Work Text:
As the light from the rising dawn filters in through the slats of their bedroom window, shining gently upon the sleeping face of her wife, Song Qiutong falls in love with Ye Wangxi all over again.
It isn’t a sudden thing, not a burst of passion that ignites in her chest with the fluttering open of her eyes. Rather, it’s the slow thawing of a river after a freeze, melting drop by drop as she studies the easy slope of her love’s face, watches the subtle twitching as she dreams away. The sun casts a glow upon her features, painting them in gold. Song Qiutong shifts to try and get a better look; her cold feet slide across the length of Ye Wangxi’s legs, searching for warmth.
A grumble slips from Ye Wangxi’s lips. With a shudder, she presses closer to Song Qiutong, burying her face into Song Qiutong’s chest. Song Qiutong laughs and lets her hand slide from where it rests lazily against Ye Wangxi’s back, up to tangle through her loose hair.
“Wangxi, Wangxi,” Song Qiutong sighs, letting her fingers comb through dark hair. “I’m really too lucky.”
The affection swells in her with every breath that passes, the ice thinning more and more until it cracks beneath her feet and the torrents hiding just below the surface are free to drag her under. She has loved Ye Wangxi in this fashion for so long, Song Qiutong doesn’t know if she could love her any other way.
The ice takes mere minutes to melt now, but once, in memories that still lurk in Song Qiutong’s mind, it had taken far, far longer. She had not been used to the thaw, had spent so many years building up the layers of ice around her heart. To break through the wall, it had taken a fire.
And even then, that had only been the start.
If she could, Song Qiutong would want to spend every moment lying in bed with Ye Wangxi, sharing breaths as though no one in the world remained but them, making up for the time lost to her own foolishness and hesitation.
Unfortunately, she is the wife of an up-and-coming sect leader. There are many things she had to do in the day, and barely enough hours to do them.
It does not make slipping away from Ye Wangxi’s arms any less difficult, both emotionally and physically. For all Song Qiutong appreciates Ye Wangxi’s strength when she lifts her up and pins her against a wall, it makes slipping out of bed before her wife far more difficult.
“Wangxi, darling,” Song Qiutong says, twirling her fingers through the silken black strands. “I need to get up.”
“No,” Ye Wangxi grumbles, too coherent to be sleep talking, though she never opens her eyes. “It’s too early.”
“Since when were you a late riser?”
“Since my wife was so nice to hold,” Ye Wangxi says. Her breath is warm where it tickled against Song Qiutong’s bare skin. She shifts, peeking up at Song Qiutong. Her eyes are struggling to stay open, the slivers of dark grey appearing and disappearing behind what’s far too long to simply be a blink.
“Go back to bed, I’ll wake you when I’m done.”
“Mm,” is the only answer she gets, Ye Wangxi having heard the beginning of her suggestion and fallen asleep in the time it took to finish it. At least she loosens her grip enough Song Qiutong can wriggle away.
The cold air prickles against Song Qiutong’s skin as she slips out from under the furs. She shivers, racing to grab the nearby robe thrown haphazardly over a chair. She slides it on, finding it both at once too big and too short to be her own. Her narrow shoulders are swallowed whole, while the hem only grazes the middle of her calf.
She begins to slip it off but catches the familiar scent of Ye Wangxi still clinging to it. Sweet, like the earth after the rain when the sun has begun to peek through the clouds; it warms her more than the robe ever could. She pulls it closer around her, burying her nose into the collar. It’ll do for now.
She tip-toes through their bedroom towards the little table where the copper mirror sits. Its surface is covered with smalls pots and jars—some medicinal, others cosmetic. A vase holds a variety of brushes for application. Song Qiutong recalls a memory of Ye Wangxi shifting through them, plucking them up and studying them with a frown.
“Do you really need so many?” She’d asked. Song Qiutong had merely rolled her eyes and assured her that her own collection was understated in comparison to what some other ladies possessed.
Song Qiutong settles down upon the small stool, eyes flickering briefly over the image she finds in the mirror. The old webbing from the scars crawls along her face, dipping below her neck where she knows the worst of the burns lay. It is still hard to look at, even now.
She reaches for a small jar, sliding off the lid to scoop out the salve inside. Her fingers are gentle as she rubs across her face, paying attention to the rougher edges of the scars. She knows they’re not as bad as they once were but knows too that no matter how much she tries, many of them will follow her into her grave.
