been worth discussing in the first place when all that can be done now is contend with what remains in the aftermath. He knows that he was missed, and that Wu Xie had suffered, among other things, from his absence. This knowledge is more than enough. But to hear him say it now, steeped in vulnerability as his words are, is a wound and a balm both.
“But…” Wu Xie pauses, fingers tightening around Zhang Qiling’s as he pushes onward. “Xiaoge… I’m a selfish man.” The smile he gives at that is one tinged with wryness. It’s only then that Wu Xie finally rights himself to meet Zhang Qiling’s steady gaze once more, but in his fervor all but topples forward into his lap. Even as he tries to push himself upright, Zhang Qiling has already moved his hands to Wu Xie’s shoulders in an effort to steady him, though it only succeeds in allowing Wu Xie to lift his arms to grasp at Zhang Qiling’s shoulders in turn, righting his still precarious balance. His eyes, when Zhang Qiling finds them again, are wide and desperate, echoing the firm hold he has on Zhang Qiling’s shoulders, fervent in his need for Zhang Qiling to understand, as if Zhang Qiling could endeavor to do anything else in this moment.
“I know! I know you like it here! I know you do! An’ I know that…”
His voice falters, and although he doesn’t look away from Zhang Qiling, Zhang Qiling can see the earlier flush that he had thought all but gone reappear with a vengeance.
“I know that… tha’ you like…me…” he finally admits, gone quiet in sheer embarrassment even his inebriation can’t quell. It’s a sentiment neither of them have ever voiced in such obvious terms, but to hear Wu Xie say it, even as drunkenly maudlin as he is, makes Zhang Qiling’s chest briefly seize with the sudden wave of affection that rises in it.
“But… sometimes…” Wu Xie’s grip on Zhang Qiling’s shoulders briefly tightens, his eyes narrowing in visible upset. “Sometimes I wonder if… if I deserve it… you… here…” He sighs even as he quiets, his earlier fervor tempered by his melancholy. “I’m a selfish man Xiaoge. An’ I don’ know if I deserve to wan’ you here with me…” His face darkens, as does the timber of his voice when he resumes, steadier than it’s been in hours. “I’d be no better than those bastards if I tried to cage you here if you didn’ want to be. An’ I know better than to think I could. But…”
Wu Xie’s face twists again, and his smile this time blooms heavy with myriad emotions Zhang Qiling can’t begin to name while his eyes crinkle, faintly glistening with something more than just fatigue. The ache in Zhang Qiling digs its claws in him more keenly, until he feels as though it might have reached his bones. He feels the heat of Wu Xie’s palm settle like a brand against his cheek as he cups it.
“I’m so glad you chose to stay…” he whispers, his words brittle as fractured glass.
Wu Xie lurches forward, pressing himself to Zhang Qiling’s chest as he winds his arms around his neck, burying his face there with stilted breaths, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, as if this outpouring had robbed him of the last of the strength the wine had left him with. Zhang Qiling winds his arms around him in return, his embrace tighter than it likely should be, but it’s all he can do in an effort to quell the ache as it sharpens. Wu Xie says nothing more, content to lie where he’d all but collapsed, while Zhang Qiling contemplates what he must do with all that he’s received.
Ultimately, he decides that now is not the time to reciprocate, and lets the thought, whatever shape it may yet take, be temporarily laid to rest. Instead, Zhang Qiling carefully twists around, Wu Xie held securely in his arms, to gently lay him down onto the bed, only to join him beneath the blankets soon after. Zhang Qiling presses himself close against Wu Xie’s back, his arm coming to rest along the curve of his waist as he places a single, lingering kiss to the nape of Wu Xie’s neck as he finally drifts into peaceful sleep.
Beside him, Zhang Qiling remains awake for a while longer in rare contemplation. He isn’t often one to dwell on things at length, content to accept them as they are; and if he cannot accept them, then he will do what he must until he can.
He feels, in this case, that one unlikely occurrence warrants another.
Although Wu Xie has never spoken of them, Zhang Qiling still knows the nature of Wu Xie’s feelings for him, perhaps not in so many words, but in their intent that has reached him time and again over the years, long before he’d realized what they could mean, or what they could become. What they share is something Zhang Qiling has never felt the need to put into bloated words, nor has he felt the need to question it at length, so long as he understands it intrinsically. He believes that Wu Xie too is content with that. He is also under no illusions that had Wu Xie not gotten himself spectacularly drunk, those feelings would have never been voiced to begin with.
