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It’s nothing special.
They have been out for most of the day, opting to spend it exploring the little town they were staying in. There is a thin layer of dust on both of them. Xiao Xingchen’s pristinely white robes still stand out profusely, the fabrics heavy and not easily marred. He moves and his long hair swings behind him like ink coming to life over a clear canvas.
It’s nothing special.
A gaggle of children surrounds them at a turn, and Song Lan makes space, knowing Xingchen’s is always ready to entertain the little ones. They ask him for stories, ask to see his sword, ask him to play with them.
It’s not particularly entertaining.
Song Lan watches the other man yield to most of the inquiries, barring maybe only the one about the sword. Shuanghua rests on its wielder’s back, the silver encrusted lines on the handle gleaming in the setting sun.
Song Lan gaze travels from his face to his hair, the shorter strands framing his face, a stroke of piě on one side, and the finishing arch on the other drawn expertly by the finest calligrapher.
It’s nothing special.
Xiao Xingchen smiles and laughs along with the kids, and Song Lan watches the way his eyes crinkle with it, the emotion there free and pure, the uptick of his smile a delicate tí.
Beautiful like the distant moon.
He thinks of the kiss they shared before coming to this town, the quiet peace of the clearing when he took Xingchen’s wrist and brought it to his lips and made a promise. He thinks about the way the usually perfect shù of Xingchen’s spine curved under his touch when Xingchen whispered the promise back and ceased his face with his hands and claimed his lips with a kiss.
The mere thought makes Song Lan’s heart race.
The emotion, the content filling his chest as he watches Xiao Xingchen is almost unbearable. He wants to burst with the enormity of it, with the way it seems to press behind his heart like a rosebud swollen with constant nourishment. If Song Lan had one shed less of self-control, he would have trembled with the force of it.
It’s nothing special.
They’ve been staying in this town for two days now, and every night Xingchen would wind his arms around his neck, and Song Lan would exhale into the curve of his neck and sleep and dream and wonder.
He opts to return to the real world as he redirects his gaze towards the stalls along the street. There is one that stands out because the vendor seems to be calling out in a different language every now and then, and Song Lan pauses next to it, intrigued.
The town is close to the borders, so it isn’t all that unusual.
The vendor is selling food and drinks. They look similar to local ones but differ just enough to catch attention.
There is a tray covered with a thin almost see-through cloth, and Song Lan can make out little round spheres. They are dusted with flour and slump a little bit looking to be soft. The vendor smiles at Song Lan, a young maiden with a toothy grin, her hair bundled into two messy buns on the sides of her head.
“Would mister like some sweets? It’s a recipe from Chaoxian. Rice cakes we call them, filled with anko. Ah, red beans! I have some with other fillings too, but I personally think anko is the best,” she chatters happily, her accent making her words sound a bit drawled, which probably suits her well as a vendor. “We also have some buns with meat here, aren’t you hungry? Oh! And rice wine. Our Chaoxian wine is different from yours here! A must-try when you’re so close to the borders!”
Song Lan glances to where she is gesturing out of pure politeness, the jars sitting to the side.
His gaze travels back to the sweets though. He has no taste for them, but Xiao Xingchen does. Should he pick some up for later?
They look soft. Song Lan is sure he hasn’t seen anything similar before.
“You know,” the girl offers, having judged his interest quickly, her tone conspiratorial, “an anko rice cake represents love. It’s soft and squishy, and just sweet enough to convey the feelings a loved one inspires in one’s heart!”
She doesn’t look old enough to know much about the ways of heart, but Song Lan nods anyway. What does he know?
Is that how love is supposed to feel?
Does he feel soft and squishy because of Xiao Xingchen?
He thinks about the way he relaxes in the other’s embrace, the way he wants to yield to Xingchen’s kiss every time their lips touch, soft and loving and happy.
They’ve shared a total of three kisses, and Song Lan wonders at the lightness in his chest.
There are no parts in Song Lan that are soft or squishy, or sweet for that matter, but holding Xingchen is like hugging a cloud of warmth, a plot of equanimity in the stormy waters, even though there are no parts in Xingchen that are soft either, his body lean and strong and layered with muscles after years of cultivating under the guidance of an Immortal.
