Work Text:
Jǐng Yuán’s bed was too large for one person. In the sheer enormity of his luxurious apartments, it was a rippling sea of cream and cloth that made him feel as small as a pearl in an oyster.
It was a ridiculous thing to complain about, wasn’t it? Its enormity was empty like the times he’d disembarked from a spacecraft and found the shores of a vast ocean smooth as a mirror with his reflection the lone figure distorted on the water’s surface.
Long ago, they would’ve set up camp on such a beach, far away from the caravan of enormous pavilions and tents their superiors had occupied, blots of light while they reveled in the cool breeze sailing from the sea.
Yìng Xīng would grump about how they needed to rise early while Jǐng Yuán and Bái Héng were incorrigible, a two-man theater troupe that conceived the wildest stories after too many shots of báijiǔ that made his head swam warmly and dizzily.
They would recite their lines drunkenly while Dān Féng would produce his flute and try to provide some musical accompaniment to their revelry, he and the Foxian dancing wildly while the fire prodded by Jìng Liú would cast their shadows chaotically on the pearly sands.
Yìng Xīng always buckled under the weight of Dān Féng’s convincing as the Vidyādhara coaxed the craftsman with a seraphic smile that made him blush darker than Jǐng Yuán’s ruddy cheeks. He’d take their hands, that beautiful pair, while Jìng Liú’s protestations died the second Bái Héng twirled her into dizzy compliance. They were weak for each other in the way Jǐng Yuán couldn’t get enough of Yìng Xīng’s ruby eyes nor Dān Féng’s shy, sweet smiles that had his heart pounding in his throat.
His sheets were too soft and the mattress was a poor substitute for his lovers. In the aftermath of those numerous nights when even his reluctant master could be convinced to a round or two, Jǐng Yuán held Dān Féng’s petite form, heart pounding in his throat at how his tail coiled his thigh and kept him arrested, Yìng Xīng snoring softly as his cheek flattened into his chest he knew would leave cheeky imprints in the morning. His moon and stars. What was the sun without its moon and stars?
Jǐng Yuán would awaken and try to find the moon in his vaulted ceilings, one he’d slept beneath with his lovers on countless nights without bedrolls or even a tent, their shared warmth enough to weather the worst weather.
No matter the mission, the time, or the place… those nights were the ones he’d looked forward to the best.
His bed was empty now. No chill, no damp wind, no stinging frost strafed him. His room was empty now. The bed was soft and warm, but he missed the soft snores and respiring of his comrades. His family, the whole of his heart—
Jǐng Yuán’s life was comfortable. His bed was empty. His room was grand and luxurious. His room was empty.
Rolling on his side in a bid to get comfortable, he realized the reason he couldn’t was because his throat was closing. His room was empty because his eyes burned and blurred until hot, stinging tears were shed.
In his grand, empty room, Jǐng Yuán wept.