Work Text:
Sometimes, Xue Meng wants him to say, Meng-er. Or, baobei. Or, husband.
Maybe not the last two ones, especially not the last one, because it hurts his head more than it warms him to think of, and, if he was to hear it in real life, he would surely believe he was trapped in a dream and try to claw his way back to ‘reality’ like a madman.
He will never call him Meng-er. Baobei only appears in restless dreams and when Xue Meng mishears; and Xue Meng has not once thought about husband since the last time he restrained himself from doing so. Although it isn’t like he wouldn’t be struck with intoxicating crush once again and fall into a trance of dizzying heartbeat, pulse in his throat and all he wants to do is to kiss.
But he will never call him Meng-er. He will never go beyond calling Xue Meng the unfamiliar, unintimate young master.
There is a shipwreck in Xue Meng’s heart and it’s Shi Mei – anchoring deep within his chambers and valves and quietly residing until his love rots and spoils; disastrous as his unspoken feelings endlessly overflows and still insists to be hid inside. When self-control becomes a habit, this time it becomes torture.
And yet, Xue Meng knows there is no way he can let those silly feelings out to someone who has never referred to him with intimacy. Even the person who calls him Mengmeng has to be that stupid dog Mo Ran. How unlucky. Maybe it was something he did in his previous life.
Although Shi Mei is gentle to everyone, Xue Meng realizes he’s particularly fond of, again, that dog Mo Ran. Xue Meng doesn’t deny that his crush is unrequited, but each time Shi Mei calls for A-Ran, each time he brushes Mo Ran’s cheek and looks like he’s in helpless love, Xue Meng thinks he will never, at least not in this lifetime, stand a chance.
Still. It’s not easy to drop love just like that.
Still. Whatever he wants to say keeps on getting stuck between his teeth like an annoying piece of sticky meat, except in this case it’s sweet-tasting words that Xue Meng doesn’t dare to spill, words like I like you and I want to hold you that will forever give him a bitter aftertaste.
He really wants to gamble tonight. A simple reckless action of knocking on Shi Mei’s door at sometime around deep midnight, nervous yet unable to hold back, daydreaming in and out about Shi Mei’s pretty peach-blossom eyes: the golden of them reflected under sunshine, the depths of them reflected under moonlight.
Shi Mei peeks from behind the door, letting out a concerned gasp, “Young master, do you need anything?”
This is not the way someone who returns your love would talk, Xue Meng thinks. But he intends to gamble tonight. Xue Meng is in his sleeping robes, slightly disheveled from when he tossed and turned, and he is clutching his pillow to his chest, resembling a little child in front of his parents’ door after a nightmare.
“Shi Mei, can I stay with you?”
Shi Mei smiles. Xue Meng stops breathing, realizes it will redden his face even more, and continues breathing.
“Sure. Is young master afraid of something in your bedchamber? We can go and see together...”
“No, no,” Xue Meng answers hurriedly, “Just let me stay for a night.”
“Oh? Are you feeling lonely?”
How does one say I’m feeling like kissing your lips without those exact words?
“Nonsense,” of course he isn’t. He is the least lonely person in the sect. Although, it certainly is a little lonely to not have the other half of his soul, to have a cavity in his chest that drips with a poison that makes him giddy and conflicted, wondering if Shi Mei is suffering the same. “Do you not remember we used to sleep together when we were younger?”
“Of course I do. Ah, it’s been a while.”
Shi Mei’s voice is honeyed with nostalgia – that is all. Back then, they were children, and Xue Meng has liked him since then, but the most he could do was staring at Shi Mei’s lovely sleeping face until his eyes closed by themselves in fatigue and sleepiness.
“Were you already asleep? Sorry for bothering you,” Shi Mei’s bedchamber is just as how Xue Meng remembers it to be. Nothing has changed, the same way his crush has never progressed in waves, never reaching zeniths and nadirs and only ever steady, as if everything will end if he says, I love you.
“I haven’t slept, don’t worry. What are you standing there for? And why the need for a pillow? You know I always keep a spare one in case you come around,” Shi Mei laughs. Like a breeze. He pats on the pillow, “You haven’t slept on it for some time so it’s clean. Come, lie down with me.”
“Mm. Thanks.”