He thinks of the way Xingchen’s hair frames his face, the way his lips uptick in the loveliest of smiles.
Thinks of the round distant moon, a white sphere in the sky.
The cakes would make a pitiful comparison to it, but Xingchen likes sweets and they are near the borders.
“I will take some,” Song Lan says.
The girl grins and gets out a small bag.
Song Lan glances at Xingchen, the movement almost involuntary at that point, and he is surprised to find the other man already closing in, his eyes wide and bright with joy.
It’s nothing special.
“Zichen,” he calls. “Oh! What is that?”
He sounds so delighted, Song Lan suddenly wishes that he were soft and squishy because then he’d be able to crawl somewhere and be crushed into a splatter instead of battling with his restless thoughts.
It's almost embarrassing.
“Rice cakes, mister!” the girl shifts her attention with practised ease. “We sell Chaoxian-style food! Your friend here just bought some.”
She recites all the same points she did before, adding the names of fillings that she keeps mispronouncing in her own language. She gestures to the wine too, and Song Lan knows Xingchen isn’t just being polite as he nods along, his expression open and attentive.
He is a good person like that.
It’s nothing special.
The gaze of Xingchen’s eyes is the morning mist before sunrise, but when light is caught in it, it’s ethereal. It travels across the stall, the food, the sweets, the jars of wine, and then finds Song Lan.
Then he looks at the bag, now sitting snugly in Song Lan’s hand.
“You should try one!” the girl prompts, seemingly excited to spread her culture.
“Dinner first,” Song Lan says, his mouth operating on auto-pilot when it comes to Xingchen and sweets.
“Ah,” Xingchen gasps softly, feigning outrage, “as if I would, Zichen.”
He absolutely would, Song Lan knows. Esteemed Daozhang Xiao, the gentle breeze and the distant moon, the grace of all the things Song Lan considers to be refined and dignified. His eyes sparkle with childish excitement, his brows draw together ever so slightly, nearly imperceptibly.
To Song Lan, he looks almost petulant.
With a private sigh, mostly aimed at himself, Song Lan angles his wrist slightly.
Xingchen doesn’t grin or betray his innocence in any other way, besides immediately reaching into the bag and picking up one of the splotches of white with long pale fingers.
“Ah! It’s so soft!” his laughter is so thrilled, Song Lan knows he’ll let him eat the whole bag if he asks.
Xingchen bites into the cake and hums, his eyes flattering close for a moment. He chews slowly, a smile already starting at the corners of his lips. When he speaks, there is a trace of white powder over his mouth, and he gestures with the rest of the little cake in Song Lan’s direction.
“Zichen! This is so good! And chewy!”
Song Lan blinks down at it.
Xiao Xingchen’s index finger and thumb are dusted with white too, and the cake is squished after his bite to almost half of its original size. Song Lan can make out the red paste inside. Xingchen’s wrist is angled upwards, mirroring Song Lan’s own with the bag.
Song Lan is almost tempted to pluck it out of his fingers, but they are in public. What are the rules here?
Sharing a tiny soft cake in the middle of the street is certainly a bit much.
There is a pause, then Xingchen’s eyes widen slightly, his gaze landing on the half-eaten sweet, and Song Lan can see the point, where his mind comes to the same conclusion.
Xingchen makes a soft sound and then brings it to his lips to finish.
Song Lan is not staring.
“Would you like some more?” he asks because, for a moment, nothing else exists in his mind.
Xingchen is still chewing the cake down as he shakes his head lightly.
He swallows and says, “After dinner,” with an even softer smile.
“Ah! What about dinner? We have food proper for dinner also!” the vendor girl pipes in. “Aren’t misters hungry?”
Song Lan shares a glance with Xiao Xingchen. They have been up and walking the whole day, both not overly bothered by not eating, but it was getting late indeed.
The conversation between them is silent, cultivated with months of travelling alongside, unguarded eyes and half-smiles.
“What would little sister recommend?” Xingchen asks then.
