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Foolish!
How utterly, incredibly, foolish of him!
Xie Lian scolds himself.
Since their - and perhaps long before - fateful encounter in the ox cart, Hua Cheng had quickly caught on to Xie Lian’s habits. He knows the way Xie Lian stumbles over his words when he has to lie, how Xie Lian tends to curl in on his right side when he’s reliving unpleasant memories in his dreams, or the way he rambles off on long tangents when awkwardness drenches him like a wet blanket.
Xie Lian stares quietly as Hua Cheng works on his latest calligraphic endeavour - a poem titled Butterfly’s Love For A Flower. He diligently writes out each character, stopping only to reference the copy Xie Lian had written for him as a demonstration.
It is a swift, momentary, thing. Over in a flash, and concealed smoothly as another stroke.
Yet, Xie Lian does not fail to notice the slight spasm in Hua Cheng’s fingers.
It happens frequently, now that Xie Lian is watching closely. Every so often, Hua Cheng’s fingers would falter, as if shivering in rejection, before its master forcefully wills it into performing another stroke.
There is a slight rigidness in his grip of the brush, fingers tightly curled around it.
Oh. Xie Lian realises. He’s left-handed.
He’s seen it before - the way those unfortunate enough to be born with a dominant left hand are forced to change to their right. He remembers one of the top scholars back from the past, whose right hand trembled as he wrote, but outshined the others by a far cry in intellect.
For that reason alone, he’d only ever been able to achieve the third-highest rank, no matter how many times he sat for the Imperial Exam.
Back then, Xie Lian was still a child, and unaware of the connotation of being left handed. He had voiced against this injustice, only to be reprimanded harshly by his father.
Another time, it was a general of Xianle, who had miraculously held a siege with a little over a hundred newly recruited soldiers, yet suffered minor casualties and even repelled the invading army. Despite this, his promotion to the higher ranks was denied; for he wielded his sword with his left hand.
And again, a doctor, skilled in the arts of healing and medicine. But he wrote prescriptions and conducted acupuncture with his left hand, which drew the ire of the common folk.
He’s heard hundreds of similar stories over the years - of prodigious warriors, talented artists or genius scholars, who would’ve garnered the respect of many. However, their dominant hand was the left, thought to be corrupt, abnormal and evil.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng calls, breaking the blanket of silence between them. “Is something troubling your mind?”
“Nothing important,” Xie Lian replies. “Just thinking.”
“Nonsense. Gege’s thoughts are hardly unimportant,” Hua Cheng refutes immediately. “Would gege care to indulge me?”
“Well…” Xie Lian laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I was just wondering if San Lang was originally left-handed?”
Hua Cheng’s shoulders droop slightly. “Unfortunately,” He scowls.
“This one has been trying to get rid of such unsightly habits, but it seems my efforts have been futile,” Hua Cheng continues scathingly.
Xie Lian frowns.
“Unsightly? I see nothing unsightly about being left-handed,” He responds.
“They’re evil. Wrong. Disgusting.”
“Neither unorthodox nor evil,” Xie Lian interrupts, looking at Hua Cheng. “And anyone who told you so is wrong.”
The brush in Hua Cheng’s hand leaves a large blot on the paper he’d been practising with as silence envelops them once again.
Xie Lian gently pries the brush from his hand, letting it rest on the inkwell. Then, he carefully raises Hua Cheng’s left hand to his lips.
“Gege…” Hua Cheng trails off, and Xie Lian’s heart aches at the amount of uncertainty, fear and horror laced in his gaze.
“Naturally favouring your left hand isn’t evil, beloved,” Xie Lian murmurs, pressing soft kisses to Hua Cheng’s knuckles. “Will you try writing with you left? Of course, you don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”
Hua Cheng returns a kiss to Xie Lian’s forehead. “Anything for gege,” He whispers, languidly reaching for the brush yet again.
