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Ever since he first met Shen Wei, Zhao Yunlan has longed to just understand him. To know why he insists on spinning such a web of obvious, useless lies – layer after layer as his secrets are peeled off him in fine gossamer nets, revealing more beneath. To know why he treats Zhao Yunlan with such conspicuous consideration, bending over backwards to help and protect him when Zhao Yunlan has never been even an ally of Dixing. To know how he can be so tender, so affectionate, and still maintain such distance.
And then a wormhole deposits Zhao Yunlan 10,000 years in the past, and the mysteries fall away like a dropped sheet.
This Shen Wei isn’t a professor conducting recondite discussions on obscure matters of biology amongst a highly educated circle. This Shen Wei is a leader, a warrior, a strategist. A man living entirely in the moment, fighting for his life and those of his comrades.
He’s also painfully innocent and, worse, painfully alone. Things Zhao Yunlan discovers within an hour of formally meeting him for the first time.
He’s masquerading as Kunlun, a foreign general representing a distant force responsible for much of the supplies keeping the Alliance intact, as well as guarding two of their most exposed flanks. To play this part he’s been wrapped up in heavy woollen robes that itch and smell faintly of horse; his hair has been grown out into waist-long locks and promptly twined and braided back up into an entirely foreign look. He feels ridiculous.
And then he sees Shen Wei. Shen Wei in black robes not so dissimilar from Hei Pao Shi’s, just rougher and with mud stains at the hems. Shen Wei in a black mask patterned with gold, his dark eyes so shadowed, and – fuck that. Zhao Yunlan’s not playing this game again. So he plucks off the mask and sees – innocence. Purity. Earnestness that’s so intense it makes his heart ache. This is Shen Wei without his cocoon of lies, of deception, and it hurts just how naked he seems without them. How exposed.
Zhao Yunlan wants to bundle him up in his rough cloak and hide him away – the dimples in his cheeks and the pearl barley-like wrinkle lines at the soft corners of his eyes. He’s too good for this rugged, comfortless life lived in caves and rocky fields.
“It’s me,” he says, and he yearns to hear his name on Shen Wei’s lips, a recognition across time. Instead he sees only bemusement. So he lifts his lank, bead-encrusted hair, and receives a beaming smile in return.
“Benefactor!”
He grins. He can be Shen Wei’s benefactor, if it means he gets to have that smile. A smile Shen Wei back in the future in his fancy suits and wire-frame glasses has only bestowed on Zhao Yunlan when he has made some appalling sacrifice in Zhao Yunlan’s name. It’s wonderful to see it on him without blood dripping through his teeth.
“Kunlun,” he says, with a flourishing bow that sends the metal in his hair jingling.
When he looks up Shen Wei is saluting him gravely, with all the graciousness of an exceptional host. Gods – how old is he, even? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? The same age as the graduate students that he mother hens back home, cooking them meals and providing copious feedback on their research papers. “Please,” says Shen Wei, eyes downcast. “Forgive me for not greeting you properly.”
“Aiyo, no need for apologies. Hei Pao Shi’s eminence speaks for itself. And besides, aren’t we allies? I came all the way here to support your cause.” He hopes he has this right. His briefing was hurried, and in many places incomplete. But Shen Wei seems approving, if reticent, now.
“You would like to tour our camp,” he suggests, with a polite look. And Zhao Yunlan is experienced enough at politics to know he’s offering the chance to assess the Alliance’s strengths, and its weaknesses.
Truly, Shen Wei is too good. Zhao Yunlan nods easily. “Sure, sure. But only if Hei Pao Shi provides the tour personally!” He raises his eyebrows, wheedling. Shen Wei smiles, smaller now, thin as a streak of sun through cloudy skies. He takes back his mask, and slips it back over his face.
So, so alone, even among his own troops.
Shen Wei leads him out of the caves and across a wide field nestled between two valleys, a shallow rock-bottomed stream running through it bordered by rushes. Now, as the sun sets behind the mountains, there are orange campfires flickering here and there across the valley floor, troops cooking their evening meals. There are tents and bedrolls scattered around with little order – this isn’t a military, it’s a ragtag alliance of like-minded soldiers. There’s no uniformity to their dress, and little armour. The weapons are equally a mishmash of swords, spears, bows and even a few wicked-looking axes. Shen Wei is apparently unarmed, no blade by his side, not even a knife in his boot. But then, Zhao Yunlan knows he doesn’t need to carry his weapon with him to have it close at hand.