He still has a speck of white in the corner of his lips.
As if sensing Song Lan’s gaze, Xingchen wipes at it with the thumb of his other hand, the gesture thoughtless.
Song Lan holds the little bag with the sweets, while Xingchen picks some proper food. The price isn’t too high by the end of it, and the vendor girl seems pleased with herself. She keeps pointing at things, insisting they should try this and that and, of course, that one.
Xingchen seems to enjoy her enthusiasm. They chat about food back and forth, and Song Lan doesn’t know what his expression is like while he watches, but it must be something, because when Xingchen glances at him again, his smile widens, as if he is pleased to see him (where would he even go?).
No other place Song Lan’d rather be.
As they pay and prepare to depart, the girl hands Xingchen one of the jars. “A present! You bought so much, kind mister!”
Xingchen tries to refuse, but she insists. “This is,” she says a word that isn’t lengthy on itself, but Song Lan isn’t sure he’d be able to recreate it, “ah! You can call it takju for short! Our Chaoxian rice wine. Perfect for a summer evening in a pleasant company.”
Xingchen thanks her and takes it then. He turns to look at Song Lan again, his expression mixed, as if flustered. “Well, if it is for a pleasant company.”
It’s nothing special.
“Yes. Yes! And the rice cakes would go perfectly with it! Rice cake is for love and takju is for courage!”
Xingchen missteps and Song Lan glances at him curiously, even though his heart skips at that.
The bag in his hand is light, filled with soft and squishy things.
“Alright?”
Xingchen nods and smiles. “Mhm. Let’s get back, Zichen. Now that I’ve talked about food at such length, I’m hungry too.”
Song Lan has nothing to argue for, so they do.
The wine is sweet.
They’ve left a window open to let some cool air in, and the vendor didn’t lie.
The liquor is smooth and tangy and perfect for a summery evening, and if Xingchen’s pleased expression is anything to go by it goes with the rice cakes perfectly.
It also, because of its sweetness, is quick to make them inebriated almost without their notice. Although, that might have to do with the general feeling of peace that has settled over them over the past couple of days.
Song Lan watches Xingchen toy with the sweets as he leans forward to re-fill his cup. Xingchen hums in appreciation, but his eyes are set on the rice cakes, and his smile is just that less restrained now that they are behind closed doors and slightly drunk.
Xingchen picks one of the rice cakes with his chopsticks and shows it to Song Lan, squeezing it slightly.
“This is adorable,” Xingchen says with conviction.
Song Lan watches the way his cheeks redden, heated by the wine, and agrees.
The way Xingchen holds his chopsticks right in front of his face as he keeps squishing at the rice cake makes two héng lines. That, placed with the piě and the arch of his bangs, makes a lopsided yuè.
The moon is lopsided because it’s drunk, obviously.
Xingchen takes a bite from the cake. His lips are dusted with white powder and he licks them before tsking. “Sticky.”
It is, because Song Lan’s mind is stuck on his lips.
Xingchen squints at him, noticing his gaze, and smiles. “Zichen?”
“Your face is a moon,” Song Lan says, very serious.
Xingchen chews the cake slowly, his expression turning thoughtful. Then he swallows it down.
“Round?” he asks.
Song Lan hides the twitching of his lips behind his cup.
Xingchen’s eyes widen comically. “Song Zichen, do you think my face is round?”
He reaches for another rice cake, but squeezes it too hard and breaks the outer layer. It doesn’t seem to bother him too much, because he huffs, puts the chopsticks down and takes the cake with his fingers.
Song Lan’s eyes trail after his hand, distracted.
Xingchen eats the soft cakes in halves, but this one, because it’s already ripped, he takes and pulls apart, slender fingers holding it from both sides. He seems fascinated with the red paste inside and the way the dough stretches slightly.
Song Lan shifts his gaze to his lips because they are now close to his fingers.
That’s the only reason he notices the way Xingchen’s tongue darts forward into the paste when he brings one half to his mouth.
The heat in Song Lan’s chest has nothing to do with the wine.
“Round like a moon,” Xingchen muses after he swallows the cake down.