And yet.
Tonight, Zhang Qiling has learned that to know and to hear are not always quite the same, and that perhaps intrinsic knowledge alone is sometimes insufficient when tasked with embracing the true scope of human emotion.
It’s with these thoughts that Zhang Qiling finally joins Wu Xie in sleep, his arm wound perhaps the slightest bit tighter around him, as if his will alone could bring them closer.
—
Some nebulous time afterwards, enough that the night has run its course and the sun has long since risen high in the sky, Wu Xie wakes to the beat of his own pulse that pounds relentless as a drum in the confines of his head. He turns his face into the pillow beneath him with a drawn out groan, feeling the sound catch in his dry throat even as the dull throb of pain behind his eyes makes itself known with a vengeance. He’s been awake for less time than it would take for him to light a cigarette, and yet already Wu Xie’s decided he’d much rather stay here in bed until he can drift back to sleep—with how persistent the ache in his head is, he’s however already more or less made peace with having to pull himself together and out of bed sooner rather than later.
Although…
He turns his head to the side, squinting in the direction of his bedside drawer; thankfully, it avoids him having to look towards the window from where the too-bright sunlight pours into the room through the slanted panels of the ornate window shade Wu Xie had finished just last month. It’s also where he’s safely tucked away his prized single pack of cigarettes, saved for ‘special occasions’—or so he’s resigned himself to. It’s perhaps the only concession to his now seldom indulged habit Xiaoge has willingly turned a blind eye to. Wu Xie wonders, briefly, whether smoking one would help dull the ache somewhat and clear his mind.
All too easily, he imagines the rich taste of tobacco on his tongue, the soothing calm it brings with each inhale, the warm tip of the soft filter nestled between his fingers where he knows the smell will linger even though he can only detect traces of it—Wu Xie craves all these mundane comforts with sudden surprising ferocity. The more his mind lingers on the idea, the more sorely he’s tempted to roll over to the edge of the bed to dig around in the drawer until his hand lands on the familiar packaging and the old lighter he knows lies somewhere beside it. However, while the urge is there, Wu Xie isn’t sure he wants to see Xiaoge’s look of deliberately broadcasted disappointment once he inevitably smells the smoke on him, and so drops the idea altogether with a wistful sigh.
Even now, irked as he is by Xiaoge’s stubbornness on the subject, he finds his displeasure fades all too easily, melting away as it always seems to into exasperation of a fonder quality. Perhaps it should bother Wu Xie more that he’s never been able to be truly angry at Xiaoge, not even when his choices, inevitable as some of them might have been in hindsight, have caused Wu Xie his fair share of grief. Perhaps it’s as inevitable as everything between them seems to be at times, even from the moment they’d first met and Wu Xie had quickly realized he felt at peace with a man he barely knew, who he’d never have imagined would one day, for a time, come to share a life with him. It makes Wu Xie want to smile into his pillow like a fool despite the way his head continues to ache, and makes him wonder if maybe leaving the cigarettes where he’d put them in favor of going to find Xiaoge wherever he’s wandered off to, dragging him back to bed, might not be the better option.
The idea is appealing enough that Wu Xie might have bravely abandoned the soft cocoon of his bed for it, if only he hadn’t been doing his best to keep his thoughts from straying too close to the memory of his drunken ramblings from the night before, though much as he’s tried, that too is proving to be another vain struggle.
He doesn’t bother to hold back another low groan as he buries his face back into his pillow. Wu Xie’s not above feeling sorry for himself, but he can’t deny that he’d severely underestimated the strength of that truly vile wine they’d stupidly named Yuanshanjinger .
Purity my ass, he thinks wryly, although with how part of him is tempted to consider a temporary retreat to the mountains to see if that might help him save face through more ascetic methods, the name isn’t altogether inappropriate for how pretentious it is.
Wu Xie’s mortified enough that his cheeks burn more fiercely with every snippet of conversation he recalls in varying degrees of clarity, enough to piece together that ‘conversation’ is far too generous a term for the way he’d managed to spill the most embarrassing things imaginable to Xiaoge’s face, all because he’d let the wine go to his head.
