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Jing Yuan feels the softness of the navy blue locks under his fingertips as his fingers thread through the long hair. He’s nothing but gentle in his approach, slowly combing through the hair and untangling some persistent knots that he found rather unpleasant to deal with every time he ran his fingers through it, be it just a gentle brushing or an insistent grip at the roots in the throes of passion. Jing Yuan wonders when the last time Blade properly took care of his own hair by himself, and not with Jing Yuan’s help. Jing Yuan doesn’t mind this small act of care he can easily provide for his lover — he likes having Blade’s locks between his fingers. But the question still lingers in his mind.
The backyard is pleasantly quiet, except for the chirping of some lone birds and the rustling of leaves. Blade’s head is tipped slightly back as Jing Yuan works behind him, his throat exposed in a surprisingly vulnerable gesture that makes Jing Yuan’s heart clench with affection at the trust that the swordsman placed directly into his hands.
With Blade’s eyes barely open, he observes the cherry petals that are slowly falling from the tree branches above their heads with each gentle breeze. If he squinted a bit more, the petals might’ve looked like snowflakes. He doesn’t like winter, and he’s pleased that the weather on the Luofu is always warm when he arrives here. Or maybe it was just Jing Yuan’s presence that made him feel better in every aspect. He has never actually thought about this, and not like he wanted to.
Blade sighs and closes his eyes, letting the shadows of the leaves draw eerie images on his closed eyelids.
“Do you still think about them?” His voice a low, lazy murmur, perfectly suited for the sleepy afternoon. The question is vague, and Jing Yuan doesn’t understand it right away.
“Who?”
“Quintet.”
“Ah.”
For a beat, Jing Yuan was a bit taken aback by the suddenness of this type of question. What made Blade ask him that? Was he reminded of something? Or was it simply a stray thought?
“Yeah,” Jing Yuan breathes, not without a melancholic note in his voice. “Do you?”
Blade, instead of answering, tilts his head slightly to the side, a subconscious gesture that could’ve meant nothing, really, if not for the way he leaned directly into the general’s hands. He opens his eyes and observes the hairpin that he held carefully in his hands. A long stick from carved wood, white on the sharp end, with a dark blue flowing ribbon attached to it. The hairpin should’ve evoked at least some of the memories in him, but, for Blade, the thing in his hands was nothing but a withered twig with a few flower buds sprouting on the end.
“No.”
Jing Yuan sighs. “It’s a good thing.”
He reaches past Blade’s shoulder, a few centimeters separate Blade from the outstretched hand, now hovering close to the side of his face. The swordsman stares at it before raising his hand and placing an ornate hairpin on the open palm. His gloveless fingertips brush over the warm skin of Jing Yuan’s hand, and the brief contact sends pleasant ripples of warmth up the length of his arm.
A silence that lingers in the air between them shortly after is enough for Jing Yuan to fix Blade’s hair with a hairpin. The feeling of his hair pulled back tight against his scalp makes the skin there tingle.
“I don’t remember much,” Blade states when Jing Yuan’s hands slide down his neck and settle on his shoulders. In the next moment, Blade feels a gentle pressure of the general’s thumbs, easing the tension from his shoulders with careful, circular movements.
“It’s also a good thing,” Jing Yuan reassures and leans in to press a fleeting kiss to the top of Blade’s spine, right where the blue hair begins. Blade doesn’t try to hide his shivers.
“Why?”
“Hmm…” the general hums, and Blade feels the vibration of Jing Yuan’s chest against his back. “Because bygones are bygones, Yingxing-ge. You don’t have to remember what happened back then. It’ll only slow you down in the long run.”
Blade bristles at the name, just slightly, but he lets it settle in his chest like a heavy blanket over his heart. He repeats this name again and again in his head, trying to find at least some of the resemblance between himself and the person Jing Yuan still saw when he looked at Blade with those golden eyes of his.
“You still think I haven’t changed,” Blade murmurs, so quietly that Jing Yuan has to lean closer to hear him properly. The general wraps his arms around Blade’s shoulders, pressing himself tighter against the body in front of him. Blade instinctively raises his hand and blindly finds Jing Yuan’s wrist, grasping it with slightly trembling fingers.
“Have you?” Jing Yuan whispers with a smile on his lips.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you just think you have.”
The answer earns a humorless huff. “And you are the only one who thinks I haven’t.”
“Because I am also the only one who chose to remember things as they once were.”
Blade’s eyebrows knit together, showing that the swordsman wasn’t really satisfied by this kind of answer.
“You’ll drown in the past until you become mara-struck, A-Yuan,” he says, but his thumb begins to gently rub against Jing Yuan’s knuckles as he tightens his grip on the man’s hand in a seemingly grounding gesture.
Jing Yuan notices, of course he does. These small gestures of affection have never slipped past him unnoticed. And he knows that these gestures convey a lot of unsaid words that Blade would never allow himself to admit. He’ll never say out loud how much he loves Jing Yuan, how grateful he is every time the man spends his night cleaning and bandaging Blade’s wounds when Blade himself barely has enough strength to stay awake. Or how scared he feels at the thought of Jing Yuan becoming mara-struck. He knows it’s inevitable, but he dreads that day with every fiber of his being.
“I know,” Jing Yuan whispers and places another kiss on Blade’s skin, this time on his cheekbone in a mere attempt to distract him.
Blade closes his eyes.
“Foolish.”