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“They still don't trust you,” Song Lan tells him when they’re alone in his chambers that night. If Xue Yang didn’t pay such close attention to everything he said wasn’t so observant, he would’ve missed the note of amusement threaded through the king’s words.
He gives Song Lan a lazy smile. “Really.” Drags out the r, drags his fingers through the thick tassels on the velvet couch he’s currently seated on. Everything in Song Lan’s chambers looks like it could feed an entire village for months if it was sold to the right person. “I played nice the whole time, I barely insulted them, and this is how I’m thanked?”
Song Lan rolls his eyes at him; it’s a habit he’s picked up from Xue Yang himself, one he only shows when they’re alone together. Xue Yang will never tell him it’s adorable.
At first he thinks Song Lan’s just returning his banter, but…
“You terrorize my kingdom for three years and expect my subjects to instantly forgive you?” he counters, and Xue Yang hesitates. Because that hint of a smile in his voice before is gone now, and if Xue Yang squints-
Just if he squints, if he looks into what’s not there, if he ignores how Song Lan spoke literally just before-
Song Lan looks upset.
Who else is in the room to be the target of Song Lan’s discontent? Who else could hurt Song Lan like this? Who, just who, could Song Lan be mad at?
Mad at Xue Yang.
Mad at me.
His next breath feels too forced, and suddenly he’s painfully aware that his palms are sweaty.
(He was relaxed a moment ago. Now Song Lan is mad at him and he wants to cry. Why does he let Song Lan do this to him?)
“Ah,” he says before he’s thought of a coherent response. Song Lan stares. Xue Yang gulps.
He wants to backtrack and pretend he never joked about Song Lan’s subjects. Pretend he never angered the king he used to loathe. Pretend he never reached out and tipped the delicate peace the two of them had held since his capture off the edge to shatter into smithereens on the floor.
It would be so easy to say he’s sorry. Just say he’s sorry.
Just say you’re fucking sorry.
I’m sorry.
The words never make it past his lips, but the tears certainly do.
He feels the guilty pricks of delight as Song Lan’s eyes widen, the very fantasy of handsome and concerned, sliding off his desk to come over and touch Xue Yang’s face.
He thinks Song Lan says his name, but he isn’t sure. He is tired, though he’ll never tell A-Qing and Xiao Xingchen that it was because he travelled all the way to Huanying Forest to warn them about the illusions within.
Song Lan’s hands feel euphoric from where they are on his arm and cheek.
Song Lan’s hands are too warm and he wishes he’d just go away so he could hate himself in peace.
(Liar; he is never peaceful when he is alone.)
Song Lan’s voice is soft and comforting, like a dopamine shot from a childhood lullaby.
Song Lan’s voice is too loud in the quiet Xue Yang wishes he had and he wants to tell him to shut up.
(Brat; now he is just being rude.)
Song Lan is looking him in the eyes, asking him if he wants to be alone.
Song Lan is making eye contact with him and Xue Yang hates the now-familiar stress of expectations, of not wanting to disappoint, of making someone wait.
(Ungrateful; all this comfort and care he is receiving and he wishes for it to halt.)
Fingers run delicately through his hair, and Xue Yang gasps.
Everything in him screams to leave, to hide, to curl in on himself.
Except his eyes.
His eyes tell him that it is Song Lan’s fingers twirled around the now-loose strands of what was once his ponytail, the king’s hand just brushing his left cheek.
Slowly, slowly, every sense that cried danger before turns back and retreats.
It’s okay. It’s Song Lan.
…
Since when did that become his safety switch?
~
He is sleepy, you already know. He must be exhausted from travelling to Huanying and back. He doesn’t hit you with a barrage of insults or comments that would get him excommunicated if any of the other nobles were to hear, which is how you know he’s really tired.
That, and he’s crying.
He won’t stop murmuring your name. After you rest him down on his bed and wipe his tears rather futilely, listening to him repeat the two characters of your name until you lose count, you begin to wonder if A-Qing is right.
You realise, oh, she is, when he starts sniffling as you move towards the door.
You could barely handle how your heart bled when tears only poured down his face in silent streams. Now he is pressing his lips together to stop his sniffles from becoming too loud and if you stay too long you’ll start crying.
It will take even longer to go to bed this way, but if you leave now…you can’t even think about it.
You return to his side. I’m just going to get ready for bed, you promise him. Yes, I’ll come back. No, I won’t leave you alone here all night. It’s okay.
He promises to stop crying by the time you come back. You refrain from telling him that promises do not have to be transactional. You know he doesn’t like things feeling unbalanced.
Sure enough, when you come back dressed in frangipani afterscent and clean clothes, his eyes are red but tearless.
When you shuffle under the covers next to him and blow out the candle, you wonder how hard he’ll hit you if you pat his head.
As it turns out, he’ll be too embarrassed about enjoying the feeling to put any proper force into it.