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“…may I?” Jing Yuan whispers, finally.
It’s hard to read Blade, now. The mara twists him like it had Jingliu, folds over his veins like leaves, confuses Jing Yuan’s senses. All he has is Elder Huaiyan’s description, from so many years ago, and his own elusive recollection.
A silence spreads like treacle between them, and Jing Yuan’s heartbeat shies away from it. He should not have asked, had not meant to. Only Blade was standing so near to him, and he had lingered for so long after the end of the conversation.
But it was the sort of thing Jing Yuan should only want of people who were close, and should only ask of people who were even closer. For all that Blade haunted his thoughts, could he really call that closeness? No, of course Blade would rebuff him. As a Stellaron Hunter to an Arbiter-General, or simply as Blade to Jing Yuan. The person that he was. The person that he is.
“I’m sorry.” Jing Yuan withdraws his hand to his chest, fingers curling compulsively. Empty. “I overstepped my bounds. Forgive me.”
But Blade’s hand envelops his, warm and real and alive, and Jing Yuan startles slightly.
“You didn’t,” Blade says, volume low. What bounds are there to overstep between you and me?
Jing Yuan hasn’t quite caught up to the feeling of Blade’s hand over his own, but Blade is already bringing both of their hands up—up and toward him, allowing Jing Yuan’s fingers to come to a featherlight rest on what must be his cheek. Blade’s hand falls away, but only after holding him there for another few moments.
Jing Yuan is stopped for a bit longer, the quickening of his pulse behind his ribs. The touch is more than he thought he would be allowed, and he had already been tuned to the sound of Blade’s breathing, but now he can feel the minute motions beneath his fingertips.
Tentatively, he traces his fingers over that fair skin, and Blade lets him.
It is familiar, the shape, the feeling. Half of it is Jing Yuan’s imagination, probably—he is not touching nearly enough to discern anything. Even so, the way his breath trembles is as it had before, and his fingers tremble with it. He has touched this face before, has held it in his hands, and Blade, too, has held his. If nothing else, Jing Yuan recognizes the ache of his own longing.
He doesn’t dare ask for too much, only maps Blade briefly. The angles of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the silk of his hair and the way it dusts over him. He even wears the same earring.
Jing Yuan doesn’t allow his fingers to linger, or to trespass into places that might be too intimate for their present relationship—but Blade catches his hand as he again starts to withdraw it.
“What’s wrong?” His voice rumbles. Jing Yuan tilts his face up, even though he can’t really tell whether Blade is still that inch or two taller than him. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No, of course not.” Jing Yuan shakes his head. “It’s only that I don’t want to…”
Don’t want to what? Don’t want to stay close to you?
He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. He can’t be honest, but what else can he be? But Blade does not ask him to pursue this line of thinking. He simply draws Jing Yuan’s hand back, gentle but firm, and lets the tips of his fingers rest lightly on his lips.
Jing Yuan shivers at the prickle of electricity that runs over his skin. His pulse speeds up further, his breath catching. This can’t be intimate, but what else can it be?
He isn’t sure what sort of expression he must be wearing, but Blade gives a slight smile in response to it, and the feeling makes Jing Yuan a little dizzy.
His fingers stay frozen there for some time—the fear that if he moves, if he wants for too much, then the moment will break like an hourglass and Blade will deny him. But Blade only stands there and breathes, steadily, patiently, waiting for however long Jing Yuan needs. The rustling of the mara inside him seems to have quieted, almost, and all that remains is the same person Jing Yuan has missed for centuries.
Jing Yuan’s fingers are still trembling. In hesitant, halting motions, he begins to move his fingers along those lips.
Blade does not interrupt him. His own hand trails down from Jing Yuan’s and settles naturally around his waist; instinctively, Jing Yuan steps closer to him. In a burst of boldness, he lifts his other hand and brings it, too, over Blade’s cheek. Though it is a whisper of a movement, at this proximity, he feels how Blade leans a little toward him.
Jing Yuan explores the curved-up petals of his mouth, then spreads his hands over his face like wings. Blade shuts his eyes, and Jing Yuan brushes his fingers over the feathers of his eyelashes, his eyelids and that quiet heat. Very softly, he lets his hands thread under the curtain of Blade’s bangs, over the shells of his ears and the accessory he wears on the back of his head. He finally slows to a stop with his hands cupping both sides of his face.
Blade is still taller than him. Jing Yuan’s cheeks feel warm, tingly. He can’t keep himself from smiling.
“Finished?” Blade asks, and under his palms, Jing Yuan can feel the vibrations of him speaking.
“Mm.” His answer is a little breathless. He can’t think of anything else to say, for all the shy happiness blossoming under his skin. He should remove his hands now, but he doesn’t, and Blade doesn’t make him.
“You’re still smiling?” Blade sounds amused, as if he hadn’t been smiling too. “Do you like it that much?”
But how could he not? How could he hide it now, when the recollection has resolved into truth under his fingers, when his emptiness has furled away into the nearness of their bodies?
“Of course,” Jing Yuan answers, earnestly.
Blade tugs him in by the hand around his waist while Jing Yuan is still tipping toward him. That inch or two, those wings, those leaves, the people they both will always be—the span of a single heartbeat, and then Blade’s lips are covering his, closing the last of the distance.