Work Text:
1.
she wants to kiss him.
the way he glides effortlessly on the ice makes his long hair move like an ink brush with every slide and sway is mesmerizing to look at. he isn't even doing anything special, no jumps or spins, just moving around the ice rink like anyone else.
but the peaceful expression on his face makes zhezhi heady with a want to kiss qiuyuan; it blooms softly inside her chest, warm and fuzzy and giddy. it stops her from thinking about anything, ever.
which is why her legs move on their own towards him, drawn to qiuyuan. she really, really, just wants to kiss her boyfriend.
he doesn't stop skating but silently slows down when he hears her near, reaching out to grip her hand in his like it's the most natural thing to do in the world — and it might as well be, for how zhezhi matches his slow pace. she intertwines their hands together, raising the other to his shoulder, and skates even closer to him.
that does make qiuyuan stop both of their momentums with a harsh scraping sound against the ice, his other hand now rest on her waist, but he says and does nothing, not even when her face is now scant few inches away from his own, noses brushing against each other. waiting, ever patient…
zhezhi kisses him softly, if a little hurried. it doesn't last for long, and she sees him smile when she pulls away, feels his arm wrap around her, bringing her in for another kiss. firmer, but no less delicate than the first.
it makes her smile, too. if she wasn't wearing heavy ice skates, zhezhi thinks she'd have kicked her feet — she just feels so happy and loved.
2.
qiuyuan has a pleasantly deep and calm voice.
zhezhi does like listening to music while painting and working on commissions, it gives her inspirations for pieces — how a certain lighting should be like, and if she was drawing people, how their poses would be and the dynamic between them, how the environment around them would look like.
zhezhi was born with sound to color synesthesia; she sees what people's voices sound like. and qiuyuan is an earthly green — like a dense, wild bamboo forest, steady and soothing.
embarrassingly, she finds herself falling asleep to his voice more and more often. she can't really help it though, he could be reciting the number book from back to back and she'd still find her fried, anxious nerves soothed!
…she'd never say that to him, it's too embarrassing of a secret. zhezhi doesn't think she can live it down even if she knows qiuyuan is not going to tease her about it. if anything, he'd probably take it as encouragement. zhezhi doesn't think she can handle whatever he comes up with, it'd just be too much for her heart. and brain. and sleep schedule!
still, more than the music, zhezhi loves listening to his poem recitals while drawing. sitting by his side on the couch, tablet on her legs that are thrown over his lap, while she rests her back against the couch arm, zhezhi finds more inspiration from his poems than music would ever give her.
(it is a comfort for her to lose herself in the wild bamboo forest, without any fears. she is surrounded by love.)
3.
her hand is feather-light, grasped in his own. delicate like a flower petal, and jusf as soft.
a feeling blooms in his heart, steadily spreading through his chest and makes him almost light headed; an intense emotion, unlike any he has ever felt before. a yearning, strong and dizzying as it hits him, causing his lips to part and his face feels like it's set on fire, like his mind is racing to catch up to what is happening.
focus. focus.
he carefully guides zhezhi's hand in a languid, precise motions, moving the brush in her hand across the paper. they do not say a word to break the silence.
the brush moves up in two mildly thick lines, lifts from the paper, then moves across three times in thinning strokes. lifts, placed in the corner, down in light, swaying motion, lifts again. another two upward lines, varying in thickness this time, drawn underneath the swayed lines.
rinse and repeat.
qiuyuan is no artist, but zhezhi wanted to do this with him. she wanted him to draw something, anything, and she'd help him with it. he knows nothing of relationships and neither does she, but her earnestness warms him. makes him do things he never thought he'd ever do, with her.
for her.
without thinking, qiuyuan leans down and kisses her shoulder. their hands continue moving steadily across the paper, even though he feels her flinch in surprise.
4.
qiuyuan, for a very long time, only experienced one form of physical contact: violent combat.
his adoptive father was not an affectionate man, he was distant but taught qiuyuan martial arts. doctor zhang is not either, his medical treatments are always harsh and delivered with scolding words towards qiuyuan due to his job as a mixed martial artist. master liang was more jovial, but he respected qiuyuan's personal space.
so do his friends.
and then there is zhezhi. specifically: drunk zhezhi.
she is much clingier than when she's sober. when zhezhi is drunk, she sits on his lap and snuggles up to him, laying her head on his shoulder or hiding it in the crook of his neck. sometimes, she'd wrap her entire small body around one of his arms.
she also places little kisses anywhere she can reach, it didn't matter to her where. his face, his arms and hands, even his chest.
qiuyuan enjoys it. he'd let her do it a hundred thousand times.