Xie Lian catches his hand, wrapping around his palm and pushing the brush back down.
“Only if you want to.”
“I want to try,” Hua Cheng insists.
Xie Lian watches Hua Cheng’s fingers curl around the brush easily, watches the way he dips the brush back into the inkwell with more confidence.
The characters for Butterfly’s Love For A Flower flow smoothly on the paper.
It’s not as elegant or refined as Xie Lian's, but each stroke is clear, and each move of Hua Cheng’s hand is uninterrupted. He writes confidently with his left too, and Xie Lian watches as the poem materialises on paper.
Hua Cheng huffs dryly as he finishes. “Tsk. Others take less than eight centuries to unlearn their left. How useless this lowly one is.”
He mutters that last sentence quietly, but Xie Lian’s hearing has always been sharp.
“San Lang, no ,” Xie Lian chides. “You are not useless. Not evil, not disgusting.”
He pulls Hua Cheng into his arms, who breathes in sharply at the sudden movement. He runs a gentle hand up and down Hua Cheng’s back, and caresses his head soothingly. Hua Cheng doesn’t move, head buried in Xie Lian’s chest.
“My San Lang has beautiful writing,” He rumbles slowly, knowing Hua Cheng would be able to feel his voice. “And when San Lang copied this poem, his writing was not only beautiful, but also confident.”
Xie Lian smiles as he feels his husband relax into his touch.
Hua Cheng’s hands come up to embrace Xie Lian. He isn’t ready to talk, but Xie Lian doesn’t mind.
“Did you know? There was once a scholar in Xianle, who sat for the Imperial Exam. He was ranked first, and scored substantially higher than the one ranked second. Yet, Father gave the position of the magistrate to the one who came second - all because he wrote with his left hand. I protested against this. I was punished with rewriting the Tao Te Ching thrice.”
Hua Cheng’s hands tighten against Xie Lian and he lets out a huff of annoyance.
“I only regret that I never protested harder. I was barely ten, and didn’t dare argue with Father,” Xie Lian continues. “There were many I came across who were left-handed. Many of them were talented and skilled, and not as evil as people thought they were. They had good hearts and kind intentions.”
“The old man broke my hand when he found out I was left-handed. They’d ridicule me when I tried to use my right,” Hua Cheng finally whispers, lifting his head from Xie Lian’s chest and looking into his eyes.
“Oh, San Lang,” Xie Lian breathes, cupping a hand along Hua Cheng’s face, carefully using his thumb to trace along his cheek. “I’m so sorry, beloved.”
“You don’t have to be, gege. It happened long ago.”
“That doesn’t make it any less despicable,” Xie Lian insists firmly. “But please don’t feel like you must hide such things from me, San Lang.”
Hua Cheng averts his gaze. “I didn’t…I didn’t want to disgust gege further,” He mumbles hesitantly, as if the words were forcefully ripped from his throat.
“No part of you has disgusted me, San Lang. Never.”
“My San Lang is handsome,” Xie Lian presses his lips to Hua Cheng’s forehead. “Strong,” Another on his eyepatch. “Kind,” One more on his nose. “And perfect. Just the way he is.”
He finishes with a final kiss on the tips of Hua Cheng’s fingers. “None shall belittle my husband. Not even himself.”
A soft, genuine laugh spills from Hua Cheng’s lips. It’s uncharacteristically melodious and light, reserved only for Xie Lian.
“Thank you, gege.”
“En. Come here again, you silly man,” Xie Lian replies, opening his arms in invitation.
Hua Cheng all but throws himself at Xie Lian, hooking his arms around Xie Lian’s back and pulling him to the ground, though he makes sure it's his back that hits the floor, and not his god’s.
They stay like that in a comfortable silence, until Xie Lian speaks up with a question that had been burning deep within since he found out about Hua Cheng’s dominant hand.
“San Lang?”
“Yes, gege?”
“Did you also fight with your left?”