Shen Wei is, if anything, a precursor to his future professorial self as he tours the troops. He is polite, distant, and cool with them. There are perhaps two or three hundred, and he knows them all by name; they greet him with abject respect and Zhao Yunlan can tell easily that they would grovel before him if he wanted them to, would take any punishment or privation he ordered. Probably at least in part because they know he would never ask any of those things of them. That he has made himself into a nightmare for them, a man without fears or weaknesses.
He is consummate in this role, as he ushers Zhao Yunlan through the camp. If he thought that Professor Shen was restrained, overly prim, well, he has nothing on this ancient envoy. Hei Pao Shi shies away from Zhao Yunlan’s reaching hands, drops his eyes beneath the heat of his smiles, steps aside to allow Zhao Yunlan to precede him through narrow passages between dead tree trunks or straw-stuffed pillows serving as seats.
Back in the future, in the world where Shen Wei is wrapped with mysteries – which are rapidly unravelling, now – Shen Wei is so hungry for his touches. For every pat, every nudge, every palm on his shoulder or knee to his knee.
This man, though, behaves like no one has ever touched him. When Zhao Yunlan reaches for him he leans away, wide-eyed and reticent. Not afraid, he thinks. Shen Wei must know how strong he is, all the powers at his command. But – unfamiliar. Almost like a feral cat, who doesn’t know how to trust, much less how to enjoy.
Even as he looks at Zhao Yunlan with those liquid eyes, like pools of ink, luminous in the fire light.
Zhao Yunlan swallows. Everything around him reminds him that right now he isn’t himself, is playing a role. The hair that shifts against his back, the itchy wool clothes, the heavy boots that don’t fit right. The smell of woodsmoke and meat cooking, the low call of night birds in the wild. He should be Kunlun, the leader of an important military force, a strategist and a power broker. Not a flirtatious, fun-loving, irreverent cop. He should behave.
After the tour, Shen Wei takes them somewhere they can talk alone. A wide plain at the edge of a rocky cliff, seams of granite and clay dressed up with dust. The grass is long, swishy, and sitting in it is like being in a green sea caressed by the wind. It smells so – fresh. The air, the greenery, even the rich clay earth.
Zhao Yunlan thinks that perhaps Shen Wei wants to talk about the treaty, the alliance. Zhao Yunlan absolutely doesn’t want to start digging into those details, so he changes the topic. He asks Shen Wei to talk about the one thing Shen Wei clearly never does – himself.
And Shen Wei just… tells him. About the mask, the cloak. The fears he hides away under a disguise of steely strength. He’s so honest about it, painfully truthful about his weaknesses to a man he’s only just met. And still so determined, in the face of hardship and death. Zhao Yunlan wants – just so much. His chest is clogged with syrupy desires, thick and sweet – to shelter Shen Wei, to protect him, to rip away his hardships. To love him, as he so clearly deserves. His hands twitch, fingers itching to reach out, to feel the firmness and the warmth of Shen Wei’s body.
Instead he produces a lollypop. Before Shen Wei can guard against it, he slips it between his berry-pink lips, and crows at the look of delighted surprise. “Sweet, right? You have it.”
Shen Wei looks at him with wide, naïve eyes. Like he hung the stars, like his trite gift is one of gold and silver, a tribute rather than a joke.
Zhao Yunlan is here, out of time, out of place, and he has so few things to give. So he offers the only other one in his power – a name. 巍, a lofty, powerful name that befits the man Shen Wei is in his mind, in his memory.
Shen Wei accepts it as if it’s something precious. Something to honour, to admire. To love.
***
Later, there’s a feast. Or at least, a large communal meal for the Alliance leaders with toasts and songs – there isn’t much meat, and the liquor is watered down. Zhao Yunlan wonders how long this war has been going on, and how much longer it can last.
Shen Wei is very rigid throughout the festivities, the way he was when speaking to his troops. He doesn’t sing; he certainly doesn’t dance, when some of the Yashou pull away from the rude tables and start a knees-up around the bonfires. Zhao Yunlan knows why, now. Knows how tightly he guards his reputation. To maintain the confidence of his fighters, and the terror of the enemy.
Zhao Yunlan, seated beside him at his insistence, puts a few choice offerings into his bowl – small, porcelain, cracked. He looks torn each time, uncertain if he should refuse, unaware how to accept the gifts with grace. Very clearly, he has never been courted. Has never even been spoiled. He keeps glancing at Zhao Yunlan out of the tail of his eye, the mask burnished gold by the fire light. So – curious. And so unsure of himself.
