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Lan Sizhui’s long, black eyelashes caught tears as he momentarily held his eyes closed. Jin Ling sat, beside him, silently, hand clasping so warmly, -- so gently --, within the other’s. Their slow paced heartbeats must have certainly been synced, in that moment.
The two of them, with their hair down, had their backs against the wall alongside Sizhui’s bed. Jin Ling’s mane was noticeably longer, even having warmth to it. Not truly being a Lan by birth, Sizhui’s was lacking in a few inches. He, however, looked the part: beauty abound, fair as fair could be. He even spoke elegantly, when he afforded to, like a prince of far off fantasy. No doubt, his adoptive father, Lan Zhan, played a great part in the young man’s cultivation.
Jin Ling, on the other hand, was always practically real royalty. This was quite evident even before he, himself, took over as a sect leader. (He now oversaw a section of the Lanling Jin Clan, with a fierceness rumored to have originated from his late maternal grandmother, or, her son: his no-nonsense Uncle Jiang Cheng.) Ling’s autumn-golden clothes contrasted quite nicely with Sizhui’s white ones. The baby blue of the stitched clouds within Sizhui’s headband were outshone by the red ribbons that tied the tips of Ling’s sun-soaked, dark brown hair. They really did, at the very least, suit each other in appearance.
It was possible there was a lot to say, between the two; but, there were no words. Though, they stayed only close enough to keep their hands locked. Occasionally, whilst mindlessly watching the candlelight, the fire would seem to grow dull, and the two would spare the other a glance. From the center of the room, the magic flame danced, as if celebrating its life. It resided atop an ornately carved table, stacked with the loggings of young cultivators.
That day, before Jin Ling arrived, Lan Sizhui had been reading his student’s caligrified journalings, semi-anxiously. Though he felt inspired by their ever-growing progress, he longed quite greatly to see again the one he humbly ached for. But, now, thankfully, he could finally rid himself of his distracting worry. Jin Ling, as if overcome by a similar feeling, found his will urging himself towards the Gusu Lan Sect’s Cloud Recesses to see his old friend.
Those days, Sizhui had been staying up late, -- hopelessly anticipating a visit from his love --, and his eyes felt heavy, already. All those nights of begging the ancestors for guidance had long since drained him of any semblance of energy. He tried to not sleep, but his head nodded. After reuniting, it felt as if his head were going to bob away from him. Finally, an oceanic relief had stolen his drive to overwork himself. He still did his best to not snooze away his time with the man whom he had been awaiting.
If he were to stay up, however, what would they get up to, aside from flame-gazing? Maybe, for now, there was nothing to say, -- and that was becoming more and more plausible. They had spent quite a while trying to find their words, and the curfew of the Gusu Lan Sect had long since passed. What would come the following day was not a topic either wanted to bring up. While mulling over things to discuss, something familiar stirred within the snowy skinned Lan’s heart. He squinted, with pale blue eyes, at Jin Ling as if the wealthy man were brighter than the flame they had been falsely captivated by.
“A-Ling, I… Love you more than I know how to express.”
In response, Jin Ling almost spit his lungs out onto the porcelain-made face before his own. He began gruffly coughing, and his strong hand briefly flung out from beneath the elegantly thin one draped, like a silk scarf, over it. He almost said something, but swallowed it with a prideful gulp, as if he knew he would regret plan-lessly speaking. He simply aggressively nodded, grimacing, obviously struggling to form a smile with his unsteady lips.
Eyes wide, momentarily, Sizhui’s face soon fell back into its composure. He had no clue how to say more, and he simply continued crying, exhausted from the day… From the week. … From any time he spent without the one he loved. With Uncle Wen Ning, the current head Ghost General -- of the once infamous Yiling Patriarch (read: Uncle Wei, or ‘Mom’) --, it felt different. Yes, Sizhui was glad to have someone by his side from his youth, (-- from when he lived out his toddlerhood in the Qishan Wen Clan)…. But, being with Ling, his heart sang a different song. -- It was as if he’d learned a new, harmonious melody without ever practicing a fresh hymnal.
Closing his drying eyes, the Lan let a tune flow from his throat through his nose. It was sweet, and sad; and, if it had a taste, it would be a flavor similar to the scent of purple lilies and baby's breath. He wondered if Ling found it odd, or charming, to be serenaded by a half-asleep crying man. How would his people see him, if they took note of how vulnerable he currently, and shamelessly, exposed himself to be?
Jin Ling became emboldened, his hand freeing itself, once more, from its connection with Sizhui’s. He cupped it on the crying one’s shoulder, pulling him in close for a hug. As Sizhui, shocked, even though only slightly, was held in that uncomfortable position, he choked out a pained laugh. His sleeved arms wrapped around the other, their formal wear folding and creasing in ways that only battle would do. He climbed on top of Ling, similar to how he would cling to others’s legs, when he was just a babe. But, now, he was doing so to Ling’s torso.
They lay there, on Sizhui’s bed, holding each other, still no words coming to mind. But, for now, it was probably for the best. ‘[Don’t speak without necessity],’ and all that.