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Summary
What is this? What is this marvel in front of him? A flower unfolds a flower, but one is alive and one is too beautiful to be alive. It looks like the coldest winter in Dragonspine, snow-covered branches and frozen lakes, delicate icicles and pure, sharp air. Stars encased in glass.
It does not instantly melt when Xingqiu reaches out to take it from Chongyun’s trembling fingers. He must look like an idiot here, a fool with an unreasonably huge grin across his face. Winter strikes him in the chest, once, twice, thrice, and it feels like he’s breathing the right kind of air for the first time. The ice tells a story of being formed through water, shaped and traced by cold fingers, mantras chanted to coax it to grow.
“Happy birthday,” Chongyun says.
OR // Chongyun and Xingqiu as they fall desperately, wholly, for love.