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“Ah— A-Xuan, what’s this?”
Miao’er is rather more used to walking in on her husband-to-be pouring over a pile of scrolls than a mirror, and for some reason that lone difference is enough to make a deep blush cross his face as he stares back at her, clearly not having heard her approach. Not blushing, she realises after a pause, it’s rouge. Though he is flushed red under the paint, it’s unmistakably rouge lying across his cheekbones, and—ah, now she looks closer, it’s obvious. Lips stained a vivid red, a similar colour swept across his eyes.
It’s… Very clearly the result of inexperience and an attempt to copy what he’s seen on Miao’er, and ladies who come by his family’s stall. Miao’er is reminded, endearingly, of trying to copy the way her older sisters painted their faces when she was younger, before she’d finally pestered them into sitting down to teach her.
Usually capable of such eloquence, He Xuan opens his mouth and closes it again. Uncertain, he manages a strained “Miao’er…” and her heart squeezes, sympathy and fondness welling up. Kneeling next to him, she cups his face in gentle hands.
“Go and wash up,” she murmurs softly, unable to resist pressing a kiss to his temple. Silk-smooth hair brushes her lips, and she gives in to her urge to lean in and breathe deeply. He always smells clean, and a little link the paper and ink he spends so many hours surrounded by. When she sits back, her face is as pink as He Xuan’s own. “Wash your face,” she repeats, “and I’ll show you how to do it properly.”
Miao’er thinks he breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn’t push. “It’s that bad?” he asks, and she barely holds back a laugh. Any young man would probably be embarrassed to be caught in such a position, but Miao’er can’t help wondering if a little of it is because he didn’t get it right.
Truly, they’ve known each other too long.
She smiles. “My A-Xuan… So clever, you’ve taught yourself how to do so many things. Let me help with this one, hm?”
He Xuan nods, and soon his face is washed clean and Miao’er is deftly re-applying rouge and powder the way her sisters taught her, explaining out loud as she does. Her fiancé hangs on every word; she’s absolutely certain he’s mentally taking notes. They both know there’s no need, though. He Xuan’s memory has always been outstanding, able to remember anything he’s been shown once or twice, even whole passages of books seemingly printed verbatim into his mind.
“You can help me with mine, now you know what to do,” she teases, and feels his face twitch with amusement as she brushes rouge over one cheek.
He sighs, as if coming to some great realisation. “So that’s why you’re helping, I see. Aiyah, where did my betrothed learn to be so cunning?”
Then she smacks his arm, and he flicks her forehead back, and suddenly both of them are laughing, leaning against each other as they catch their breath. Late afternoon sun trickles through the window, bathing them in delicate golden light. It’s especially breathtaking when He Xuan’s amber eyes catch the sun.
His features have always been somewhat androgynous, she thinks to herself. In the late afternoon light, painted and powdered, he looks downright feminine. Except for his hair, still tied up in a man’s style. She’s reaching for it before she knows what she’s doing.
He Xuan catches her gaze, questioning, but doesn’t stop her.
“Your hair,” Miao’er explains, suddenly wondering if she’s read this wrong after all. “I can… I can do it like mine. If you like.”
His eyes widen a little, like he’s only just remembering that yes, styling hair is something they can do, and then he relaxes and nods. It’s soothing to run the soft strands of hair between her fingers, muscle memory taking over as she combs it out and begins restyling it in the same way she does her own. Truthfully, she suspects He Xuan knows how to do this part already—she knows he’s helped his meimei with her hair enough times—but if both of them are enjoying it, Miao’er sees no reason to stop.
After a while, He Xuan closes his eyes, and he tilts his head into her touch. It reminds Miao’er of the cats who come sniffing around the stalls for scraps, the way they’ll stretch out in the sun when they’re full and sleep without a care of the people coming and going. Part of her doesn’t want to stop what she’s doing even when there’s nothing left to do.
“All done,” she says softly, then pauses. Pulls an ornament out of her own hair, and slides it into his. It’s not expensive or especially fancy, but He Xuan had given it to her, and she treasures it for that. “There. Now I’m done.”
He Xuan is careful as he reaches up to feel her work, light touches so as not to ruin it. Miao’er hands him back the mirror and watches as he tilts it this way and that, examining his reflection until he turns around to look at her and smiles. “Exceptional,” he says, lifting her hand and kissing it. “As expected.”
For the hundredth, thousandth time, Miao’er is overwhelmed, simply staring at the man she’s going to marry. Her best friend, the sweetheart of her youth; when did they get here, teetering on the cusp of a life together? Each day they’re together, she can’t help thinking they must be indescribably lucky to be blessed with such happiness. Yet at the same time, it feels comfortingly inevitable.
Could it ever really have been anyone else?
She knows the answer in the way He Xuan looks back at her. The same warmth, the same joy, the same love is written across his face as clearly as it must be on her own.
“Xuan-gege is very beautiful.” Miao’er means for the words to sound flirtatious, but it falls flat, words caught in her throat and tripping as they land. So many years, and her heart still feels like it might leap out of her chest. “Or is it Xuan-jiejie, now?”
He Xuan swallows. Nervous isn’t an expression she’s used to seeing on him. “What if it’s both? Or—or neither?”
Miao’er kisses him. It’s a little strange; she’s not used to the feel of paint that smudges from his mouth to hers. But it’s familiar, too, in the way only something like this can be. “Then you’re still my A-Xuan,” she decides, and it really does feel as simple as that. She cares less for having a husband or wife than she does being married to He Xuan. She tells him and gets kissed again for her trouble; they break apart giggling and breathless.
Whatever relief she sees in her beloved's eyes when they part, she doesn't comment on. Anything he wants to tell her, he will. They have all the time in the world for it.
“We’re going to be married,” he says, equal parts promise and disbelief.
“We are.”
Both of them are smiling as they kiss again.
“We’ll have a house together…”
“…and help your parents run the stall.”
So close they’re breathing each other’s air, lips almost brushing.
“I’ll go to the capital and take the exams.”
More kisses traded, warm and sweet as honey.
“Write to me every month?”
“I would bring you with me if I could.”
“And then you’ll be a great scholar.”
“And I can take care of you for the rest of our lives,” He Xuan finishes, and they fall together again, and again, and again.