Work Text:
Historians will call them anything but.
“Lan Zhan~” whined Wei Ying, pout lingering at his lips with a strong presentation of faked anger. “Give it back.”
Lan Zhan, fingertips still gently wrapped around the gourd of alcohol, made a short response of sound in return. He still kept hold, unaffected by the younger’s pout, and keeping a sly grin to himself as he heard the continuous complains stringing from the usually vulgar mouth. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” echoed Wei Ying. “Please.”
His eyes stole the show, pupils dilated and twinkles of innocence decorating his iris, forcing Lan Zhan to choke in retaliation of his own will forcing him to move. Instead, he calmly removed the lasting grip of Wei Ying’s hands on his arm, narrowing his eyes in a stern manner, before passing the gourd over to him – his mind scolding himself for giving in too easily. “Thank you!” celebrated Wei Ying, hands immediately reaching to open the mouth for a taste.
Yet the flavours of luxury did not appeal to his tongue, and instead a sandalwood scent overcame his senses, eyes fluttering open in surprise. Lan Zhan had his mouth pressed against his – hand having snatched the gourd away – and his eyes were staring straight into the opal shade of Wei Ying’s. Melting into the sensation, his eyes closed, wrist freed from Lan Zhan’s solemn grip. His lips opened slightly, the quick slip of Lan Zhan’s tongue swiping in catching him off guard, and he felt the bliss lifting him from the ground.
Heads tilting with slight irritation at how they could not fit their noses together without bumping, Wei Ying pulled Lan Zhan with him until his back hit the wall, Lan Zhan’s body pressing against his even more after his weight was suddenly shifted. “Wei Ying,” said Lan Zhan, his head tilted backwards to place a hiatus on their heated kiss. “Your wine.”
“Leave it,” came the brief response, and the conversation was not continued, instead their mouths pressed against each other again.
The alcohol gourd was placed behind the two of them, half-open top stagnant and its contents spilling out from it at the angle it was left at.
Spilling and forgotten, the gourd laid on the floor, bleeding its sweet essence from porcelain as its seal loosened each time a drop escaped. The sounds of love covered its remaining moments of purpose, liquid drying out on the ground.
But history hates lovers.