It’s driving Zhao Yunlan a little mad. Shen Wei, his Shen Wei, has grown into his powers. Oh, not the dark energy – he’s quite sure this man is an expert with his preternatural abilities. No – Zhao Yunlan’s Shen Wei knows how to let his eyes linger, how to show heat, want, willing with perfect intent. This man, though. He hasn’t learned how to telegraph his desires.
No.
He hasn’t learned what he desires. And so he hides behind a mask, and shrinks from offerings, and couches his language in exactitudes and polite formality just as he does with his troops.
Zhao Yunlan has been many things in his life, but shy was never one of them. It’s endearing, to see it in Shen Wei. It makes him, if possible, feel even more protective towards the young envoy.
Which is probably why he half-rises from his seat when, at the conclusion of the night, the music stops and Ma Gui takes the opportunity to announce to everyone present that in order to cement the alliance between their people and Kunlun’s forces, Shen Wei and Kunlun will share the same bed tonight.
“I’m sorry – what?” he says, suddenly aware of all eyes on him – and, beside him, Shen Wei who is sitting extraordinarily still.
“It is customary,” says Ma Gui, as if that makes it normal, or even okay. “A sign of goodwill and trust.”
Zhao Yunlan looks at Shen Wei. The envoy, wrapped in his heavy black robes, face caressed by the jet black mask, is staring straight ahead. His lips are pinched tight; beneath the table where only Zhao Yunlan can see them, his hands are fisted.
“You’re going to force your envoy – your best fighter – to sleep with a stranger for the sake of an alliance with troops you’ve never seen?” demands Zhao Yunlan. “You should be thinking of him – of protecting him.”
“We are thinking of all of us. Of the future of our people, and the things we need to achieve it,” says Fu You, serenely.
“That’s bullshit – you –”
“I did not object,” breaks in Shen Wei, in a low voice. Zhao Yunlan chokes back his vitriol, turning to look at him. Shen Wei meets his gaze; steady, face taut. “I did not object, when the ceremony was proposed. Ma-daren is right; our people need this alliance.”
Of course he didn’t object. Zhao Yunlan can imagine him now, in the caverns lit by a smoking torch, agreeing to put aside his habit of privacy and solitude for the benefit of others. To put himself at risk – of injury, of insult, of horrific assault. Zhao Yunlan tastes bile in his mouth, acid stinging at his throat.
“I don’t need that sacrifice from you,” he says, roughly. “I don’t need any sacrifice, from you.”
Shen Wei lifts his chin, just slightly haughty, now. “It is no sacrifice to show trust in my benefactor.”
Zhao Yunlan looks at him for several heartbeats, holding his gaze, waiting to see if he’ll waver.
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. When has Shen Wei ever, ever feared hardship in the name of a good cause?
Zhao Yunlan looks to Ma Lin and Fu You. “To be clear,” he says, very hard now. “We’re talking about sleeping, only. Because I absolutely refuse to force or be forced beyond that.” Even as he says it, he feels a curl of nausea in his stomach. At the idea that Shen Wei would let himself be compelled into sex with a stranger on the Alliance’s behalf. That he would be given as some kind of tribute to Zhao Yunlan – their best, most beautiful, most innocent warrior. If that’s what’s happening here, he’ll burn this whole fucking camp to the ground.
Beside him, Shen Wei shifts. “Kunlun. No. It is an old tradition among our peoples – where alliances between Dixingren, and Haixingren, and Yashou are ever fluid, often shifting. No intimacy, beyond each other’s presence. Beyond being willing to let our guard down, a period of defencelessness.” His speech is stilted; stiff. Nervous. Of Zhao Yunlan, of this offer.
“You don’t know me,” says Zhao Yunlan, softly now.
“I believe,” replies Shen Wei, with just the tiniest hint of humour, “that that is the point.”
He wants to fight it. Not for himself, but for Shen Wei. He’s given so much already, has heaped more and more responsibility onto his shoulders, bears so much weight. He shouldn’t be compelled to sacrifice his modesty atop it all.
But. He’s not himself, here. He’s Kunlun, representing a coalition the Alliance needs to survive. He can’t stand on principles that have no time, no place in this world, that are based on modern notions of consent and agency. If he presses too hard, he could destroy the very thing he’s supposed to be preserving.