It’s not that Wu Xie is embarrassed of the way he feels for Xiaoge; it’s something he’d both accepted and made peace with years ago, in much the same way as he’d for the most part learned to lay his own demons to rest. The ways in which Wu Xie cares for Xiaoge aren’t a secret to Xiaoge especially, and he’s glad to let Xiaoge know that his presence in Wu Xie’s life is something he cherishes. Both of them are far past the point of shame when it comes to each other, or at least Wu Xie is—he’s never known Xiaoge to feel much shame about anything to begin with. Wu Xie, however, loathe as he is to admit it, is still a man with a sliver of face left to lose. He can show Xiaoge that he loves him, but to say it plainly, steeped in his own insecurities no less, makes Wu Xie feel like a small child who’s yet to understand the concept of dignity. Xiaoge has never cared about such niceties, he knows that—but it doesn’t stop Wu Xie’s cheeks from burning hot all the same.
The more he thinks about it, added to the dull throbbing of his head, the dry, acrid taste in his mouth, and the growing urgency in his bladder making itself known, the more Wu Xie eventually accepts that going back to sleep is a lost cause, in the same way that avoiding the inevitable awkwardness of coming face to face with Xiaoge sober is only needlessly prolonging his own suffering. With a decisive huff, Wu Xie finally drags himself from beneath the soft blankets, squinting again when he turns towards the window, the muted sunlight briefly causing the pain to spike, and scans the room in search of clothes to wear. There’s nothing that wouldn’t require him to search through their closet, save for one of Xiaoge’s many hoodies that lies open across the back of the chair Wu Xie often uses to read. He’d stopped hesitating to borrow Xiaoge’s clothes long ago, and it’s not as if Xiaoge himself doesn’t take to wearing some of Wu Xie’s shirts from time to time—Wu Xie is happy to settle on that, slipping his arms into its soft, well-worn sleeves without bothering to zip it, leaving his bare chest exposed. With the day’s rising heat, he decides to forgo pants for the time being, the hoodie concession enough; they’ve all seen each other in worse states of undress in far worse situations than a hangover, enough that that sort of propriety is something the Iron Triangle rarely bothers with these days. Wu Xie walking to the kitchen in his underwear is almost par for the course, and no worse than Xiaoge refusing to wear shirts during his morning exercises or Pangzi memorably deciding to sunbathe naked on their porch one Sunday afternoon (Wu Xie is secretly glad he hasn’t tried again since—he’d managed to get sunburn on his dick of all places, and had thankfully sworn off it entirely to preserve his ‘honorable goods’).
Once he’s brushed his teeth and emptied his bladder, Wu Xie quietly pads his way down to the kitchen with slipper-clad feet, taking each step at a sedate pace. He hopes they still have a few of the Pu Erh cakes Xiuxiu had sent last spring tucked away in the tea cabinet; with any luck it might help the residual ache in his head dissipate. He reaches the kitchen with this in mind, brow pinched between his fingers as he tries to will away the ache, only to see Xiaoge already standing at the counter, his back to Wu Xie as he calmly pours hot water from the kettle into a teapot colored the warm, rich brown of earthen clay. Predictably, with the summer heat slowly rising, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt, wearing only the black cotton pants he favors on days where he plans to do nothing in particular, his dexterous fingers curled around the handle of the kettle as steam rises from the open belly of the teapot. The steam curls close enough to him that Wu Xie can tell its heat has begun to coax the qilin out, the faint outline of it ghosting into view on the part of his arm that Wu Xie can see, its black lines snaking down the length of otherwise pristine skin like welled ink.
Though he has yet to acknowledge his presence, Wu Xie has little doubt that Xiaoge heard him coming long before he’d entered the room, and when he finally does turn around, fingers now curled around the teapot’s handle as he carries it to the table, there’s no visible surprise on his face, at least that Wu Xie can discern. He’s learned to read Xiaoge fairly well over the years, even more so now that they share the same bed; regardless, some parts of him will always remain unfathomable, cloaked in indifference Wu Xie has learned isn’t crafted, but entirely genuine. When their eyes meet, Wu Xie valiantly tries to hold the quickly rising heat in his cheeks at bay—he’s not completely convinced he succeeds. Despite the lingering awkwardness, Wu Xie can’t help but offer Xiaoge a smile in greeting, nor does it dampen the warm thrill of happiness he feels when Xiaoge responds with a barely-there smile of his own, his dark eyes less severe.
Perhaps Wu Xie could do with a little more face after all, if he can stand to lose what’s left of it in front of Xiaoge so shamelessly.
It’s only then that Wu Xie notices two bowls already laid out either side of the table, their contents steaming much like the tea water, as well as the conspicuous absence of the other resident of the house.
“Pangzi…?” Wu Xie asks, puzzled. Pangzi’s never been one to skip breakfast, or any meal really.
