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Chu Wanning smells the alcohol long before he feels Mo Ran drape his body over Chu Wanning’s shoulders. He’s a heavy weight, pressing down on Chu Wanning’s back, almost bending him in half across the table. Ink smears across his white robes as the fabric brushes against the still wet calligraphy, printing poems into his chest and wrist.
“Wanning,” Mo Ran croons, breath hot against the shell of Chu Wanning’s ear; it makes him shiver as Mo Ran’s breath teases the blood earring pierced through the lobe. “Come drink with This Venerable One.”
“How long have you been drinking already?” He asks, keeping his voice cool even as he feels Mo Ran’s hand slip beneath his collar. “It seems you’ve been content to drink alone this long. Why bother me?
He knows that Mo Ran is no lightweight, has dealt with the man in various states of intoxication in the past and the rapid mood swings those entail, and knows he must surely have been drinking far before he deigned to visit Chu Wanning’s pavilion-prison.
“Does it matter?” Mo Ran slurs. Chu Wanning feels his palm glide across his chest, pausing to trace a thumb across the scar above where his core used to be. Mo Ran’s touch feels hot against Chu Wanning’s skin, but still, he shivers. “This Venerable One is gracious enough to visit his cruel wife, and yet he’s treated like this.”
He pulls back with a sigh, uncharacteristically quick to surrender to his “wife’s” frosty refusal. Chu Wanning is almost surprised. Any other day, Mo Ran would have already bent him over the table and torn his clothes to shreds, painting his skin with reds and white.
He considers leaving Mo Ran to his sulking and returning to his poetry, as much as a lost cause these smeared lines are, but curiosity bites hard enough to turn his head towards where Mo Ran has retreated.
What greets him is not the fearsome emperor he has known for these years imprisoned. Instead, a softer man stares back. Gone is the beaded crown, the high topknot. Mo Ran’s hair hangs loose down his shoulders, a black curtain against the pale shoulders bared by the low neckline of oddly plain robes. A stray strand curls against his cheek, drawing the eye towards charming dimples and damp, pink lips that form a teasing smile.
“Wanning,” he says, voice dark as night and soft as silk. He sways on his feet, unsteady as he raises the gourd to his lip, pouring the clear wine into his mouth. His unsteady hand spills some down his cheek. A droplet trails down his throat. Unconsciously, Chu Wanning finds his eyes drawn to the path it tracks, until it disappears beneath the collar of Mo Ran’s robes.
“Mo-” The word presses against his tongue and is smothered by a hand gripping his chin and tilting his face up. Lips crash into his, and sweet wine fills his mouth. Shock freezes him in place as a tongue forces its way in, urging him to swallow. The hand on his chin slides down to his throat, thumb massaging the length of it until he feels it bob as Chu Wanning obeys.
It burns on its way down, leaves his tongue thick with sweet. Mo Ran does not pull away once he’s swallowed; his tongue continues to explore, as if searching for any last drop of alcohol hidden away.
On instinct, Chu Wanning scrambles for something to steady himself, tangling with Mo Ran’s hair. He tugs, and Mo Ran’s moan vibrates against his lips, rumbles down to his chest.
When Mo Ran pulls away, his lips even wetter than before, a strand of saliva connects the two of them. His dark hair cascades around them, blocking all but that lovely face from sight. A mad grin spreads across his it as he pants, breath hot against Chu Wanning’s burning cheeks.
“It’s your favorite,” Mo Ran says, dark eyes glimmering violet. A pink tongue darts out to swipe across his bottom lip — to savor the wine or the taste of their kiss, Chu Wanning does not know. “Pear Blossom White.”
Chu Wanning’s throat burns; his head swims, dizzy and disoriented. He cannot tell if it is the lack of air to his lungs, or if without his core his once infamous tolerance has disappeared into nothing. Perhaps it’s both.
Mo Ran throws his head back, pouring more wine into his mouth. He drags Chu Wanning up, and the two of them sway together on unsteady feet. When he crashes his lips against Chu Wanning’s once more, it’s sloppier than before. A stray drop escapes, trailing down Chu Wanning’s chin.
Mo Ran pulls back and sighs, his eyes half-lidded.
“I bought it just for Shizun.” He bends down, pressing his lips against Chu Wanning’s pulse, just below where the drop hangs suspended. He drags his tongue up the wet trail it’s left, pausing at the corner of Chu Wanning’s mouth. Against his lips, Mo Ran whispers, “The least you could do is accept it all.”
-and shoves his tongue in.
If Chu Wanning had thought Mo Ran uncharacteristically soft before, then this is the Taxian-jun he has come to know. He plunders Chu Wanning’s mouth as he had Chu Wanning’s everything, ruthless and without pause. He bites at Chu Wanning’s lips until the salt-tang of blood mixes with the sweet liquor, then forces Chu Wanning to suck on his tongue, sloppy and wet.
The dizzying feeling returns; in the haze of it all, one phrase rings in his ears.
I bought it just for Shizun.
The words sting at the back of Chu Wanning’s mind, bringing forth an image of a young boy with rosy cheeks and trembling hands. A small gourd curled against his chest, a present for his new Shizun. He had saved up every last bit of money Xue Zhengyong had given him… just to buy something for Chu Wanning.
I bought it just for Shizun.
Tears prick against his eyes and, without his bidding, begin to fall.
Only then, does Mo Ran break away. He scoffs, a scowl marring his expression. “Of course, This Venerable One’s ungrateful-”
I bought it just for Shizun.
“No,” Chu Wanning croaks, cutting Mo Ran off before his words can pierce deeper. His lips sting, raw as an open wound. Still, he presses them tight together, shakes his head, and repeats. “No, Mo Ran.”
He pulls himself up onto tiptoes and reaches for the gourd still precariously held within Mo Ran’s hand. He does not resist Chu Wanning’s theft, seems almost shocked by it.
Mo Ran watches, eyes blown wide, as Chu Wanning brings the rim of the gourd to his lips, and downs every last drop of wine inside.
It burns against his lips, down his throat, sets a fire in his chest that extends into his limbs. It makes the smile he gives Mo Ran come so much easier; he swears he feels Mo Ran’s heart stutter where they’re pressed together.
Let intoxication be his alibi for this confession.
“I love-” you, “it.”