And… if anyone is going to share a bed with Shen Wei, he wants it to be him.
All around, the gathered heads of the Alliance are watching him. Commanders and generals, strategists and quartermasters. Zhao Yunlan spreads his arms. “Alright, then. I agree. To this alliance – and to your terms.” He turns to look at Shen Wei. “I put myself in Hei Pao Shi’s care.”
***
Most of the troop tents are little more than scraps of cloth or tarp stretched over a rude cradle of sticks, barely enough to cover a sleeping person.
Shen Wei’s tent is grander. There is space to stand inside, and the trampled grass is mostly covered with knotwork rugs. There is a heap of furs that clearly act as his bed; there is also a wicker basket whose dipping lid carries a few leather flagons and various sundries; beside it is a small wooden end table stacked with books.
Even 10,000 years in the past in the middle of a war, Shen Wei is hungry for knowledge.
There are no lanterns or torches in the tent; Zhao Yunlan is carrying a single candle to light his way through the hillocks and stony earth, and it’s by its tiny flickering glow that he sees Shen Wei’s tent. Dixingren, of course, have no need of additional light.
Shen Wei is holding the cloth flap that acts as a door open for him; Zhao Yunlan ducks under his arm and promptly, in the swelling gloom, trips on something soft and rumpled. He staggers; the candle goes out leaving him blind.
In the quiet, velvety darkness, Zhao Yunlan feels Shen Wei’s hand at his elbow. He catches him, holding just a little tighter than is purely courteous. And, above them, small stars blink into being. The tent fills with a diffuse, gauzy glow; it is burnished gold in colour, warm and welcoming.
Zhao Yunlan catches his breath; he reaches out and touches one of the pinpricks of light. His finger passes right through it, no flutter of sensation brushing against him. His hand is streaked with honeyed shades – brass and bronze. He spins around, and finds Shen Wei right there. “Wow!” He gestures around him – to the gleaming lights, Shen Wei’s power made manifest.
Shen Wei smiles; small but genuine, like a student pleased to have impressed his master.
Zhao Yunlan reaches out and plucks the mask from his face. “No need for this between us,” he says. Shen Wei looks less shocked than he had the first time, but he’s still wide-eyed, almost dazed by Zhao Yunlan’s daring. Or maybe just his shamelessness. “Shen Wei. I want to know the person beneath the mask.”
Shen Wei swallows under the artificial starlight. With his long, ink-black hair framing his face his eyes look darker and his skin paler. So cut off, by his own choice, from the rest of the world. Without friends, without a lover. Without anyone to care for him, to caress him. Without anyone who even knows his name.
“I am not so important,” says Shen Wei softly, his voice just a breath in the stillness of his tent. “Kunlun. I deserve no special consideration. I –”
“That’s ridiculous. Everyone deserves consideration, for nothing but themselves. Aren’t you fighting this war to give your people a better life? A life where they can be safe, and cherished? A life where you aren’t defined by your skill in combat, but by what brings you joy? Shen Wei – you are so much more than a weapon, than a tool. Never forget that – that you deserve happiness and love as much as the people you fight for.”
Shen Wei tilts his head to the side, a silken sweep of hair spilling along with it. “You don’t think like the generals here,” he says. He doesn’t sound suspicious. He sounds curious.
Zhao Yunlan smiles – constrained but genuine. “Where I’m from, we realised that to really lead an army well you have to value your troops. They’re not pieces on a game board; they’re real people with real wants and needs. If you treat them like tokens, you’ll lose their loyalty – or their lives.”
“Your words are wise,” murmurs Shen Wei. “You have a bold reputation as a fighter, but clearly you’re a strategist as well. Kunlun, I am glad you agreed to the alliance. I am glad I didn’t put it at risk.”
Zhao Yunlan blinks. “You? How could you?”
Shen Wei drops his eyes, before glancing at the bed. “You did not wish to join me here, tonight. I promise – I will do nothing to offend you.”
It takes all of Zhao Yunlan’s restraint not to goggle at the man. Instead, he draws in a slow breath. “Shen Wei. I have absolutely no objections to sharing a bed with you – if that’s what you want. But to force you – that’s unacceptable.”
Shen Wei lifts his head, and now his eyes are no longer so wide, so innocent. “You are very righteous,” he says. “Thank you, for your consideration. But I do not object.” Like this, so forthright, so utterly earnest he is overwhelming. In beauty, in admirability, in purity.