“Out,” Xiaoge replies. Wu Xie raises an eyebrow at that.
“Out?”
Xiaoge nods as he carefully places the likely scalding hot teapot at the center of the table. Wu Xie stares a moment longer when no immediate answer seems forthcoming, then crosses the room to the counter, looking to fetch two tea cups from the cabinet.
“I made breakfast,” Xiaoge finally replies. “He ate then left to meet with the village head about the empty plot. I waited for you.”
His words coax another smile from Wu Xie that he conveniently hides as he turns away to pick the cups from their shelf. Both Xiaoge and Pangzi usually leave the verbal sidestepping involved in that to Wu Xie, who thus far has managed to dissuade and divert anyone who’s come forth about acquiring the empty land Wu Xie has had his eyes on since they’d settled here. Xiaoge doesn’t say it, but Wu Xie’s convinced Pangzi hadn’t volunteered to go in his stead purely out of the goodness of his heart. He looks intently at Xiaoge as he returns to the table, easing himself down onto the chair opposite him, and though Xiaoge’s expression reveals nothing, Wu Xie has the distinct feeling he likely had a hand in orchestrating this meal for two.
When he finally looks down, he notices the contents of the two bowls, filled to the brim with what he can tell is still-warm congee, with thin stripes of chicken neatly laid out atop the full-bodied rice. He knows Xiaoge hadn’t needed to go out of his way to cook a hangover-friendly breakfast for them, in the same way he hadn’t needed to wait for Wu Xie to pull himself out of bed to eat his own share of it—and yet, he had. Wu Xie knows he doesn’t need to pour them both a cup of the tea he can tell from its particular dark hue alone is the Pu Erh he’d hoped to find either—and yet, he does.
Neither of them ever needs to do any of the endless number of things they do for each other—it’s that they do so willingly that matters in the end. Xiaoge will do as he pleases, free with his affections in ways Wu Xie sometimes still struggles with, but Wu Xie has done his best to learn not to question him, and though he still sometimes struggles to reciprocate as openly, Xiaoge has never refused the small ways in which Wu Xie tries to show him that he cares more than words could express. It’s their simple give and take, nothing more or less. Wu Xie would choose it tenfold over empty words and vows that hold less substance.
They eat in relative silence, sometimes interspersed with Wu Xie’s commentary on everything and nothing, from the goings-on in the village to the latest far-fetched tale he’d gotten from Hei Yanjing via WeChat (though he’s been inclined to believe this one a little more ever since Xiao Hua’s impromptu gifts from Russia had arrived just last week) before settling again into comfortable quiet. A lifetime ago, Wu Xie might have tried to fill it in an attempt to ease awkwardness only he felt—now, he basks in the sense of peace it brings him, knowing that it’s no longer a silence steeped in absence. He also finds that slowly, though it doesn’t disappear completely, the dull pounding in his head loses its sharp intensity, fading until it becomes little more than a background ache, present, but noticeably less so by the time their bowls and cups have both been emptied. Before he can persuade himself otherwise, Wu Xie makes a point of passing by Xiaoge’s side of the table as he takes his dishes to be cleaned, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek on his way, pointedly ignoring the slight twinge of heat that threatens to bloom on his face.
“Thank you,” he says softly, to which Xiaoge hums in acknowledgement, offering nothing more.
Once the table has been cleared, and the last bowl dried and tucked away, Wu Xie sighs.
“I’m going to shower,” he announces, not particularly expecting a response, and finds himself already halfway into the living room by the time he thinks to look back towards Xiaoge, who seems to have paused in consideration, eyes locked on Wu Xie’s retreating back with an intensity that leaves Wu Xie both perplexed yet strangely on edge. Wu Xie stops and waits, but when Xiaoge makes no move to speak, Wu Xie tentatively calls out to him in question.
“Xiaoge…?”
Wu Xie watches as Xiaoge blinks, pulled away from whatever thought had gripped him, though his gaze remains unerring. He nods decisively, though Wu Xie isn’t sure at what, before walking towards him, only coming to a stop once they’re standing side by side. Wu Xie’s eyebrow once again raises in question. Xiaoge simply turns his head slightly to the right, looking towards the staircase that leads upstairs to their newly minted bathroom where Wu Xie had been headed and their bedroom further beyond it, as if waiting for Wu Xie to piece together his intent.
Does Xiaoge want to shower with him…?