To just lie down with him and not do anything else, Xue Meng feels thoroughly wronged. This is the person that calls him ‘young master’ even as they are sleeping on the same bed. Xue Meng doesn’t want to do something as passive as just looking at Shi Mei’s sleeping face in silence – at the very least, he wants to kiss his eyelids this time.
In the vague glow of the candle, Shi Mei smiles at him, tender and sleepy. “Young master, how’s Madam Wang’s pregnant cat? I heard the kittens were due this morning; how many were there? Are they cute?”
Xue Meng places his head down on Shi Mei’s spare pillow. It’s softer than the one he brings along. “She’s not pregnant. She’s just fat.”
Chuckle. “You said the same thing a few months ago.”
“Yeah, we were so sure she was pregnant this time, turns out she just got a lot fatter.”
“Is that so. How sad, I was looking forward to pet the kittens.”
“If you want to do that, I can just pick up a few stray kittens for you. No big deal.”
Chuckle. “Young master is really sweet.”
“Meng-er,” Xue Meng whispers, barely audible and barely coherent, his voice restricted by the tight of his throat, the quiver of his tongue; there is blood on his teeth, metallic and bitter, and the dry skin frayed from his lips hangs painfully, torn apart.
Shi Mei doesn’t respond. There is no way he could have heard what Xue Meng said; although the night is quiet, Xue Meng keeps himself quieter than the sway of the night breeze, a pitch lighter than his own breath. Shi Mei closes his eyes.
No – I don’t want to dream away from you.
“Shi Mei.”
“Mm, yes.”
“Did you hear what I said or not?”
“I know young master did whisper something. Since I couldn’t hear it, I thought it must not be for me...”
“You really didn’t hear it?” if he truly didn’t, then there will be no second chance. Xue Meng wishes he could thicken his face and say what he needs to without it being fragmented. Expressing anger, sadness, for Xue Meng, it comes naturally – so why does expressing love have to be so difficult?
“I didn’t...”
It’s gambling night, after all.
“I said, Meng-er, I want you to call me Meng-er.”
Silence, then, and nothing else comes after. Shi Mei’s fingers are clenching the blanket, entwining hard until his knuckles are white, as though it’s Xue Meng’s swollen heart, as though begging him in silence to go on. Xue Meng only breathes. Waits. Shi Mei’s eyelashes quiver.
“Is there anything else?”
“No,” Xue Meng licks the blood off his lips. The pillow is already stained. “Yes.”
“Yes or no, how could I know if you don’t tell me,” with the back of his hand, he covers his softly smiling lips, hiding them from Xue Meng’s biting gaze. Suddenly, Shi Mei gets up, propping his body with his elbow, half-hovering above Xue Meng. “Meng-er.”
He is not asleep. Neither is. This confession is not a fairytale.
“I like you, okay, so give me a goodnight kiss. Um, also, hold my hand. If you let me, I’ll kiss you back. If you don’t let me, I’ll go to sleep.”
Shi Mei is smiling the entire time. For a fleeting moment, he sighs. He holds out a hand to touch Xue Meng’s face; his tips caress him in easy, aching strokes, tracing unseen constellations and mapping invisible hills and valleys on Xue Meng’s cheek, marking himself by leaving traces of his fingerprints all over – then punctuating it with a gentle pinch on his nose.
“Is there anything else?”
“...”
There are lots of other things to say, things that are better to never see the daylight, things that Xue Meng only lets his diary knows, things that he doesn’t know where to begin, things that even Xue Meng has forgotten. For now, just these.
A delicate brush of lips against his own. Like a dragonfly’s touch. Sweet like summertime flowers, soft with a rusty tang.
“I’ll let you. Meng-er.”
Xue Meng lets himself. He can’t be as gentle as Shi Mei, of course; he pulls him down with a little force, not too rough, but their teeth crashed anyway, Xue Meng’s shaky hands coiling around Shi Mei’s draping hair.
“Don’t you like him?”
“Mm? Who?”
“Mo Ran.”
There is nothing and no one with them. At the moment, Xue Meng wants to flow.
“I like Meng-er the most,” his tone is mild and saccharine, so as the kiss on Xue Meng’s forehead, and the hand that slides and weaves with his.
There was a shipwreck in Xue Meng’s heart, but right now, it is no longer.