Work Text:
Historians will call them anything but.
Lan Jingyi.
Just the thought of the name sent a sensation of nerves spiralling out of control in his body, a shiver that felt too familiar yet too insane to be of truth. The slightest effort misplaced as he practises the pronouncing of his name over and over always triggers him to restart and to try again, putting more of an attempt into perfecting the way the name slipped from his tongue than to train to depths of nights of perfecting cultivation. “Lan Jingyi,” he breathed out with his tongue pressing tightly against his mouth, the tones all tuned to utmost perfection and his lips articulating the letters with accuracy impossible to those who are mere companions.
He was used to the speech of the shortest spell. He was used to the way his tongue would fold over and tumble as it pronounced the sacred characters.
“Lan Jingyi.”
Jingyi heard his name echoing by his ear, a tug that kept him awake in amidst the chaos of trembling rules and a strict manner of time. “Sizhui?” he inquired to the wind, forcing himself to squeeze out of Sizhui’s grip as he turned around to face him, their noses brushing slightly in the warmest encounter. “Are you okay?”
Sizhui was still, his eyes closed with relaxation and his breathing even, yet his lips kept moving to the words belonging to Jingyi – a tag of ownership that he was his own – even when in the deepest parts of sleep. The younger felt a soft touch of Sizhui’s fingers trailing by the hem of his inner robes, and he looked downwards to where their hands were still intertwined, the elder’s fingers poking out from the grip.
Jingyi was never fond of rules, nor traditions, forcing his temper to let him stay awake past hours of curfew and nights of punishments. The familiar sense of home he located was only by the side of Sizhui.
He used his right hand to catch Sizhui’s astray finger, his own fingers caressing the elder’s with calluses from grips he had held too tight.
“Lan Jingyi.”
In return of the crisp sounds that reminded him of love and importance, Jingyi leaned forward as he pressed a soft kiss against Sizhui’s forehead, his lips a touch of care as a delicacy treated by a bloom of flower.
“Lan Sizhui.”
But history hates lovers.