It’s not outside the realm of possibility—Pangzi has complained about their bathroom hogging often enough that eventually Wu Xie gave in and turned the spare upstairs room into a second bathroom. He can hardly help the small tendrils of heat that curl low in his belly at the idea of it. Wu Xie keeps his eyes on Xiaoge a moment longer, holds his gaze briefly when he turns back to continue staring at Wu Xie intently; then, Wu Xie looks away, padding the rest of the way towards the stairs, the muted pat pat pat of his slippers against the hardwood floor the only sound to break the now heavy silence between them. He feels more than hears as Xiaoge follows behind him, the weight of his gaze like a brand on Wu Xie’s back with each step he takes.
It’s only when they reach the upper floor and Wu Xie reaches out a hand to pull open the bathroom door that he’s surprised to feel Xiaoge’s own hand suddenly wind around Wu Xie’s free one, holding him back. He freezes, turning to look at Xiaoge in silent question, though he barely has the time to search Xiaoge’s still impassive gaze before he finds himself being pulled further down the corridor. Wu Xie’s confusion lasts for all of a moment, quickly realizing that Xiaoge is gently tugging him towards their bedroom, the door left ajar, letting warm sunlight spill into the corridor, bathing it in soft, golden light. Wu Xie lets himself be pulled along without protest—though he can never be entirely sure of what Xiaoge’s thinking, he feels he knows instinctively what he might have in mind, the warm heat of Xiaoge’s grasp around Wu Xie’s hand now a focal point of sensation that makes something twist in his gut in anticipation.
Sure enough, Xiaoge leads him into their bedroom, far enough inside that when he finally lets go of Wu Xie’s hand to turn back and quietly shut the door behind them, it leaves Wu Xie standing bereft somewhere between him and the bed, the empty space between them somehow magnified. Unsure of what to do with himself, he simply waits, watches as the door closes with a hushed click and Xiaoge turns to face him, his dark eyes made clearer with burnished hues of amber as the sun casts its light onto his unaging face. Wu Xie waits, his senses heightened, as Xiaoge moves forward towards him at a sedate pace, feeling pinned in place by the intensity of his gaze. The space between them dwindles to nothing with every step he takes, until he stops, so close that their noses almost touch and their breaths mingle, warm against each other’s lips. Wu Xie’s hands rise of their own accord, hovering above Xiaoge’s waist, not yet touching, but only just. For a moment, neither of them moves, nor do either of them try to speak, words unneeded, nothing but the heat of nearness and the one that rises, low and steady at Wu Xie’s core the longer time between them seems suspended in motion.
It’s Xiaoge who finally breaks the stalemate, and time resumes as he closes the short distance to press their lips together, his lingering kisses chaste and sweet, the pressure of them so light they do little more than send pleasant shivers down Wu Xie’s spine as he returns them. He feels as Xiaoge’s hands settle at his waist, his calloused fingers coaxing goosebumps to rise where they skim the expanse of Wu Xie’s bare skin, ghosting past his ribs then drifting back down again at a leisurely pace, all as he gently nips at Wu Xie’s lips, his teeth grazing the tender skin of them. Wu Xie’s own hands have dropped to Xiaoge’s waist, his grip on them tightening then loosening with each pass of his thumbs that roughly slide back and forth across his hips even as Wu Xie gives in to the need to tilt his head, deepening the kiss. He lets Xiaoge’s tongue slip into his mouth, languid and familiar, to slide against Wu Xie’s and tease at the skin behind his teeth, drawing a quiet groan that stays half-lodged in his throat as he presses closer, bringing them chest to chest.
Time slips between the cracks of Wu Xie’s fractured awareness, dwindling down to the feel of Xiaoge against him, and the warm heat that suffuses him inside and out the longer they stand there, cocooned in the quiet, simply kissing and nothing more. Slowly, without even quite meaning to, they eventually press close enough that Wu Xie’s hips brush more firmly against Xiaoge’s, enough to know that he’s grown half-hard in his underwear, and that he can feel Xiaoge’s answering hardness brush against his belly through the soft cotton of his pants—but even that, much as it stokes his growing arousal, isn’t enough to urge Wu Xie to act on it. It’s only when he feels Xiaoge begin to push him gently back without breaking their kiss that Wu Xie’s awareness slowly returns, and he allows himself to be guided, trusting Xiaoge to lead him further into the room, until the back of Wu Xie’s legs meets the smooth frame of their bed behind him, bringing them to a stop. Slowly, Xiaoge finally pulls back, catching Wu Xie’s lower lip between his own, sucking at it lightly while his hands slide upwards along the expanse of Wu Xie’s chest, briefly teasing past his nipples before they reach his shoulders, gently pushing down on them. Wu Xie lets himself be sat, breaking away from Xiaoge’s lips once the distance grows too great, his eyes opening to see Xiaoge’s heavy gaze on him, pinning him in place even as he tilts his head up to meet it.