Hua Cheng nods. “As a child. Not for long, though.”
“Do you still remember how?”
“Yes…? Maybe?”
Xie Lian grins, a familiar glint in his eyes. Hua Cheng pretends to whine dramatically. “Gege! You can’t possibly want to spar. This lowly one barely wins against gege as is, and now you want me to fight handicapped?”
He pouts, hoping it’s as effective as when Xie Lian does the same to him.
His beloved smiles apologetically. “San Lang doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to,” he says placatingly for the second time today.
Hua Cheng sighs, despite the way his traitorous lips curve upwards slightly. “Let’s go, gege.”
“Thank you, San Lang!” Xie Lian beams brightly.
They head out together, stopping to retrieve Cheng Xin - a sword Hua Cheng had reforged for Xie Lian as a wedding gift - and E’ming zooms enthusiastically to them.
Hua Cheng flexes his fingers around E’ming’s hilt experimentally as Xie Lian takes his place opposite him. E’ming stills in his hand for him, as it usually does when they spar, and Xie Lian unsheaths Cheng Xin in a swift movement.
There is no warning when Xie Lian rushes forwards.
Adrenaline fills his body as their blades clash, and Hua Cheng savours the challenge of fighting someone whose skill level far surpasses his own. It's been years since he’s fought with his left, but just like it did earlier, his hand springs back to life, almost as if his body is relishing the acknowledgement of his dominant hand.
Xie Lian’s offensive movements start out slightly awkward, but he adapts with incredible speed, scouting out any inconsistencies in Hua Cheng’s actions.
An idea lights up in Hua Cheng’s head, and he forces down the urge to smile and give away his plan.
The next time he leaps back to dodge Xie Lian’s attack, he switches out E’ming to his right hand and counters back with a flurry of slashes.
The flash of surprise on Xie Lian’s face is fleeting, as he laughs. “Good one, San Lang! You almost got me there.”
Hua Cheng preens himself gleefully and snatches each opportunity to switch hands as they continue their spar, circling gracefully around each other. They fall into a familiar rhythm of blows, until he spies a crack in the careful finesse of Xie Lian’s movements.
He leaps at the opportunity, throwing E’ming back into his left hand as he lands a burst of consecutive strikes on Cheng Xin.
With a final blow, Cheng Xin is flying out of its master’s hands.
Xie Lian accepts his defeat with grace, smiling brightly. “That was incredible, San Lang!”
Hua Cheng huffs sheepishly. “Gege was just unaccustomed to fighting me with my left hand.”
“Nonsense. Even if I had anticipated and trained to combat such versatility, I doubt I would’ve won against you.”
“Gege flatters this one too much.”
He feels a firm pull on his sleeves, and that’s all the warning he gets before he’s stumbling into Xie Lian’s arms.
“My husband deserves to be flattered much, much more,” he replies, kissing Hua Cheng deeply on the lips.
“I’m sorry, San Lang,” he murmurs, when they break apart. “That I never noticed sooner.”
“It isn’t your fault, gege. You’ve done nothing to apologise for.”
Xie Lian shakes his head. “I should’ve been more observant. San Lang knows so much about me, yet I only just realised this.”
“Gege is observant. Today was the only day I didn’t channel spiritual power to my fingers to stabilise them,” Hua Cheng insists.
“Why?”
“I forgot,” he sighs reluctantly. “I was too preoccupied with the new poem.”
“You…forgot?” Xie Lian asks incredulously. “Really?”
“I was so immersed in gege’s writing and in the poem itself that I forgot,” he admits petulantly.
“But,” he continues, hands coming up to hold tightly onto Xie Lian’s waist. “Thank you, gege.”
The rest of his words go unsaid, but Xie Lian doesn’t need to hear them. Instead, he wraps his arms around Hua Cheng’s neck.
“I love you, San Lang. Only you. No matter what.”
“Me too, gege,” he replies, voice threatening to crack. “Me too.”