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xie lian wakes up first today. this is unusual; san lang prefers to wake before him, in order to complete the menial tasks puji shrine requires for its upkeep before xie lian can. amusement steals over at him at this tiny victory - perhaps he can finish drawing water for them both before he wakes up.
as if sensing the direction his thoughts have begun to move in, san lang stirs. xie lian feels his muscles twitch next to xie lian’s body, rather than sees: he moves his shoulder blades a little, makes a noise in the back of his throat, and attempts to roll over, only to be met with the planes of xie lian’s front. this sufficiently startles him - he blinks his eyes open and looks at xie lian.
“good morning,” xie lian says lightly, reaching out to thread a hand through hua cheng’s hair. it’s a pity; it doesn’t look like he’ll be able to do the chores today. “did you sleep well?”
hua cheng nods back. resting his weight on his forearms, he pushes himself to an upright position, and then sits there for a moment, eyes open and vulnerable with his post-sleep daze. there is fondness, there in his eyes, when he looks at xie lian, so much that it overflows and spills on the floor of puji shrine, so much that it rises up to xie lian’s ankles and makes him glow.
it hurts. xie lian is accustomed to hurting; he thinks hua cheng is, too. but this is a different type of hurt, a different type of ache, a different kind of love. this is the type of hurt that opens you up; this is the type of love that makes you whole.
after a moment of watching the sunlight filter through the threads of san lang’s messy black hair, leaving a dappled pattern on his red clothes, xie lian gets to his feet. san lang automatically mirrors his action, and with a look, they reach a shared consensus to split the work for today.
xie lian turns to the donation box. hua cheng reaches for the broom. sometimes they talk when they are both working, the two of them and no one else, but now they do not. xie lian picks up scattered, freely-gifted incense sticks that the villagers have given him, and begins to gather them in his hands. hua cheng deftly begins to sweep behind his back. they are in understanding.
he thinks of san lang often now that he knows he can. there are many thoughts that accompany him: quiet thoughts, like him musing about what outfit would look good on san lang as he passes a clothing stall, loud thoughts, like when he wonders if san lang is doing alright with his work as a ghost king, and relentless thoughts, like san lang’s name.
he thinks of san lang’s name often; to him, it has begun to sound like a song. san lang, he thinks wryly, when he notices that hua cheng has already done the work that xie lian wanted to do that day. san lang, he sighs, when he listens to the stories of gods seeing glimpses of the red-clothed calamity in the heavens. san lang, he says absentmindedly in tune to the thrum of his own heart.
my san lang, he thinks sometimes, reminiscing. how lucky we are, for me to be yours, and you to be mine.
and there is much to reminisce about. they have been through so much together, the two of them, and even more apart. they live for a very long time. minutes slip through their fingers like sand, falling into the bottom of the hourglasses their lives are contained in, where more and more sand is poured in with no end in sight. xie lian has forgotten a great deal, but the wounds remain, wounds that smart and fester and sting.
he’s grateful for san lang. xie lian is not lucky, he knows this much, but he thinks that he’s lucky for san lang. san lang walks with him - not always beside him, sometimes one step before or one step behind, but he is there, there as much as someone can be. san lang is sweet and young and honest with xie lian, and he has faults all over, like tiny cracks in a jade figurine, but xie lian is riddled with such cracks himself, patched together with sticky rice and a single devoted prayer.
san lang provides. he comes to xie lian on an ox-driven cart, carries half of all knowledge on the tip of the tongue and the other half in his one gleaming eye. he cups the world’s truths in the swell of his palms and holds them out for xie lian to see the same way he presents small flowers to this old god of his choosing. look at this, he says, look at this beautiful world of ours, because it is yours and mine and ours alone. it could be ours; it is already ours.
and he wants xie lian - wants him in a million thousand hundred dozen different ways, but only wants what xie lian is willing to give, because they would always choose the other first.
i want you, xie lian thinks, dreaming of the time he had kissed the sweep of hua cheng’s eyelashes. i want you, i want you.
i choose you.
he worries, sometimes, that this yearning-pulling-longing will not be enough: that he will begin to forget san lang, the same way he has forgotten so much. but it is the simple, painful twang of loneliness when san lang is gone that reassures him - you will not forget, it promises him. and then: you cannot.
so he takes comfort in that. he counts his small victories and dreams of winning the war, of always being content and happy the way he is now, a god with no luck and a ghost king with all of it.
i would have done anything to be worthy of your regard, san lang had said what felt like a lifetime ago. i still would.
my san lang, xie lian thinks now, i hope i am worthy of yours.
“oh,” he says, when it has grown dark and there is no one outside, not any longer. his back is turned to the door, but he can still hear. “san lang, you’re back?”
the figure in his doorway stops; it appears to be laughing. under the light of xie lian’s lantern emerges san lang, dressed in all red, his glamoured two eyes bright as stars in the night sky. he is taller, today, perhaps a little more lean. xie lian wishes he would grow a little shorter: not much, but a little.
it’s alright. san lang crosses the room and sits by xie lian’s side. he rests his head on xie lian’s shoulder; the god has to crane his neck in order to look at his face. he looks so very young, san lang. not the way xie lian does - differently, in the same way so much of him is different.
xie lian reaches out, and lifts san lang’s chin toward him with a finger. (san lang lets him: he lets him get away with so much.) he draws san lang in, in, in, all the way in for a kiss, tilts his head just so and closes his eyes.
“oh,” san lang sighs, an exhale of air, reverential. xie lian lets him go.
“my dearest,” xie lian says, half-joking, half-serious, wholly in-love. “my darling, my only.”
“i’m here,” san lang says. his knuckles brush against the wooden floorboards for a second before he puts a gentle, feather-light hand on xie lian’s cheek, cups his jaw. he repeats: “i’m home.”
xie lian squeezes his hand. “i know,” he says. “welcome home.”