5.
“oh, sorry. what i wanted to say is, the sunlight on you right now is so beautiful. can i... paint you?” her voice was tentative, simultaneously hopeful and anxious.
“i don't mind. do as you wish.” he didn't say anymore than this. she couldn't read his tone, but it didn't sound unfriendly.
zhezhi thinks back to that moment as she stares at qiuyuan's broad back, who is busy cooking breakfast. she remembers that time very clearly.
she was just a broke university student back then, who wandered into the nearby empty park at 9am on a weekday. he was sitting on the grass underneath a tree, eyes closed and resting his back against the tree. zhezhi thought he was sleeping, and although she was suddenly struck with inspiration to draw, she thought it'd be rude to not ask for permission first.
it took her what felt like ages to gather up the courage to approach him, clutching her sketchbook and fiddling with the plastic spiral. when she did finally bite the bullet and move towards him, her heart felt like it was going to leave her chest. slowly, not wanting to disturb him, zhezhi crouched down nearby the man.
thick, long black hair tied in a high ponytail, with wavy bangs that obscure his eyes; his hair ended in a light gray color at the tips, making it look like a black brush dipped in white ink. it was captivating…
he also has a dark red scar on his cheek, a little beneath his eye. the man opened his eyes, turned his face to where she was crouched. clouded, unseeing grey eyes — blind.
her heart raced and skipped multiple beats for a different reason than anxiety. her fingers fidgeted, twisted and knotted and tugged at each other
he was handsome.
zhezhi lays her head on the table as she remembers how she had rambled and stuttered, how patient he was even back then.
she kicks her feet underneath the table at the silly memory.
6.
sometimes, qiuyuan's calm personality makes her cry.
not out of fear, or pain, or anything like that. he is just so patient with zhezhi — he never pushes when she doesn't want to open up, he always listens to her late night ramblings because her mind won’t go quiet…
he even indulges her insomnia-induced idea of modeling for her drawings; posing as she wants him to, in various clothes and underneath whatever lighting they can make in their countryside apartment, holding whatever items she wants to include in her art.
qiuyuan once told her that he'd do anything she asked of him, no matter what it was or how long it took. he had said it so earnestly, and zhezhi didn't know how she could refuse him — she'd feel like absolute shit if she had.
now, it is late at night, and both of them couldn't sleep. he is sitting in front of a traditional chinese partition, one leg folded while the other is bent at the knee. zhezhi is supposed to be fixing his hair, or angle the tall lamp a certain way, or do something, kneeling on her knees right beside him as she is…
instead, she can't help but lightly trace the prominent scar on his cheek with her fingers.
there is a feeling in her chest that she cannot name, heavy and dizzying in its intensity. it makes her lips part, breath stutter, and eyes simultaneously go unfocused and too fixated. her heart is stumbling in its beats. the tips of her fingers are tingling where they are touching his warm skin.
qiuyuan leans his face against her fingers, turns his head slightly so his rough lips kiss the palm of her hand. softly, lightly.
“zhezhi.” misty, early morning forest, full of dewed flowers.
he makes her name sound like a secret garden, instead of a broken branch.
7.
qiuyuan realized his feelings for her almost from the beginning.
it was hard not to, since he was a stranger to romantic relationships; the feelings he had whenever the two of them met anywhere were unfamiliar to him, but once he sat with himself one day to reflect, he found those feelings were not entirely unwelcome.
and he realized that from their first meeting under that tree, qiuyuan wanted to give her anything she asked for and more. he asked himself: was it because of the way she stuttered and stumbled when she asked him for permission to draw him? was it the simple fact that she wanted to paint him?
what was it that made him want to give her everything?
her voice was light and airy, delicate like a flower petal. she smelled of lavender and peony, a scent that was gentle and pleasant on the senses. her footfalls were almost silent, but very hesitant when she approached him, thinking he was asleep. he almost didn't hear her.
that was the thing: he almost didn't sense her coming. if it wasn't for how the grass shifted underneath her weight, if it wasn't for how the smell of lavender reached him before she did, qiuyuan wouldn't have been able to react in time.
it fascinated him, then, how timid her personality was. because she could have easily snuck up on him.
she could have been deadly but instead, she approached him like a falling rose petal — softly and slowly.
(his heart never stood a chance.)