Abruptly, their positions remind Wu Xie of the night before, when he’d been sitting just like this on the side of their bed, Xiaoge stood across from him, listening to his drunken ramblings without a word, much like he’s now content to stare at Wu Xie in silence. Wu Xie feels as his cheeks flush more fiercely, so much that with how they’d already been comfortably warm, he can’t hope to hide it from Xiaoge’s discerning eyes. Wu Xie never knows how to prepare himself for the things Xiaoge does in these moments—though he’s aware that behind his inscrutable gaze, there is always intent in the choices he makes, sometimes, their bold honesty still throws him for a loop. Even this long after they’d ‘gotten their shit together’ (Pangzi’s words, not his), it’s as if Wu Xie can’t accept the affection that Xiaoge gives out so freely for all it’s never been overt. Wu Xie has wondered in his weaker moments whether what he offers Xiaoge in return is enough, despite knowing Xiaoge believes it to be so, though he’s never said it in so many words.
It’s why Wu Xie isn’t quite prepared to see Xiaoge gracefully slide to his knees before him, gently pushing Wu Xie’s legs apart to settle between them. Before he can offer anything more than a choked hitch of breath, Xiaoge looks back up towards him, his hands sliding up Wu Xie’s inner thighs to settle hot and heavy at the seam of his legs. Wu Xie’s arousal spikes sharply, his eyes widening, transfixed—
“Me too.” Xiaoge’s voice comes in a deep rumble, the sound of it low and sudden enough that Wu Xie’s gut clenches with the rush of heat it ignites. Despite how he can feel himself harden even more, he can’t help but be confused at what Xiaoge means.
“What…?” he asks, breathless.
Xiaoge’s eyes, dark as they are, crinkle slightly at the corners, his gaze heated yet full of sudden tenderness. Wu Xie’s breath catches at the sight for a different reason entirely.
“Wu Xie. You’re my favorite person.”
‘Y’know you’re my favorite person, don’ you?’
The memory hits him the moment Xiaoge’s words register. Wu Xie wants to be embarrassed—and part of him is, his cheeks so hot they may as well be burning—but a larger part of him sees Xiaoge’s carefully chosen words for what they are. This time, it’s Wu Xie’s chest that tightens. He nods slowly before he’s even fully aware of it, not entirely sure at what—perhaps it’s acknowledging Xiaoge’s feelings, or perhaps it’s Wu Xie reaffirming his own, confirming for however embarrassing the display had been, his own words hadn’t been the product of his drunken mind. Wu Xie’s hand finds its way to Xiaoge’s face, sliding behind his ear to cup the back of his head with infinite care, a way to ground himself as much as a way to return Xiaoge’s words with something of his own, wordless but no less genuine. After that, Wu Xie is powerless to stop Xiaoge from doing what he wants—he’s only human, and there’s little he can do besides offer himself for the taking.
Wu Xie nods again, swallowing audibly, his senses heightened in anticipation. Xiaoge, who always seems to understand him one way or another, says nothing, though the sharpness of his gaze softens further before he pushes up from between Wu Xie’s knees to press one more lingering kiss to his lips, then sinks back down, spreading Wu Xie’s legs further as he goes. His hands come to tease at the waistband of Wu Xie’s underwear, dipping beneath it in small caresses before he finally hooks his fingers to pull the fabric down, down, until the tip of Wu Xie’s half-hard cock, already red with arousal, slips out, only stopping once it sits nestled at the base, leaving all of him exposed to Xiaoge’s knowing eyes.
Wu Xie watches as Xiaoge slides the tips of his abnormally long fingers along the length of his cock, the touch barely there, but meticulous in a way that abruptly reminds him of how he’s seen him slide those same fingers along the edges of tomb walls. The comparison feeds his arousal like oil would fire—Wu Xie bites his lip to hold back the aborted groan that threatens to escape him while he watches, transfixed, the way his cock swells in response against Xiaoge’s fingers. He watches as those same fingers slowly come to circle the bottom ridge of the reddened tip, the callouses on them catching at the delicate, sensitive skin, and this time Wu Xie fails to hold back the quiet gasp that forces its way out of him at the sight and sensation both, the intensity of the pleasure belying how little Xiaoge has had to touch him to make him want so desperately. Xiaoge continues to slide his fingers along what seems like every inch of Wu Xie’s cock, doing nothing more, content to wait until Wu Xie is fully hard and aching beneath his fingertips, until he’s powerless to stop his soft sounds of pleasure, and precum begins to bead at the tip.
