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Awareness trickles into him like cold rainwater through the holes of a badly-constructed roof; thin streams, first, uncomfortable but ignorable, and then a deluge, sharp and frigid and leaving him gasping for air and shuddering. It’s not the worst way he’s woken, not even the top ten, even twenty, probably, but it’s still deeply unpleasant, the way his ears are overly attuned to any and every sound, the snap of wind against the walls raking across his senses like blades, spine sharp and harsh against his skin and grating in ways that remind him all too readily of just how mismatched his body is, all those years of breaking and healing, and when he tries to take a breath, the air fills his lungs like knives. Ah, he thinks, distantly, trying to focus on the feel of the bamboo mat beneath his head, to imagine roots growing out from his limbs and anchoring him to the floor, to the ground beneath, make him one with the dirt, one of those days. By his side, the mat is empty, but he doesn’t think it’s been that way for very long. Chopping wood, then, perhaps—the weather is getting colder. He lays there, and tries to remember how to piece himself back from splinters and flashes into something human. It’s been a long time since his body lacked a single ache, but for all that that should induce a worn familiarity, it just makes it hurt worse, because sometimes he gets flashes of memory of the past, and feels like he’s drowning.
Finally, he manages to draw up enough presence of body to peel himself up off the floor; rotates his shoulders to try and get at the sharp, ill-fitting bits of his back that he can; takes a moment to close his eyes and brace against the wall with one hand as his vision goes black and his face numb. This, too, is a well-worn hat. It’s just been a long time since it’s been so loud. Around his neck, Ruoye uncoils slightly, ends fluttering in what could be a reasonable approximation of a tilted head; a furrowed brow. Xie Lian breathes, and opens his eyes, and pries his fingers from the wall, stroking gentle, if slightly cold-stiffened fingers across his companion’s silk form in a soft reassurance. It settles down—it may worry, but it remembers worse. This will pass, for a while, eventually.
He doesn’t quite have the energy necessary to make anything fancy, and probably shouldn’t have any at all, really, but there’s a tentative, razor’s-edge balance on days like these—if he does too much, it’ll send him to bed, or at least to lean against a wall and try not to pant as he tries to ride the waves of throbbing, all-pervasive pain, but if he doesn’t do anything, it’ll hurt just as well. Like a thorn beneath the skin—painful to take out, yes, but equally painful to leave in, and if he doesn’t do anything at all, he runs the risk of being worse off for longer. It was harder, before, when he was still shackled. At least now he can channel spiritual energy towards the worst of it and begin the slow repair, even if it won’t stick around forever. His body is like an old, wary animal—it hurts, and doesn’t ever heal right, and it snaps at him, sometimes, but he doesn’t have another, and he’s learnt to live with it, to appreciate it for the strengths it does have: perseverance, muscle memory, the way it allows him to dance with Hua Cheng, to tie his eyepatch on in the mornings, to be a solid presence for him to recline against when they sit out by the stream.
So he starts on some congee; unearths a couple of buns from the day before when they went to the market that are stale enough the skin has toughened over, but not so much that they’re beyond edibility. He used to feel self-conscious about this, how his centuries of marginal living looked to Hua Cheng, who has a manor and can get fresh food whenever he wants, even if he didn’t show it, but Hua Cheng has never called attention to it, except sometimes when he’ll tell Xie Lian, joy-drunk, that he should be too skinny to pick him up the way he does, and Xie Lian will remind him that he was and is a martial god, and even if he’s slender, he’s nowhere near Hua Cheng’s bony, birdlike physique, all tall and sharp; five conversations cloaked as passing comments, all soothed over by gentle hands and soft lips and joyful laughter, a dance they do with careful steps and open eyes and mindfulness of each others’ slightest tells. Xie Lian may never be able to easily decipher anyone else’s body, but his husband’s is as familiar to him as his own breath in his lungs, and when he can’t tell, he can always ask.
He finds himself mindlessly stirring the rice; trying to stay in his body even if it’s not very pleasant right now. He won’t put on any more layers toda, he doesn’t think, for all that it’s cold—even the feel of his inner robes against his skin feels like a buzzy lodged beneath his skin, and he doesn’t want to aggravate it. His hands are both numb and too sensitive, and he keeps wincing when there’s sudden noises, which just aggravates his back and chest. But he’s had worse, and he has a task, and—well, at this point, it feels like a waste to go lay back down, and he’s not even sure that would help. He needs silence and drowning noise, needs a small, dark space to curl up in and at the same time the thought of confinement is so viscerally uncomfortable it’s starting to make him sick, so he stirs the congee a little aggressively and then douses it in spices, taking comfort in the rising aroma, even if he’s pretty sure that no respectable establishment would ever serve anything that smelt like this. This, too, is fine. He’s making breakfast, not running an inn.
