Chapter Text
The first time it happens, Zhang Qiling has absolutely no idea what to make of it. Decades of raiding the most dangerous tombs on the continent have left him utterly unprepared for this:
Wu Xie, puttering about in a cozy sweater with a steaming mug in hand, leaning in to place a small, quick kiss to Zhang Qiling’s forehead.
Zhang Qiling feels a little bit like his soul is slowly leaking out of his body, the wheeze of breath after a gut punch. His fingers tingle like they do when he’s feeling out a particularly tricky trap.
Does he...does he feel warm?
Zhang Qiling’s hands twitch reflexively on his thighs as he fights the urge to pat his body down. He’s pretty sure he isn’t experiencing some kind of full body hallucination after a grievous injury. After all, he doesn’t remember taking on any tomb assignments lately...but, then again, surely a mortal wound would make more sense than his entire body turning to liquified jello over such a feather light touch?
...maybe he should double check his vitals. Just to be sure.
Wu Xie has already left the room, moving on to wherever he was initially headed, by the time Zhang Qiling finishes his impromptu diagnostic and snaps out of it. Now alone, Zhang Qiling reaches up, infinitesimally slowly, as if afraid of disturbing the quiet settling around him.
As he presses his fingers to where Wu Xie’s lips landed, pushing aside soft strands of hair, Zhang Qiling wonders.
The second time, Zhang Qiling is marginally more prepared. He sees Wu Xie leaning down, his glasses-rimmed eyes focused on the papers he is holding in one hand, and he keeps himself statue still.
In the back of his brain, he muses — who is he actually afraid of scaring off? Wu Xie, or himself?
Wu Xie doesn’t give him much time to reflect, as he is once again gone within moments; the other man is walking off towards his study, if the snippets of off-key singing Zhang Qiling can occasionally pick up are any indication.
Zhang Qiling’s blood still seems to sing at the contact, a thousand songbirds fluttering to life in his veins, for long after the padding of Wu Xie’s feet fades away.
By the third time, Zhang Qiling decides to try something new. It is not fair that only he is having full-body existential crises during these now semi-regular occasions, after all.
Also, he can’t stop thinking about the tidal feeling of awe and something else, something warm and vibrant and unnameable, that floods his senses at each touch.
He stays still as Wu Xie bends down, letting the other man’s smooth lips land softly on his forehead as before. This time, however, Zhang Qiling tilts his head up into the kiss.
The adjustment is minuscule, but both Zhang Qiling and Wu Xie know that the Zhang patriarch has never once moved without intention in his long life.
Zhang Qiling keeps his eyes steadily trained on Wu Xie as the other man straightens, mouth quirking slightly at the bright pink flush spreading immediately and ruthlessly across Wu Xie’s cheeks and ears. This time, when Wu Xie walks away, Zhang Qiling lets himself nurse an odd kernel of pride at the knowledge that the other man’s newly dazed steps are due to him.
Good. It seems the man causing his heart so much distress can be made equally flustered.
The fourth time is entirely Zhang Qiling’s fault, and that is a responsibility he is willing to shoulder gladly.
It’s a few days after what Zhang Qiling is formally thinking of as “incident three.” He’s leaning against the doorframe of Wushanju’s living room, lingering in the threshold as he observes inward. From this vantage point, he can see Wu Xie curled up on the couch, engrossed in a series of what appear to be authentication receipts. Wu Xie’s hair is slightly mussed, as it often gets when he has been absentmindedly running his hands through it while working. A small sliver of tongue peeks out from the corner of Wu Xie’s mouth as he pouts in concentration.
Sometimes Zhang Qiling loves him so much it hurts; sometimes he aches to crack his own chest open to squirrel Wu Xie safely away into the space between his ribs, secure and precious and his.
Zhang Qiling knows what it is to be selfless, to serve up your whole being for ancestors you don’t even remember. Around Wu Xie, he is finding that perhaps he can learn what it means to be selfish, too.
Zhang Qiling enters the room and comes to a pause next to where Wu Xie is hunched over on the couch, looking down fondly at the still-oblivious man below him. He reaches out a careful hand to rest gently on Wu Xie’s messy hair, fingers easily sifting through the wiry strands.
At the sensation, Wu Xie startles slightly, dropping the papers in his hands, before looking up, his intelligent eyes sparking even more brightly to life when he catches sight of the older man next to him. “Xiaoge! What do you need?”
Zhang Qiling doesn’t think he will ever get used to hearing someone saying his name with such affection, with such clear joy at the sight of him. It’s that reminder, as much as any previous planning, that finds him bending his spine to lay a fleeting kiss of his own on Wu Xie’s forehead.
When he pulls back, straightening with near feline grace, it is to the sight of Wu Xie’s eyes going hazy, an out-of-focus smile twinging along his lips. Zhang Qiling feels the edges of his own eyes fold inward, pleased, before he removes his hand and continues calmly out of the room. His exit is made to a soundtrack of surprised spluttering from the couch, and a startled hiss of curse words as what sounds like a drink hits the floor.
Zhang Qiling allows himself the faintest of smirks. Vengeance is sweet.
Later, alone, his hand tracing lightly along his own lips, Zhang Qiling will remember the reverence in Wu Xie’s eyes, and he will wonder.