It’s only then that Xiaoge finally pulls away his fingers, but Wu Xie has no time to mourn their loss. Before he can even think to catch his breath, Xiaoge has already leaned forward to press a chaste, lingering kiss to the tip of his cock, making sure to wipe all the precum away with his lips as he does, only to watch as more wells up to replace it. Wu Xie groans at the sight, low and choked, and bites into his lip harshly, watching as Xiaoge presses more gentle kisses to the head of his cock, then moves to do the same to the hard length of it, sinking all the way down to the base where the waistband of his underwear rests before kissing his way back up slowly, the lack of urgency maddening. After what feels to Wu Xie like an eternity, Xiaoge finally reaches the tip once more, and pauses to look up at him. Wu Xie doesn’t know what face he makes that turns Xiaoge’s expression darker still, the weight of his gaze pinning Wu Xie like a butterfly on a board, but he resolutely keeps his eyes on Wu Xie’s as he finally, finally sinks down to take the head of Wu Xie’s cock into his mouth, lightly sucking at it.
Unable to tear his eyes away from Xiaoge’s, Wu Xie can only moan brokenly, the sound brief but sign enough of the overwhelming surge of pleasure he feels while all at once, his grasp on Xiaoge’s nape tightens. He lets his hand slide into Xiaoge’s hair, grabbing at it instead, desperate to ground himself as Xiaoge slowly begins to sink down onto Wu Xie’s cock, the tight, wet heat of his mouth almost unbearable, only second to his heated gaze that never once strays from Wu Xie’s, and that Wu Xie is powerless to turn away from. From there, the pleasure only swells, rising in him like a relentless tide. He doesn’t know when his breathless gasps and moans start to fit the shape of Xiaoge’s name, only knows that he whispers it, pleads it while Xiaoge lets Wu Xie fuck his mouth, controlling the torturously slow pace; only knows how the soft fabric of Xiaoge’s hoodie against his arms seems to brush against his every wired nerve, overwhelming yet warm as an embrace. He only feels when somewhere, somehow, without his knowledge, the pleasure reaches its peak, cresting like a gentle wave at high tide as he comes down Xiaoge’s throat with a quiet cry; only feels his grip on Xiaoge’s hair loosen, feels him slowly slide back up the length of his cock, sucking at the head while Wu Xie rides the aftershocks of his orgasm, only letting his cock slide from his mouth once the pleasure begins to edge into too much.
For a moment, neither of them moves; Wu Xie pants, left breathless in the aftermath, with Xiaoge’s eyes on his the color of purest ink, the roaring qilin blazing dark against his slightly damp skin. Then, Wu Xie’s hand slides back down to Xiaoge’s nape, his thumb swiping at the skin there, his eyes wide as he simply calls out, “Xiaoge…”, his voice an almost whispered entreaty. Without having to ask, Xiaoge understands. He surges upwards, capturing Wu Xie’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss, rougher than their previous ones, and though it’s never brutal, it’s proof enough that Xiaoge’s own desire is still alive and well. Wu Xie groans into the kiss when he realizes he can taste himself on Xiaoge’s tongue, and lets his hands slide down to Xiaoge’s tensed arms braced on Wu Xie’s thighs, coaxing him to come sit beside him on the bed. Xiaoge complies, finally breaking the kiss to rise to his feet between Wu Xie’s legs, though not for long—he settles on the bed, legs splayed open with his feet on the ground, twisting to pull Wu Xie into another kiss, all while Wu Xie shakily fumbles with the waistline of Xiaoge’s pants that he tugs at unceremoniously, Xiaoge’s hard cock finally slipping from its confines, the tip already wet with precum just from giving Wu Xie head. It makes Wu Xie wonder, briefly, as he slowly pulls away from Xiaoge’s now red lips, if one day they’ll reach a point where one of them will come untouched simply from the act of pleasuring the other, and it sends a phantom pang of want coursing through him. For now, seeing proof that Xiaoge had enjoyed himself as much as he had is enough—it only makes Wu Xie want to return the favor even more. He takes Xiaoge’s cock in hand, hot against his already damp palm, taking care to spread the precum across the tip with his thumb before he slowly begins to slide his closed fist up and down the length of it, and asks, low and hoarse against Xiaoge’s lips,
“What do you want?”