He gets up and goes to the window, one smooth motion, his lean frame as elegant as ever. Song Lan makes a conscious effort not to follow him with his eyes, and it feels like a physical exert.
Xingchen’s face isn’t round, but even in a pleasantly drunken state Song Lan wouldn’t be bold enough to disclose he likens every fine detail in his friend to ink strokes. He catalogues them in his mind with the ease of a man who was raised in a Temple. He has little taste for drawing, but privately he thinks, given an opportunity, he would have painted Xingchen with his eyes closed.
“Zichen,” Xingchen calls, “quick, come here.”
Song Lan turns to him. Xingchen is standing by the window, head tilted backwards slightly, the curve of his bared neck a long wān.
When Song Lan comes closer, bewitched gladly and readily, Xingchen has this look on his face, a mixture of mischief and calculation, as he glances back over his shoulder.
Song Lan can lean forward and kiss him, white powder and sticky lips and all.
That would be kiss number four.
“The moon isn’t round tonight,” Xingchen announces as if it were a carefully concealed secret.
“Yeah? What is it like then?” Song Lan asks as if he can’t possibly look out the window himself.
He feels like he can’t.
Xingchen’s eyes sparkle. In the dim light of the room, they are darker than usual but still beautiful.
Unguarded.
Xingchen snickers, then returns to the table, light and almost soundless in his quick movements. He comes back with the soft cake in his fingers and stands close to Song Lan.
He bites into it, then presents the rest to him with an uptick in the corner of his mouth. “Half a rice cake.”
Song Lan is helpless.
The splotch of a cake that rests between Xingchen’s fingers is dusted with white, squished slightly, red paste visible.
A half-moon.
“You haven’t tried one yet,” Xingchen says.
It is the same as by the food stall. His wrist is turned upwards, the soft cake half-eaten. But now they are standing closer, and there is no one there to watch. Their bodies are almost flush, angled towards each other, and Song Lan’s chest is bursting at the seams with the amount of tenderness he feels.
He drags his eyes over the lines of Xingchen’s fingers, his gaze a heavy pillar that he has to push with all his might. He looks at Xingchen’s face, then down at the cake.
“I have not,” Song Lan says.
He leans forward and takes it into his mouth, lips grazing Xingchen’s fingers.
Inappropriate.
The cake is not too sweet, the soft dough around the paste is chewy, and it leaves a slightly powdery taste in Song Lan’s mouth. It’s nothing special.
Yet, with the way the powder sits against Xingchen's lips, it's everything that has ever mattered.
Xingchen brings fingers to his lips and wipes at something, probably getting the flour off Song Lan’s face.
“Good?”
Song Lan nods, not moving away, eyes only for Xingchen. “Mhm. You just had half of it.”
“Yes, I did,” Xingchen agrees. “It was the last one.”
“We can get more tomorrow before we leave.”
Xingchen licks his lips and hums, his hand still resting against the side of Song Lan’s jaw. “I think I want one now.”
“Oh?”
Song Lan leans forward at the same time Xingchen has to straighten slightly to reach up.
The meeting of their lips is a diǎn at first, a soft speck of softness, dragged slightly to the side, as Song Lan makes sure to get the corner of Xingchen’s mouth, where a white powdery smudge rests. It’s slow and sweet, and everything Song Lan considers to be exquisite.
Soft and squishy rice cakes for love.
Smooth and tangy rice wine for courage.
Xingchen’s tongue swipes at his lips and Song Lan lets it in with a small exhale.
The kiss tastes like flour and red beans and sweet wine.
It tastes like Xingchen, like love, like peace.
Song Lan has no taste for sweets, but this here is the one thing he wants to taste for the rest of his life.
The swipe of Xingchen’s tongue is wān, then xié, then nà, and Song Lan is lost in it. Glad for it.
His hands rest around Xingchen’s middle, and while Song Lan’s mouth yields to Xingchen’s lips, Xingchen’s whole body yields to him, arching, shifting closer, tilting the usually perfect strokes of the brush that had painted him.
And Song Lan finds the new lines to be perfect too, and he doesn’t mind learning all of them anew.