Zhao Yunlan swallows, nods. “Alright, then,” he chokes out. Hands falling to his waist, he wrestles his stiff belt open, then pulls off his heavy outer layer. Beneath it is a softer, thinner layer and a pair of trousers. He leaves these on but bends to pull off his boots, leaving him in just his – modern – socks.
Then he flops down into the pile of furs. They’re fine, silken, and many-coloured – grey, rust, sandy, black. Several have been crudely sewn together into a large blanket, although others are loose. It’s only when he realises that Shen Wei is still standing, unmoving, where he left him that he pauses and looks up.
“You will sleep like that?” the envoy asks. There is an implied criticism in the question. Extremely slight, but it’s there. Ah, truly young Shen Wei is just nascent modern Shen Wei.
Zhao Yunlan raises his eyebrows. “Well, if you want me to take more off I can,” he says, hands falling to the tie of his inner robe. Shen Wei steps forward, colour flaming in his cheeks.
“No – not that. I – your hair. Surely… do you not want to remove the beading, at least?”
Oh. Oh. He had almost forgotten about his new hairdo. Zhao Yunlan reaches up and feels the hefty weight of the braids, decorated with porcelain and metal beadwork. Definitely not something he wants to sleep in. “Right – yeah.” And then, because he is in Shen Wei’s bed, because Shen Wei is right there and he just has no power to keep from being shameless in this circumstance, “Will you help?”
Shen Wei’s mouth parts. Just a little movement, but Zhao Yunlan catches it. The tiny hint of want.
“I don’t – have any of my possessions,” he adds, piteously. “No combs, or brushes, or – or – oil,” he says, a little desperately. Completely clueless about this era, its habits and expectations.
Shen Wei is still staring at him. But a moment later he turns. From the small collection of items atop the wicker basket he produces a long comb made from what looks like some kind of animal horn. He comes over, and stops at the edge of the furs where he pulls off his heavy boots and places them neatly beside Zhao Yunlan’s. He stops, uncertain, teeth resting on his bottom lip.
Zhao Yunlan turns eagerly, presenting his back. “Come here, come here. Closer.”
He hears the satin rustle of fur as Shen Wei steps closer, then kneels behind him. “You’re sure…?” his voice is so quiet, soft as a night bird nesting in darkness.
“Yes – absolutely. I trust you.”
Shen Wei doesn’t move for a minute. Then, slowly, he begins to touch Zhao Yunlan’s hair.
Zhao Yunlan has never had long hair before, and really has no idea what’s happening. Shen Wei must be unpicking the braids, he imagines; it just feels like gentle tugs for the first little while, accompanied by the click-clack of beads.
Slowly, the gentlest touch of his undone locks whispers over his back. Shen Wei has let down the tresses, and there’s a swishing sound as he pulls the comb through them. At first he only combs the lower portion, the portion hanging free across Zhao Yunlan’s back, the sensation a slow steady pressure. But as he continues the comb starts higher and higher, until it’s feathering over Zhao Yunlan’s scalp, the carved teeth skating smoothly over skin. He shivers, the feeling of it rippling all the way down his spine, a tingling excitement. He hadn’t expected this tenderness, this intimacy.
He wants more.
So, when Shen Wei finishes and his hair is falling loose and fine down his back, he turns. “Let me return the favour,” he says. “If you want. If you – would like that.”
Shen Wei holds his gaze and, slowly, nods. He extends the comb; Zhao Yunlan takes it.
Shen Wei’s hair style is much simpler than the one Ma Gui and Fu You contrived for him. A few braids stretch atop the crown of his head and come together at the back, but the rest is free. The braids are tied by thin strips of leather; Zhao Yunlan unpicks them, then uses his fingers to undo the braids. They fall apart easily, Shen Wei’s hair sleek and well cared for. He runs his hands through it, carding gently, for a moment. Shen Wei lets out a breath, his head dipping forward. Zhao Yunlan, controlling himself, begins combing.
They’ve had moments like this together, in the future. Shen Wei reading a book, or some student’s assignment; Zhao Yunlan daydreaming or playing on his phone. They’re still getting to know each other, but their silences are comfortable. Just as this one is. Only the pull of the comb, the inky wave of it beneath the wide teeth, Shen Wei still and relaxed in front of him. It’s a moment he wishes he could hold onto forever, could spin into a pearl and swallow, keeping it with him always.
