Archive of Our Own ^beta

To love someone is to cook for them.

It’s a cornerstone for health, a good meal. Cooking is something familiar, something he’s known for nearly as long as he’s been able to talk. This is something he takes pride in: for the general, for Yaoqing, for himself. So he stands by the cauldron, three days after he’s been officially discharged from the alchemy commission, chops up the ingredients with deft hands, it’s muscle memory after all. He doesn’t need his eyes do his job properly, but it is something to get used to.

A sudden noise from the outside catches him off guard and his hand flinches, and the knife slices through the base of his thumb and a sharp hiss escapes between his teeth. Water. The sink is two steps to the right.

He holds his hand under running water, silently cursing himself.

A softly cleared throat serves as a forewarning, even though there’s really only one person it could possibly be, even though he would recognize him by his light footsteps alone. Then, softly spoken, “Let me see that.”

“See, huh,” Jiaoqiu quips, unable to help himself. “Go ahead and rub salt into the wounds of a blind ma- ouch,” he yelps as Moze flicks him on the forehead, the pain sharp but fleeting, no real menace behind it. His hands are rough and calloused where they cradle his.

“You could’ve sliced your whole thumb off,” he says, sounding like he’s frowning.

“Please,” Jiaoqiu says, taking offense at this, his professional pride on the line. “As if I would.”

Moze ignores him and wraps his hand in a clean towel. “Stay here,” he says, low and commandeering in a way that sends small shivers down his spine. “I won’t be far,” he says and it’s sort of funny, that he would say that because he’s never far away, especially these days, always watching over him at a distance like he’s scared to get closer, yet terrified to let him out of his sight.

…Sight. Heh.

“Stop smirking to yourself, you’re not funny.”

”I didn’t even say anything.”

Something lands on the kitchen table with a dull thunk- a first aid kit, he realizes belatedly.

“And anyway, they say laughter is the best medicine, don’t they,” he says with a smile, hearing a click of a lock, slight rustling of fabric. Moze predictably doesn’t dignify him with a response. He hardly ever does.

“Give me your hand,” Moze says and Jiaoqiu surrenders to his ministrations with a sigh as he begins to clean the cut on his hand, wincing at the sting of disinfectant. Moze falters. “Sorry,” he says quietly as he bandages the cut, and he sounds so devastated about it that it would be funny if it wasn’t so utterly heartbreaking.

“Not your fault.”

Once he’s done, Jiaoqiu flexes his hand experimentally, satisfied when the bandaid doesn’t seem to budge.“Thank you,” he says before getting up and heading back to the kitchen. He’s stopped by a firm hand on his forearm. Firm, but gentle. Always gentle.

“What are you doing,” Moze asks and Jiaoqiu can picture it so clearly, the way his brows furrow, the conflicted twist of his mouth. His mouth twitches at the thought.

It’s odd, looking at someone and not knowing it’s the last time you’ll ever see them.

“I still need to finish dinner,” Jiaoqiu says.

“I’ll do it.”

“…You?” he asks dubiously.

“Yes me,” Moze says. “Just tell me what to do.”

Jiaoqiu considers this. “…Fine,” he says. “Start with the lotus root.”

He sniffs the air, smelling at the pungent aroma of cooking aromatics, carefully feeling around for the edge of the cauldron and stirs the pot before adding more bitterwood from the jar before he can help himself.

“I’m done,” Moze says after a moment.

Jiaoqiu nods, finding the edge of the cutting board, feels the slices of the lotus flower root in his hands before shaking his head to himself, trying to keep his frustration from seeping into his tone. “You need to cut them smaller.”

“Then teach me how to do it right,” Moze says softly, and the handle of the knife touches the back of his hand, encouraging. He curls his fingers around it. Takes a breath.

”Thin slices,” he explains, curling his fingers underneath his palm, the lotus root firmly between his hand and the cutting board. “Keep your knife steady. Let it do the job for you,” he says. the cut on his palm stings, but this, this feels good. “Now try it,” he says, standing a couple of feet away while he tries again, and it sounds a lot better already.

Satisfied, he grabs a piece of lotus root off the cutting board, holds it between deft fingers with a thoughtful hum. “Much better,” he concludes, popping the piece of vegetable into his mouth, and Moze makes a pleased sound at the praise, and the lotus root goes into the cauldron. He murmurs something under his breath.

“Hm?” Jiaoqiu says.

“Your hands,” Moze says, something unrecognizable in the tone of his voice. “I’ve always admired your hands.”

“I,” he starts, then coughs, the effects of tumbledust still lingering in his body and in an instant Moze has a steadying hand between his shoulder blades, his touch hesitant, like he isn’t quite accustomed to it.

“Easy,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting his skin. His ears twitch in annoyance. Never too far. Never close enough.

He reaches out without thinking, hands curling around the fabric of his sleeve and trail upwards to find the edge of a collarbone, the hollow of his throat. There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“Does it still hurt?” Jiaoqiu asks quietly, his hands cradling his face, tracing the lines of his face with careful fingertips and the silence is answer enough. He sighs. “Why didn’t you run when I told you to, you ridiculous man.”

“Jiaoqiu,” he says, a dangerous edge to his tone. “If you think that there was ever a chance I would leave you behind then you are much more foolish than I thought.”

