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Chu Wanning muses, as he makes his way home, on this evening’s meal.
In a recent, curious development, Mo Ran and Taxian-Jun have taken up communicating, leaving notes for each other scattered throughout their little house. Most often the notes discuss cultivation techniques, both of them having strong opinions on barriers and talismans and morality; Chu Wanning has been asked his opinions on several occasions, by both of them. Once or twice, he has come upon back-and-forths arguing the best ways to pleasure him, some of them including sketches; these he has burnt before giving his husband a red-faced earful. As much as he appreciates them getting along, he cannot abide such—flagrant obscenity.
Their latest has been collaborative and culinary in nature, arguments scribbled about ingredients and cooking methods for the better part of a month before settling their differences. They know his tastes, and however often or crossly he insists the occasional spicy meal will not kill him, he does not believe they would intentionally cook anything outside of those preferences. But will he notice a difference, he wonders, taste both of them in what he is served?
Chu Wanning considers the grocery sack hanging over his arm, the list tucked inside. It is a beautiful spring day, and Mo Ran has been working outside since after breakfast, so Chu Wanning volunteered himself to make the walk down the mountain, into town. A handful of wood spirits gambol about his heels, having followed him there. He is halfway home, if anything has been forgotten, now is the time to turn back. He fishes the list from the bottom of the sack and examines it once more; everything is accounted for.
Before he’s put it away again, a heavy drop of rain splashes across Mo Ran’s neat writing, blotting the characters. Chu Wanning looks up, an unnecessary gesture, to observe the oncoming rain. A playful gust of wind snatches the list from his hand and dances it along the path; two of the wood spirits skitter after it, and the one that catches lets out a triumphant chirp, bounds its way back to Chu Wanning.
“Thank you,” he tells it.
Dark and heavy as the clouds rolling in are, the rain itself is no more than a light drizzle. He doesn’t worry himself over putting up a barrier, content to let the rain patter down on him. A few times, he stretches out a hand, lets warm drops hit his palm.
The wood spirits are as happy in rain as they are sun; the only weather they don’t care for, he’s noticed, is snow, which makes them sluggish. In rain, they dance.
The rain is coming harder by time he’s three-quarters of the way home, so he finally puts up a barrier. Mo Ran will fret and scold if he takes ill, which one of them is the master here? Neither of them anymore, he supposes, though Mo Ran is forever going back and forth on calling him Shizun and Wanning.
A figure jogs toward him down the path—it’s Mo Ran, of course, coming from this direction there’s nobody else it could be. There is, unsurprisingly, a red oil-paper umbrella in his hand, now being thrust over Chu Wanning’s head.
“Shizun did not take an umbrella,” Mo Ran says, almost sullen.
Chu Wanning raises one pointed brow and indicates his barrier. “There was no need for you to go this far, Weiyu.”
Mo Ran’s cheeks pink; he still so often looks bashful, after everything. Chu Wanning loves that about him, as he loves so many things about him. “I know.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “The umbrella is more romantic though, doesn’t Shizun want me to be romantic? How can I hold an umbrella over you for as long as—”
“Ridiculous,” Chu Wanning murmurs, reaching out to trail a fingertip through a raindrop making its way down Mo Ran’s chin. “At least cover yourself too.”
It’s impossible for both of them to fit properly under their single umbrella, there is simply too much of Mo Ran, but they make it work; that is, Chu Wanning maintains his barrier for the parts of them that stick out. The parts of Mo Ran that stick out, because his ridiculous husband is determined to hold the umbrella over Chu Wanning, never mind himself.
Mo Ran steals the grocery sack, only grinning at Chu Wanning’s exasperated scowl. “My hands work perfectly well.”
That grin slips sly. Mo Ran’s dimples are on full display. “I’m very aware of that.”
Chu Wanning faces forward and walks faster, summoning Tianwen into a newly-emptied hand. “Weiyu is not as funny as he thinks he is,” he says as his laughing Mo Ran matches his pace.
“They think I’m funny.” Mo Ran indicates several of the wood spirits, one with its little three-fingered fist clenched in his robe, all of them laughing.
“They think you’re pretty,” Chu Wanning corrects, given the wood spirits have little comprehension of language.
“That means they have good taste,” Mo Ran says, “doesn’t Shizun think so?”
Chu Wanning gives Tianwen a little warning snap. He hasn’t raised the weapon against Mo Ran since long before they came to live in the mountains, and he can feel Mo Ran still grinning at him, knowing as well as Chu Wanning today won’t be the day that changes, however vexing he may be.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says, with a trace of singsong. “Don’t you think I’m handsome?”
Chu Wanning’s grip on Tianwen tightens. Tripping wouldn’t count as raising, would it? “Average,” he says, and Mo Ran makes a wounded sound.
“My husband is so unreasonable,” he sighs.
“My husband,” Chu Wanning returns, “is overindulged.”
“Everyone likes to hear that the one they love finds them attractive,” Mo Ran says, and tucks Chu Wanning’s hair behind his ear for him; his fingers are warm, he has always run hotter. “Doesn’t Shizun like it too, when I tell him he’s beautiful?”
Chu Wanning neither confirms nor denies this. Mo Ran laughs in delight, as if his lack of answer is, itself, a complimentary reply; later, when he hasn’t asked for it outright, Chu Wanning will consider telling him how much he enjoys looking at him, though by this point it ought to go without saying.
They are nearly home when Mo Ran exclaims wordlessly and, pressing umbrella and groceries into a startled Chu Wanning’s hands, proceeds to dive for a puddle. Chu Wanning blinks at his back. There’s still a wood spirit clinging to him.
“What,” Chu Wanning says, nonplussed, “are you doing?”
Mo Ran straightens, hands cupped around—
“I thought it was earthworms you wanted to save.”
“It could drown,” Mo Ran says of the spider trying to skitter its way up his wrist. They find ones just like it in the yard and corners of the house all the time. He covers it with one hand to stop it from getting far, and transfers it into the safety of a shrub. Then he turns back to Chu Wanning and holds his hands out for groceries and umbrella again.
Chu Wanning hands them over only so his hands will be free to catch Mo Ran’s face; he says, more helplessly than he ever means to say anything, “This husband of mine,” and pulls him in for a kiss. Mo Ran tastes of mountain air and rainwater, and he makes the tiniest sound of surprised delight against Chu Wanning’s mouth.
“What was that for?” he asks after, looking perhaps more dazed than a kiss so chaste deserves.
“Do I need a reason?” Chu Wanning strides ahead again, ignoring the way the wood spirits whisper to each other in their chiming speech. “Home now, Weiyu.”