Work Text:
Historians will call them anything but.
Tang Fan.
An identity new to him yet with a patience of others – a familiar soul. Sui Zhou watched the man in front of him, hair down and loose – strands rouge yet neat. He looked to him as the most beautiful person in the world, an opinion he had struggled to understand, the urge to reach out and hold his hand fighting at his mind.
From the first encounter of suspecting him, he knew that he was different, that he was someone important to him. Every other encounter, he had the thoughts and feelings that were special and unique to Tang Fan alone. When he was hungry, he knew, and he wanted to cook for him. When he was lost, in danger, he knew, and he wanted to be able to immediately fight for him.
A foreign feeling of love.
Watching Tang Fan sitting across of him, facing downwards, fidgeting slightly in thought, Sui Zhou reached his hand out, fingers slow and steady. Tang Fan looked up at him, eyes big and wide, expression as innocent and white clouds of angels. “Sui-”
His words stopped when he felt the fingertips graze gently by his cheekbone, right under his eye, and a palm carefully pressed against the rest of his cheek. Sui Zhou tilted his head to the right, gingerly leaning in, fingers from his left hand – gentle by Tang Fan’s face – interlocking with the stray strands of hair he had been yearning to touch. “Tang Fan,” he whispered, his voice shallow and mellow, a soft melody to the ears.
The right side of Tang Fan’s face was lid tenderly by the fire that was brewing, heat warm to the dorsal part of Sui Zhou’s hand. “Tang Runqing,” he whispered again. His nose was dangerously near to Tang Fan’s, the features of the sleuth’s expression clear and crisp. Then his lips pressed against his, solid and confident, and he knew that his feelings were love.
Love.
Tang Fan blinked in reaction, eyes closing as he relaxed in Sui Zhou’s grip, the other, too, closing his eyes. They stayed there, experiencing a luxury worth more than food and perfectly cooked recipes. A blitz in silence, a moment that they shared in peace, flavours bursts of ingredients they shared with each other.
Filled with their experiences of life and death with each other.
They love each other.
But history hates lovers.