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day 2 || philautia
When Luo Binghe awakens, he's surprised — and maybe a little disappointed — to wake up with a mere charcoal stick in his hand, and without soreness.
Don't get him wrong, his Shizun isn't obliged to… well, touch him, of course. He hadn't exactly been informed about Luo Binghe's run-in with the ancient soul-swapping artifact, so little time he'd had to do anything other than sequester himself away and ensure that everything within his tent would keep his husband comfortable during his impromptu ‘stay’. And maybe, just maybe, he'd left a toy or two beneath his pillow. To find them haphazardly shoved into his qiankun pouch, otherwise untouched…
It only makes him miss his husband more.
Sullenly, Luo Binghe resigns himself to going through the motions of preparing for the day. They likely would not continue on their conquest today, in case the artifact shows any lingering effects, but it would be prudent to inform his men of his condition — particularly Shang Qinghua. He may constantly rebuff his advisor's frequent suggestions to visit Qing Jing and take supposed ‘wellness days’, but that was only because Binghe wanted to use his Shizun as motivation to finish this as soon as possible. A prize, of sorts.
(If he fell into his Shizun's embrace now, he isn't sure he'd ever let go.)
He shrugs off the soft, thick robe he'd covered himself in, thinking his Shizun would like it, bundling it up in his arms as he ruefully wished his husband's scent could have at least lingered on the fabric.
And then he stares at his left arm, because there are marks on his body.
Not hickeys or bruises though, as he'd hoped. Instead, black strokes of elegant writing make a stark contrast against the rest of his flesh, lines thin and neat in a way only a sharpened charcoal stick could manage. He raises his hand, bringing his wrist up to eye level so he can better read what had been inscribed onto his skin.
Skilled hands, a line says in flowing penmanship, placed just over the pulse point on his wrist. Good at cooking. Good in battle.
Luo Binghe chuckles at the stilted wording, picturing his husband's narrowed eyes as he attempts to think of something short and sweet to say that would fit within the limited space. Curiosity piqued, Binghe checks his right wrist.
Gentle hands, it says, scribbled haphazardly. With his non-dominant hand, Binghe realizes. They care for me well.
He inhales sharply. The longing festers.
Luo Binghe quickly grabs the mirror sitting at the foot of his bed, one they had acquired as proof of subservience when one of the clans had surrendered. Taking a deep breath, he sets it on his lap, where he can use it to check the rest of his body. Had his Shizun used it in this way too, to write on his upper body?
As Binghe had expected, the marks on his chest were sparse, though there were smudges of charcoal that indicated that there had been notes, but they'd been hastily erased. Binghe enjoys the mental image of his Shizun flushed pink, struggling to think of anything… appropriate, to say about his chest. Still, as though to make up for it, there were several peculiar symbols smattered across his torso, almost resembling the shape of a peach. Luo Binghe tilts his head, befuddled. They were shaped like a specific type of leaf, or perhaps Bleeding Heart Orchids? He perked up at the thought. Were they symbols of affection?
(The symbols are concentrated around the scarred flesh on his breast. Binghe knows his Shizun still thinks about that day.)
These fit so perfectly in my hands, is clumsily scrawled over his hips, an uncomfortable angle to write at. These have weathered my beloved's woes and sorrows, traces his shoulderblade. One is even on his cheek, reading, Where I love to bite and kiss — indeed, his Shizun takes particular delight in tugging at Binghe's cheeks with his teeth. The orchid shapes decorate the jut of his lower lip, the tip of his nose, even beside his zuiyin, gleaming bright.
And when he shifts to sit in the lotus position,
Strong legs, says the writing on his left ankle. They carry my husband home.
His eyes sting terribly as a whimper tears itself from his throat, yearning tugging at his heart. It hurts a little, to love this much, but it aches so pleasantly that Binghe wants to drown himself in it.
He had been hurting the days leading up to his departure. He'd borne the dark thoughts plaguing him without complaint, covering them up with reassuring smiles and praying Shizun couldn't taste desperation in his kiss.
When he steps out of his tent, he is clothed in softer fabrics, devoid of the embellishments and metalwork present in his battle robes. Mobei-jun is waiting just outside with his arms crossed.
“Shang Qinghua demanded I send you to Qing Jing,” the ice demon drones.
Though cowardly, his shishu had always been sharp of mind. Luo Binghe makes a mental note to bring the man melon seeds.
“Take me there.”