But it does finish, eventually. He stops when Shen Wei’s hair is glossy and straight, handing the comb back to him. “I don’t think I did justice to your beauty, but at least you won’t be bothered in your sleep,” he says. Shen Wei’s cheeks pinken as he glances over his shoulder. He offers Zhao Yunlan a scrap of fabric full of beads, brightly coloured and clicking against each other; Zhao Yunlan puts it down beside his boots.
Shen Wei returns the comb, then slowly unbuckles his own belt. He lays it down atop the wicker basket and shrugs out of his heavy black robe, folding it diligently. Without its bulk to disguise his figure he is lean, shoulders not yet grown to their full width, waist narrow. His underrobes are flimsy, worn, patched and stitched together in different places. He looks down at Zhao Yunlan with a guarded expression, hands tight at his sides.
“Come,” says Zhao Yunlan, patting the heap of furs beside him. “Shen Wei. Join me, please.”
Shen Wei steps forward and drops to one knee, a movement so elegant it takes Zhao Yunlan’s breath away. He pauses there, still above Zhao Yunlan, looking down the thin line of his nose at him. He could be a foreign prince, a noble son, all stature and refinement. His hair is falling around his face like a dark halo, lit still by the golden glow hovering beneath the tent’s canopy.
Shen Wei drops to sit, kneeling with undue formality. Zhao Yunlan smiles at him and flops, bonelessly, back into the bed. It smells of must, mostly, and just a little of sweat. Slowly, Shen Wei lowers himself to join him. Zhao Yunlan grabs an armful of furs and pulls them up, half-covering them. There’s no mattress and he can still feel the firmness of the hard ground beneath the rugs that form the bottom of the tent, but what does that matter? Shen Wei has probably never had a mattress in his whole life.
“Will you put out the lights?” he asks. Shen Wei nods. The glow above dims, like a lightbulb on a fader, before disappearing and leaving them together in thick darkness. Shen Wei is close enough that if he moves, if he reaches out, he’ll touch him. He so, so wants to touch him.
Instead Zhao Yunlan lies still, listening for the sounds of his breathing. The quiet rasp of it, the gentle catch. Around them the camp is bedded down for the night, just the occasional crackle from a campfire or murmur of voices. The wind rustles the grass, draws through it and makes it swish and sway. Night insects sing, soft creaky songs.
“Kunlun?”
He blinks. He had begun to drift without realising it, the borders of his consciousness blurring slightly. They focus rapidly, now. “Hm?”
“Thank you. For your integrity, and your kindness. I am – glad. To share this with you.”
Zhao Yunlan closes his eyes, heart aching. “Me too. I hope, when I leave, you’ll remember what I said. Shen Wei, you deserve to be cherished. Look for the person who can do that. Who cares for you, not Hei Pao Shi. Yeah?”
Beside him Shen Wei shifts, fur rippling. “You,” he begins. And Zhao Yunlan can’t let him finish that thought.
“I have to leave, soon. Very soon, probably. I can’t – Shen Wei. If you want to see me again, you will. I promise, we’ll meet again. It would make me really happy to know that you looked after yourself, when we do.”
“I don’t understand,” says Shen Wei, sounding almost – hurt.
“You will. There will come a time when you will. And I’ll be there for you – if you want that.”
In the darkness, the thick bloom of it like the depths of the sea, he feels a touch at his arm. Shen Wei’s fingertips, reaching for him. Tiny, timid.
Zhao Yunlan catches his hand and holds it. He feels more than hears Shen Wei sigh, relax. Comforted.
Back in the future, their shared future, Zhao Yunlan understands all the lies now. The webs of deceit, the layers of it Shen Wei has buckled on like armour.
All of it there to hide the simple fact that Zhao Yunlan scooped his heart out ten thousand years ago, and has unknowingly held it ever since. His to worship, or to crush.
He can’t help himself. He lifts Shen Wei’s hand to his mouth, and presses the softest of kisses to his knuckles. “If you wait for me – if you wait for me, you’ll have what you want. Whatever you want, when you see me. I promise.”
Shen Wei’s fingers tighten. “Kunlun –”
“Ssh. Go to sleep. For now, just sleep.”
Beside him Shen Wei sighs; disappointed. But he doesn’t withdraw his hand, pressed between Zhao Yunlan’s fingers.
Eventually, they fall asleep. Hand in hand, waiting for tomorrow.
END