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Piles of paperwork grace every corner of Shen Qingqiu's desk. Almost none of the wood can be seen between disciples' essays and Peak Lord-typical documents, needing approval or grading or just about anything that is actively slipping from Shen Qingqiu's mind. His mind that seems to only be able to think about his husband in his domesticity. His mind that is betraying any effort of nonchalance the original Shen Qingqiu has imbedded into his facial features. His mind that is comically full of badly drawn hearts and butterflies carrying fondness for Luo Binghe.
Anyone, who is not Shen Qingqiu that is, would say Luo Binghe is not doing much of note. With his sleeves cuffed and curly hair tucked away in a bun, Luo Binghe is preparing dumplings for dinner at the low table, close enough that he can gaze at his husband whenever his heart desires. Watching Binghe make dumplings was soothing in its predictability. Repeatedly did his fingers dip into the bowl of water as he folded the dough into a most perfect shape. It's a hypnotizing sight, Shen Qingqiu would insist. Everything Luo Binghe did was hypnotizing with the same ease the Earth revolved around the Sun. The same ease the Moon calls to the waves. Something natural, innate, undoubted in all of the universe.
Yet the heat simmering under Shen Qingqiu's skin led him to burn holes staring at the decorations inside the bamboo house. They are tasteful, unthinkingly expensive, but what does prized calligraphy matters to Shen Qingqiu's lovesick brain? What does paintings of talented artists resonate except to remind him that nothing could compare to his husband's ethereality?
Oh, how he wished it was embarrassment curling underneath the beds of his nails. Or bewilderment sitting at the top of his cheeks and tinting them a familiar red. Rather, it was a heart-rending surge of affection. Love tearing him at the seams as he bleeds words kept behind the cage of his ribs. He melts and he melts in colors of fondness and warmth.
Shen Qingqiu has denied his reality for time embarrassing. Time uncounted and wasted. He denied that he could feel anything other than admiration for the man he came to marry. He denied that he would ever find himself heavy with feelings unprecedented, feelings unfamiliar, feelings described a million times in books and movies and songs.
And it is silly, now, how weak his knees become, how muddled his thoughts turn, how every cell working to keep him alive instead turn to worship the grounds Luo Binghe walks on.
Could it really be anything other than tenderness at the thought of his husband breathing the same air at him? Could Shen Qingqiu really trip and fall into a convoluted explanation of how this cannot be love?
He refuses to. He wants to reject all motions to. After all, his Binghe is worth so much. His Binghe is worth a love sweet, gently blossoming at the heart of his palm. His Binghe is worth tender motions hung in the stars by lovers. His Binghe is worth the words that are stuck at the top of Shen Qingqiu's throat, pulling and pulling to seek release.
Quietly, finally, Shen Qingqiu averts his eyes from the delicately written scroll on the wall to his husband. His hard-working husband who has no reason to make dumplings by hand. His adorable husband who has a streak of flour on his right cheek.
Shen Qingqiu could only handle so much. Really!
He steps away from his desk, from the work that must get done soon, the work that has nothing to do with orbiting around Luo Binghe, and instead gives in to his want. The want to be sitting close to his husband. The want to gently swipe the flour just for the sake of touching his husband. The want to take care and spoil, no matter how small the gesture is.
He sits down next to Luo Binghe, who just now stopped meticulously arranging the dumplings.
Turning his head toward Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe smiles. A small smile, yet radiant nonetheless. A small smile, yet it sends Shen Qingqiu's heart rabbiting.
Shen Qingqiu reaches out for the flour-stained cheek, brushing it gently with his thumb. Luo Binghe's smile becomes shyer, something bashful yet happy.
He does not retract his hand, and Luo Binghe takes this as an opportunity to shower his palm with small kisses.
"Shizun?" Questioning, confused, yet so full of adoration. Adoration that never wavered. Adoration that may have been tinted with grief, with betrayal, but never disappearing.
Shen Qingqiu inhales, heart still beating strongly enough to rip his chest open. He tries to smile, fears of it being wobbly and uncertain washed away as every nerve is gathered for this moment.
"Oh, how I love you," Shen Qingqiu finally utters. The rush in his ears make him unsure of how loudly he said it, but he knew it was enough.
He knew it was enough as Luo Binghe's eyes turn wide and hazy. As Luo Binghe mouthed the words, as if he is unfamiliar with what they might mean.
He certainly knew it was enough when a surprised shizun! is all the warning he got before he found himself with a lapful of husband.
Luo Binghe wrapped his arms around Shen Qingqiu's shoulders. "Shizun! Shizun, won't you say it again?" Luo Binghe begs, as if Shen Qingqiu saying those words are what he needed to survive.
Still startled, Shen Qingqiu was beginning to wrap his arms around Luo Binghe's waist as he processes his request.
"I love you," He repeats, with his surroundings grounded, every nerve aware. "I love you so," He says one more time, because was this truly such a task? It was something so small, yet it filled Luo Binghe with enough joy to act so unguardedly.
"Shizun. Husband. I love you more." Luo Binghe rocks them left to right, as if his happiness is too grand to be contained. And it probably is, knowing his husband.
Shen Qingqiu inwardly sighs at the sniffles he hears, but if he let Luo Binghe hug him for a few—or really, many—minutes more, it is between him and the walls of the bamboo house.