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Since the day they realised they could sleep in the same bed, Nezha and Ao Bing have barely spent a night apart. This arrangement perfectly suits Ao Bing, who is finally able to satisfy his long-suppressed instincts to sleep entwined with another — as loong tend to do when they are little. With their legs tangled together and Ao Bing's face firmly pressed into the crook of Nezha's neck, he basks in the warmth of his companion's body and sleeps more soundly than ever.
—Except on nights like this.
Ao Bing stirs at the first whimper, senses well-attuned by now to this particular sound. He lies in the dark, half asleep, and waits to see if Nezha will settle down again.
“I’m sorry—” Nezha's hands reach towards something (someone) that isn’t there. “Niang… I’m sorry— I’m sorry—”
Ah — it’s that nightmare again. Ao Bing sits up in an instant, gently resting his cool palm upon Nezha's forehead. Nezha’s skin is clammy, his brow furrowed, and Ao Bing can feel the huadian blazing beneath his hand. His own mark twinges in sympathy.
“Nezha.” Ao Bing speaks softly, not wanting to startle him. “You’re dreaming. Come back to me.”
Nezha groans and grimaces, muttering fragmented sentences through grit teeth — and then another string of frantic apologies. It seems that he will not be roused so easily this time.
Inhaling slowly, Ao Bing combs his fingers through Nezha’s limp, sweat-dampened hair and begins to hum. It’s a deep and mellifluous sound, filling the silence between Nezha’s gasps and choked-off cries. Although it lacks words, this is clearly a song — one that Ao Bing is keenly familiar with. His voice climbs up above the clouds and drops down beneath the depths, weaving a tale out of nothing more than his carefully controlled breaths. All the while, he continues to stroke Nezha’s hair, channeling just a little ice so that he might help soothe his feverish temperature.
In time, the knot between Nezha’s eyebrows unravels and the tension melts out of his body, leaving him pliant once more. Ao Bing allows the song to trail off at a natural stopping point, pausing mid-exhale to listen to the now-peaceful sound of Nezha’s breathing. He smiles, allowing his fingertips to linger on Nezha’s face for just a moment longer before wriggling his way back into his preferred sleeping position. Closing his eyes, he releases the rest of his satisfied sigh and—
“... Ao Bing?”
—nearly jumps out of his skin.
“I didn’t realise that you were awake—”
Nezha rolls onto his side so that they’re lying facing one-another.
“What were you singing?”
Heat automatically creeps into Ao Bing’s cheeks. But this is Nezha — his other half. The desire to be open and honest with him is always much stronger than the natural inclination to feel embarrassed.
“It was my egg song.”
He can feel Nezha’s reaction better than he can see it — a tangible jolt of surprise.
“Your ‘egg song’? What’s an egg song?”
“It is what your parents sing to you while you are incubating, to help you learn the sound of their voices. I…” He hesitates, swallowing down an unexpected rush of emotion. “I was in my egg for a very long time — fuwang sang it to me for many, many years. I barely remember the time before I hatched, but I do remember how comforting it felt to hear his voice.” Ao Bing smiles, although Nezha is unable to see it. “I was hoping the song might comfort you as well.”
Silence descends upon them. Nezha’s hand finds its way to Ao Bing’s bare upper arm, fingers lightly pressing into his flesh. He's trembling again.
“So like… a lullaby?”
“Yes, like a lullaby.”
“Oh.” Nezha’s grip on Ao Bing’s arm tightens. “... I'm not a baby, you know.”
“I know.”
“I don't need you to sing me to sleep.”
“I know.”
The next wave of silence is much heavier than the last one. It is ultimately broken by a quiet sniffle.
“Ao Bing?”
“Yes, Nezha?”
“... Can you sing it again?”
Ao Bing would laugh if he didn’t think it would wound Nezha’s fragile pride.
“Of course I can.” Courage wells up inside of him. “Actually — it will sound better if we do this.”
Wrapping his arms around Nezha, Ao Bing tugs him close so that his cheek is pressed up against Ao Bing’s chest. Nezha immediately yelps, limbs scrambling within the unexpected embrace.
“Hey! Wait! What are you—?”
“Lie still for me.”
Nezha splutters some more, but does not pull away. He eventually settles down — especially once Ao Bing begins petting his hair again.
“Are you ready, now?”
“... Yeah.”
After taking in a slow breath, Ao Bing starts to vocalise once more, smiling shyly when he hears a quiet gasp of wonder from Nezha. This is as close as he can hope to replicate the feeling of an egg song, rather than just the sound of it. The way the sound physically reverberates inside of the both of them, transferred from singer to listener by the close press of their bodies the same way it would travel through an eggshell to the unborn baby within.
He takes them back to the beginning of the story, reshaping a tale as ancient as the people that sing it — the creation myth of loongkind. He invokes the powerful roar of ancient volcanoes and the crashing waves of primordial oceans, bassy rumbles that resonate low and deep within his chest. He conjures the soft pitter-patter of rain and the aching melancholy of icebergs — higher notes that trill in the throat like birdsong.
All the while, he pretends not to notice the warm splash of tears against his skin.
This time, Ao Bing sings the story all the way to its true ending — a final, rolling tone that lingers in the air and within his lungs for several moments. When he finishes, he’s a bit out of breath, his chest rising and falling with controlled exertion so that he doesn’t jostle Nezha from his spot. He feels Nezha’s palm smoothing carefully along his ribcage before coming to rest over his thrumming heart. Ao Bing swallows.
“... Maybe it’s okay if you sing me to sleep. Sometimes.”
Ao Bing finally laughs, warm and content. He envelopes Nezha in a close embrace, burying his nose in his hair and breathing him in.
“Whenever you like.”