The door creaks open, loud enough that it’s clearly intentional. They’ve started doing this—for many reasons, but also because it’s just nice to have a tangible reminder of the other’s appearance, even if they’re both familiar enough with each other’s presences that it should, really, not be necessary. But then, they’re no longer in the business of paying attention to should s. The congee is liquid enough now that he takes it off the stove, careful, and gives it one last stir with the spoon before pulling it out, before he turns to his husband; smiles. “San Lang,” he says, and takes him in; windswept hair and beaded braid and clinking jewllery and the crinkle of his eye, a crimson-red crescent. “I missed you when I woke up.” This, too, is something he’s growing accustomed to: saying what he thinks, about Hua Cheng. It was hard, at first—it’s not like he’d had experience, but he likes to think he’s better at it now. He’s eternally proud that he’s no longer constantly struck dumb when he looks at him, and sees that devotion, and knows it to be aimed at him, though it still does happen sometimes, if the light settles on him right.
“Ah, gege,” Hua Cheng says, and his lips widen into a smile. He closes the door behind him. “A husband’s work never waits.” By which he means there’s probably an absurd amount of firewood stacked up against the side of the shrine, because Hua Cheng has never done anything by halves. “But this San Lang apologises nonetheless, and brings a gift.” And he closes the distance between them with sure steps and takes a flower from his sleeve, small but densely-petalled, and tucks it gently behind Xie Lian’s ear before he leans in to brush his lips against his. “Breakfast smells good.”
A small huff of air escapes Xie Lian’s lips. His husband is a flirt, and he loves it. “Give me a moment and I’ll get out bowls,” he says.
Hua Cheng tilts his head; runs his gaze, assessing, over Xie Lian again; must notice the way he’s holding himself, the slight wince he can’t hide when a branch whacks against the window. “Ah,” he says, and every line of him reads understanding, reads care , and then, gentle, he pushes Xie Lian from the pot. “Go sit,” he says. “This one will take care of everything.”
“ San Lang, ” Xie Lian says, “you don’t have to do that.” But it’s not said very strongly, and it’s more than slightly because he knows Hua Cheng does this not out of obligation or pity, like some of the heavenly officials might if they ever found out about this, but rather because he is kind and loving and wants to help Xie Lian as best as he can.
“But I want to,” Hua Cheng counters, and his smile is back. “And Ruoye would probably appreciate a break from the steam.”
“Ah, well, if it’s for Ruoye,” Xie Lian says, overly-sagely, and has to hide his smile before he does something like kisses Hua Cheng so hard they knock over the pot and get covered in congee. His luck, thought no longer a pall over him, doesn’t stop him from suffering simple indignities of clumsiness, especially when he’s kissing his (handsome, distracting, wonderful) husband. He ambles over to the table and takes the golden chair, runs his fingers along the grain of the seat, bared by the angle he’s settled down in, which does help to alleviate the ache in his back some. It’s dimmed from earlier, but it’ll be the rest of the day before it recedes. As he does so, he tilts his head to watch Hua Cheng busy himself with the bowls, carefully portioning out congee, awash in red. He’s so graceful, his husband, be it in battle or the kitchen; purposeful and almost painfully attractive. Xie Lian watches the view, catches the moment Hua Cheng notices his focus, hands slowing to show off his long, slender fingers, hair somehow fluttering to bare the pale nape of his neck, and smiles, leaning against the table. Ruoye unwinds fully from his neck and flits between his hands before settling into his lap, demanding attention.
A moment later, Hua Cheng sets their bowls and spoons down. He’s somehow managed to carry both bowls in one hand, and the buns in the other, even though Xie Lian hadn’t mentioned them, and they’d been half-hidden under a towel. His knee brushes against Xie Lian’s, just the barest touch, and he reaches out to run a finger across Ruoye before he picks up his spoon and takes a spoonful of the congee. His eye closes for a moment; Xie Lian watches him, the subtle work of his throat as he swallows, but only after a moment of savouring. “Very good,” he says. “The flavours remind me of autumn.” It’s bullshit, and Xie Lian knows it, and he loves him so, so much.