“Your hand,” comes the answer, immediate, Xiaoge’s voice little more than a low rumble that sweeps through Wu Xie like another wave of heat.
“Ok,” he whispers, their noses brushing as Wu Xie tilts his head to kiss him once more, all while he continues to stroke Xiaoge’s cock, letting him thrust into the circle of his hand, making sure to swipe his thumb against the ridge of the head as he does. Wu Xie eventually lets his kisses stray away from Xiaoge’s mouth, trailing them down his jawline and along his pulse, at his throat where he feels him swallow, all the way to his shoulder where the bold lines of the qilin run rampant, stark against his pristine skin. At one point, he looks up to see Xiaoge staring at him still, his eyes so dark the pupils have all but disappeared, mouth open in silent pants interspersed with low groans that sink into Wu Xie like so many claws, and if he hadn’t just come, he’d likely be hard again from this alone. It doesn’t take long for Xiaoge’s hips to stutter, their steady rhythm broken as he reaches his own peak, one swipe more of Wu Xie’s thumb against the swollen tip of his cock enough to send him over the edge, coming on both his and Wu Xie’s bare chests. Wu Xie continues to stroke him as he eases down from the high, rising back up to kiss him as Xiaoge’s light panting slowly calms, and their open-mouthed kisses dwindle to gentle swipes of lips, and even those slow until finally, they pull back, and like at the very start, it’s nothing but the barely-there touch of their noses and their warm breaths mingling, this time joined by the subtle slant of Xiaoge’s eyes, crinkled in happiness, and Wu Xie’s own soft answering smile.
The feeling Wu Xie has now, nestled in his chest as he presses one last quick kiss to Xiaoge’s lips before nudging him towards the shower isn’t one he can name, not really. He feels lighter, he thinks, somehow, as if a weight he hadn’t known was there has been lifted, leaving him to float where he’d once trudged along, but it’s been a long time since Wu Xie’s felt as though there was anything in his life so heavy to carry. He tries to make sense of it as he strips off his borrowed hoodie, as he cleans himself and restrains himself from kissing Xiaoge again under the steady stream of warm water (they both fail in that regard, and the shower predictably lasts longer than originally intended).
It’s only when they finally manage to dress, both in some form of loose shorts and a shirt, and make their way downstairs to huddle together on the porch despite the heat, Xiaomange emerging from the living room to join them, that Wu Xie thinks he might understand. There are many things in his heart that he’d thought he’d made peace with, burying them as surely as sand and time have buried some of his more nefarious deeds; it remains something of a truth, though perhaps, Wu Xie considers, it may need some fine tuning. There has always been a part of him—perhaps the same one that looked in affronted fascination at Zhang Qiling all those years ago and even then felt there was a divide between them that he’d convinced himself to bridge—that believed that he and Xiaoge didn’t belong to the same plane of existence. Wu Xie has told himself often enough that he’s nothing more than a passerby in Xiaoge’s life, and to an extent, it’s not untrue. However, he realizes now as he presses close against Xiaoge’s side that in deeming himself unworthy of Xiaoge’s friendship and affection, he’s allowed his own insecurities to rise from the graves he’d built for them, tainting his own perception. He’s been unfair to himself, convinced as he was that they were not on equal footing however much Wu Xie knows his feelings are returned; but he’s been unfair to Xiaoge as well, doubting, he realizes, in some capacity, of how deep those feelings run for him in turn.
Wu Xie has never pretended to know every part of Xiaoge’s mind, and only a fool would claim to see through a person so thoroughly. He does, however, trust him unconditionally. It’s likely Wu Xie will never speak a word of what he’d let slip drunk again, and will likely never be bold enough to confess the depth of his feelings to Xiaoge so openly. It doesn’t mean that his words hadn’t been heartfelt, or that the irrational doubt of his own worth hadn’t been genuine. It does mean, however, that he cherishes that Xiaoge returned them all the more, in one fell swoop releasing Wu Xie from the final self-imposed shackle he’d never managed to break.
‘Y’know you’re my favorite person, don’ you?’
‘Wu Xie. You’re my favorite person.’
Wu Xie smiles, letting his eyes fall shut, head cushioned on Xiaoge’s shoulder as he listens to the cicadas lull him back to sleep.
‘I know.’