“But-“

“I nearly lost you,” he says harshly, interrupting him and it startles him quiet, not out of fear but for how his voice shakes. “Do not tell me what I should or should not have done. I would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant saving your life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth, his movements a little clumsy. uncharted territory. Moze makes a wounded sound from the back of his throat, his hands twitching where they rest on his shoulders, still hesitant. Jiaoqiu takes one of his hands, presses his mouth to the scarred skin of his palm. “It’s alright.” he says. “You can hold me.”

He hears a shaky inhale before he’s carefully tugged forward into a an embrace, his hands somewhat awkwardly trapped between their bodies. His hands are painfully gentle where they cradle the back of his head. “It’s alright,” he says again, the words caught in his throat, and slides his hands down to rest on the small of his waist. “You did good.”

”Jiaoqiu,” he says softly like a prayer, like its the only word he knows, his mouth pressed to the top of his head. Jiaoqiu smiles, small and hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Shall we eat?”

He dreams about it, the cold gaze of the borisin, the sharp claws piecing his skin. Nearly escaping, screaming, bleeding, dying. Most nights he wakes up screaming his throat hoarse, clawing at his chest. Tonight is no exception. He lies on his side, arms wrapped around his midsection, nails digging into his stomach, a low keening sound rising from his throat.

He hears his name called urgently somewhere nearby, the bed dipping with new weight, gentle hands prying his fingers away from his skin. ”Please don’t,” he says, flinching away from the touch. ”Just let me die.”

”It’s just me,” he hears over the sound of his harsh breathing and the thundering heartbeat in his ears and oh, he knows that voice. ”It’s alright, Jiaoqiu.”

”Moze,” he whispers. He lies still, focuses on the way gentle fingertips trace slow circles into the back of his hand and waits for his breathing to even out, and just like every night, they stay like this until he manages to drift off again for a couple of hours. Rinse and repeat.

The kitchen is warm when he enters. He stiffens when he hears someone quietly rummaging around, and quickly registers the footsteps as familiar, shoulders relaxing. He smells the air. Cooked rice and fresh scallions, sliced ginger. It smells divine. ”What are you doing?” he asks quietly.

”What does it look like,” Moze says, then pauses, and Jiaoqiu can physically feel him cringe. ”I’m making breakfast.”

His ears twitch in irritation, tail swishing angrily from side to side. ”I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

Moze sighs. ”I know,” he says and proceeds to offer no further explanation, just continues to rummage around in the kitchen. His kitchen. ”Sit down.”

He sits down at the table, albeit begrudgingly. ”I don’t need you to take care of me,” he huffs. He doesn’t get a response.

”Here,” Moze says and sets a bowl on the table in front of him with a soft clank, Jiaoqiu hears him pull back a chair, sitting on the opposite side of the table. ”Eat,” Moze says, a touch too soft to be stern.

With a scowl, he eats a spoonful, then pauses. Eats another spoonful, and then another. It’s a little bit under salted, the rice is a little bit overcooked. It’s the best meal he’s had for a long time. It might be the best meal he’s ever had.

”Jiaoqiu?”

Oh... he’s crying. ”Ah… Sorry,” he says, sniffling. He hastily wipes at his eyes with the edge of a sleeve. A futile effort. ”How unbecoming of me.”

”Jiaoqiu,” he says, speaks his name so gently and with so much concern it makes his breath hitch. His fingernails dig into the meat of his arm.

”I,” he starts without any aim or direction. He stands up on unsteady legs, wincing at the scraping noise the chair makes. ”I should. Um.”

”Did I do something wrong?” Moze asks, and he sounds so uncharacteristically unsure of himself that it makes his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. ”Because whatever I-”

”I’m in love with you.”

”-did … what?”

”I’m in love with you,” he repeats, and waits for his divine punishment, for Lan to strike him down for his selfishness. ”Sorry,” he says. He hears a soft exhale of breath and holds himself very still. The silence feels suffocating.

”…Can I hold you?”

Surprised at this, Jiaoqiu just nods, body feeling numb. There’s a light touch on his shoulder. He flinches away from it on instinct. ”Sorry,” he says again.

”Why are you apologizing,” Moze says, carefully wrapping his arms around his shoulders, so gentle it makes him ache terribly. ”You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his mouth pressed to the top of his head. He sounds devastated. His hands are careful where they cradle his face, thumb sweeping across a cheekbone. For all the blood in his hands, he’s the gentlest thing to have ever touched him.

"Moze," he says. It's plea and a warning at the same time.

”Jiaoqiu,” he says hoarsely, his name spoken like the name of a god. ”I’m already yours,” he says, leaning down to kiss both of his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose. Lingers on the corner of his mouth, drawing a wounded noise from the back of his throat.

”You shouldn’t say things like that,” Jiaoqiu says softly, his hands finding the curve of his jaw, and wishes he could see him, if only for a moment, wants to crawl under his skin. ”Even if it is to spare my feelings.”

Soft fingertips trail down the length of his arm. He shivers, ears twitching. “I made my decision a long time ago,” Moze says, a slight tremor in his fingers. His hand molds perfectly to the curve of his shoulder, like his hands were made for this instead of the blade. To hold and be tender.

”Which is?”

”I’ll stay by your side,” Moze says simply. ”As long as you’ll have me.”

Jiaoqiu kisses him like he’s starving.