As she reaches again for more salve, she feels Ye Wangxi’s presence behind her in the brush of lips against her throat. “Can I help?” A low voice asks, rumbling with the edges of sleep that hasn’t quite pulled away.
Song Qiutong pauses. “Didn’t you want to sleep in?”
Lashes flutter against her skin, chasing the heat of Ye Wangxi’s lips as they trail up to the shell of her ear. “I want to help.”
Song Qiutong sighs. “Even I told you no, you’d insist, wouldn’t you?”
“Not if you really meant it.”
The laugh that forces from her lungs is more breath of air than noise, a startled exclamation that leaves her equal parts fond and exasperated. She closes her eyes shut, soaking in the feeling of Ye Wangxi’s skin against hers.
“Fine,” Song Qiutong says after a moment. “Pamper me away, jiejie.”
She almost squawks when she feels herself lifted up from the stool into standing positions. She’s not sure what’s happening until she glances back to find Ye Wangxi has stolen her spot. Song Qiutong is given no time to complain, not when hands wrap around her waist and pull her forward. Her thighs squeeze at Ye Wangxi’s hips, her hands shooting out to steady herself on Ye Wangxi’s shoulders.
“A-Xi!”
“You told me to pamper you, Qiutong,” Ye Wangxi says lazily. “You can’t complain when I do.”
Song Qiutong huffs, though it catches in her throat when she feels Ye Wangxi’s hands begin to wander. One slips past the slit of the loose robes to rest against her thigh; the other up to the collar, where it teases just below the hem.
Ye Wangxi’s fingers are rough against her skin, callouses from years of training and hard work. Song Qiutong knows well the feeling of those hands, notices too when new ones begin to form as the bow is pushed aside for the brush.
(She wonders if Ye Wangxi misses their years of travel now that they’ve settled down. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to suggest a trip to relive a few early memories. Now the rockier parts of establishing a sect have been smoothed away, they really could afford a few days to themselves without disciples clamoring for attention.)
The robe slides easily from her shoulder, falling away with only a suggestion from Ye Wangxi. Song Qiutong would shiver, if not for the way she burns a deep red.
“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me apply medicine?” She says, petulance sliding into her tone. “Has my wife lost her sharpness in her old age?”
Ye Wangxi’s laughter rumbles where they touch. Her silver eyes crinkle around the edges. “I see you’ve not learned patience in yours.”
“Why would I need it?” Song Qiutong leans forward, pressing against Ye Wangxi. Her lips brush Ye Wangxi’s cheek. “My A-Xi is normally so good about giving me what I want.”
She nearly yelps when she feels cold salve pressed against her shoulder. Ye Wangxi’s gentle fingers massage it in like an apology, even as her eyebrows quirk up in amusement. “Like that?”
Song Qiutong buries her face into Ye Wangxi’s shoulder. “Mm.”
Ye Wangxi treats Song Qiutong’s scars with a kind of tenderness that Song Qiutong finds painful. Her fingers are gentle as they rub the salve in, trailing across each line in the same way she’d trace something beautiful. It makes Song Qiutong shiver, makes her want to pull away, but Ye Wangxi won’t let her. Her touch is slow, reverent as it strokes down her neck, across her shoulders, and down to her chest. Her thumb grazes across a particularly thick knot of scars, where the fire had burned hottest. Song Qiutong gasps, burying her face deeper into Ye Wangxi’s throat.
“What on earth is your fascination with those ugly things?”
“Ugly? No part of you is ugly,” Ye Wangxi says. She traces down Song Qiutong’s chest, warm hands leaving a trail of heat across Song Qiutong’s skin. Normally, such heat would bring up painful memories. Now, it only brings a flush. “It’s proof my Qiutong lived despite everything. How can I think they’re ugly?”
Song Qiutong feels something damp prick at her eyes, and she squeezes them shut. Her bottom lip trembles as she fights back the tears. It’s a losing battle, and when she feels soft lips trailing up the scars along her throat, she knows she’s lost. The tears slip free.
When she opens her eyes again, through golden tears, she sees Ye Wangxi’s face, glowing with adoration. She feels the ice crack beneath her feet, and lets herself be swept away in the one simple truth she knows deep in her heart.
“Ah, Wangxi,” Song Qiutong murmurs, wrapping her arms around Ye Wangxi’s neck to pull her into a kiss. “I really, really do love you."