They eat slowly, enjoying each other’s presence. Ruoye settles in a limp tangle in his lap after not too long, and Xie Lian enjoys the savoury tang of his bun. It’s still cold, but the congee is helping with that somewhat. The hand that Hua Cheng has snuck into his—that’s helping a lot. He may not have any physical warmth, but his skin always burns like a brand against Xie Lian’s. “How were the woods?” he asks.
“Ah, nothing new,” Hua Cheng says. “They’ve doubled the number of deputies prowling around. Useless trash.”
Xie Lian huffs a laugh. He can imagine two very specific deputies who have probably been out there. “I’ll have to go back some time, San Lang.”
“But not yet, ” Hua Cheng says; and if it were anyone else it would sound slightly whiny, but Hua Cheng doesn’t do whiny. (That’s a lie. There are times, in bed—Xie Lian likes drawing those sounds from him.) “You were there two weeks ago.”
“They’re struggling to acclimate to the new status quo,” Xie Lian says, and can’t help but feel amused. “I don’t think I could get out of that even if I killed half of them. Actually, that might just make them more convinced that I’m the perfect person to step up to the job. Besides, we can’t stay here forever. You’ll have to go back to Ghost City some time.”
“Mn,” Hua Cheng says, and sweeps his thumb across the soft skin webbing between Xie Lian’s thumb and index. “But not yet. Unless—” his brow raises, his head tilting— “gege wants me gone?”
“Aiyah, San Lang, fishing for compliments,” Xie Lian complains, without any heat. “No, I want...” He takes a soft breath; presses his eyes shut and focuses on the rub of Hua Cheng’s skin, soft, against his own. This has always been the hardest for him. “I want you to stay,” he says. “But only for another week. Then I really do think you should go back to Ghost City. I’m sure there’s plenty who are getting restless. And—and then after that, we’ll come back.” We’ll always come back, he means; the unspoken promise, the red string looped carefully on their hands, matching.
Hua Cheng considers him for a moment, and then sighs. “We could have been an irresponsible pair in another life,” he complains; not the first time he’s said it, but he never seems to stop meaning it. It’s flattering, to know that, even in a life where Xie Lian had never ascended, and Hua Cheng never became a ghost king, he would still want Xie Lian as much as he does now. The opposite is certainly true. Sometimes, Xie Lian has little fantasies about being a commonner and bumping into a handsome man in red, and falling for him in a perfectly mundane way. The allure of a life where his beloved never had to suffer the way he did is like an ache beneath his teeth, one he knows is impossible, but which he still covets like a softer dream.
Maybe it’s that that has Xie Lian saying, “San Lang, I’m cold. Come back to bed with me.”
Hua Cheng’s eye widens slightly before narrowing to a pleased crescent. He has a beautiful eye, his San Lang. Xie Lian tells him so. He’ll never tire of telling his husband how beautiful he is. Hua Cheng tilts his head; smiles, that genuine, lopsided smile. “I was expecting you to want to spend the morning on forms.” That’s what he usually does, on days like these, once he can pull his mind and body back together. It settles him, and even if the pain sometimes drives him to tears, it’s worth it—his spiritual energy flows better when he’s in motion, so it helps speed up the healing.
“Well,” Xie Lian says, “my husband will just have to lend me some of his spiritual energy to make up for it, then.”
Hua Cheng’s smile flicks into a smirk. “Well,” he says, “this one would not neglect his marital duties.” Even as a lazy heat thrums behind his words, they’re still sincere; grounded in concern, in love. He trusts Xie Lian to know what he needs. It makes Xie Lian’s ribs constrict in an entirely different way than they have been all morning; makes his eyes suspiciously hot. He covers for it by getting gingerly to his feet. Hua Cheng follows after him, their bowls forgotten. Ruoye slides off his lap and onto the chair, content to leave them to their devices.
It doesn’t take long before Xie Lian and Hua Cheng are curled up together on the mat once more, trading gentle kisses and tender touches. Spiritual energy thrums between them, a soft press of power. Xie Lian’s body is tender, a kicked animal, broken and bruised, but here, with Hua Cheng, he starts to put it back together again. It won’t be permanent, but that’s fine; it’s the here and now that matters.
He can no longer hear the twigs and leaves hitting the windows; the wind howling outside. For now, he is simply in his body, and Hua Cheng is there with him.