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Exhaustion finally started to lower itself over Zhuo Yichen after sunset. He did what he could - checked on Wen Xiao’s injuries, moved the mountain god’s body inside the temple with Pei Sijng’s help, made sure Bai Jiu was safe. The snow in the courtyard is still disturbed since the skies were cleared by the failed ritual, the patterns drawn by feet and magic looking like deep shadows under the safe white moonlight.
The day was the nightmare he never really got to experience, and now in the absence of his heavy cloak the cold makes his fingertips numb like fear hadn’t. He hadn’t been scared, only focused. There was no point in fear - predators chase that.
But he feels unsteady on his feet. He was there, he watched as devastation dawned on Zhao Yuanzhou’s face and as they all realized that there was more to the demon’s story that they never learned. The memories Yingzhao shared with Zhuo Yichen the day before make sense now - though Yichen cannot really fathom that kind of selfless love for a murderer, intentional or not - as does Zhao Yuanzhou grief. Beneath hate, that disconcerting thread of recognition still pulls tight between them, even if now Zhuo Yichen has a true face to put to the person that destroyed his family.
He wants to find a corner to settle in, preferably close to fire but away from the biting air would be enough. Their group has scattered, each licking at their own wounds, and he’s done pacing.
There’s a slash of color as he approaches the temple, out of place against snow and dead wood and washed out stone. Zhuo Yichen stops several steps away, watches the slow rhythm of Ying Lei’s shoulders, trying to decide from a distance if he needs anything. But the half-god just sits quietly, head down, hands tight against the edges of the stone bench. Unaware of someone else’s presence and so uncharacteristically still that Zhuo Yichen easily puts his own exhaustion aside and decides to approach.
Ying Lei looks up when Zhuo Yichen moves again and tracks his approach in silence until they are sitting side by side.
“Are you alright?” Zhuo Yichen asks, not much louder than a whisper.
It’s hard to discern the details of Ying Lei’s face in the moonlight, but Zhuo Yichen can see enough to tell he stopped crying a while ago. He just looks a little soft, a little lost. Ying Lei is the sort of creature that is not suited for heavy emotions, Zhuo Yichen finds, not meant for sadness and grief.
“I really want to hate him.” Ying Lei says, still looking down at the floor. “But I really can’t.”
To Zhuo Yichen’s relief, there’s still some of that usual animation in Ying Lei’s voice. It’s pained, but not distant. Not empty, like grief can leave a person. Of course such a sweet person wouldn’t be quick to anger, wouldn’t give in to hate. If Zhuo Yichen could, he would like to keep Ying Lei’s pure heart clear of the permanent dark markings those emotions can leave.
He puts his sword down on the bench beside him and settles down to listen.
“Grandpa made the choice he thought he needed to make. Taking care of the gates was his purpose, but that… today was a choice. He had a choice. Zhao Yuanzhou didn’t.” Ying Lei speaks like he needs to, like having someone listen was all he was waiting for. All of their friends hid away with their own pain, though, so he stayed here by himself. “Did you know that he lived here in Mount Kulun for a while too?”
Ying Lei looks at Zhuo Yichen sideways until he nods, remembering his conversation with Yingzhao. The affection in the old man’s words.
“Yeah… He didn’t come around as much by the time I was born, but he still did sometimes. I was very little, so all I remember is the sweet smelling demon that would chase me around the courtyard,” he gestures circles with a finger in the direction of the empty square. “I barely recognized him when you came to my temple and he didn’t seem to remember me, so I didn’t say anything. It's just that…to Xiao Zhuo- daren Zhao Yuanzhou is the man that killed your family and stole your girl. To me he’s weird Zhu Yan- ge too, you know? Someone my grandpa loved too.”
It’s not something that Zhuo Yichen can really understand, but it's also not something he needs to. Every person has their story - his own grief and anger have also taken many shapes each day since the great demon came into the bureau seeking to die on Zhuo Yichen’s blade. Ying Lei sounds a little guilty, however, and that doesn't suit him at all.
“That's understandable,” Zhuo Yichen says, as quietly as he can. Anything louder than a whisper felt insulting.
“It's just that… I left him alone here,” Ying Lei's voice breaks on the words, but he doesn't cry. “I didn't want to abandon him, I just wanted to see more. Do more. Why would he need me here? They were gods. I thought I had time to come back and talk it over after seeing enough.”
A combination of awkwardness and exhaustion delays Yichen’s answer long enough for silence to settle heavily between them. Ying Lei’s hand is still white-knuckled around the edge of the bench between them, as if it’s the grip that’s holding his tears at bay. It won't help, Zhuo Yichen knows it by experience, so he puts his own hand over Ying Lei's. There’s no point in him hurting himself. Someone this sweet shouldn't hurt at all, but life hardly ever pays attention to that.
“You were here,” Zhuo Yichen says, tightening his own fingers over Ying Lei’s hand. The contrasting warmth feels nice on the strained muscles of Zhuo Yichen’s. “He was happy to see you again.”
A heavy sigh seems to bleed out the smallest bit of tension away from Ying Lei’s shoulders. He turns his hand, slotting it palm to palm with Zhuo Yichen’s. It feels surprisingly nice, anchoring in a way Zhuo Yichen hadn’t realized he needed.
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” he continues. A sideways glance tells him that Ying Lei has finally turned his head to look at him, but these kinds of words feel awkward in Zhuo Yichen’s mouth so he keeps his gaze ahead. “I am sure he was proud of you. I didn’t get to know Master Yingzhao very well, but anyone could see how much he loved his grandson.”
They sit like that for a long time, Zhuo Yichen watching the slow moving stars and getting used to having fingers threaded with his. It’s a small bit of pleasure he never allowed himself - not the firm grasp of helping a colleague up, not the brief and delicate hold of guiding a lady, but a different type of warmth. Something closer to his own hardened skin, on a touch steady but still tender.
He shakes off the inappropriate enjoyment. It’s a sombre moment, a friend in need of comfort. That Ying Lei’s profile - disaturated in the moonlight but still stark - is beautiful is not something he should be paying attention to. Zhuo Yichen is very tired and quite cold, though, so he doesn't move away, doesn’t put any distance between them as he should.
“I can’t change anything,” Ying Lei says after another long, companionable pause. “What I can do is take my place now. With Zhu Yin and grandpa gone, someone needs to take care of the gates.”
It makes sense. Zhuo Yichen understands the weight of duty and he also never imagined having to pick up the legacy of his family. Cloud Light was his brother’s sword, his brother’s destiny. He’s not a worthy replacement, even if the sword shines on his hands like it never did for Yixuan. Probably because of that he can hear the uncertainty under Ying Lei’s matter-of-fact tone.
“I’m sorry,” he says before thinking. “You shouldn’t have to do it. You should be able to continue traveling and meeting people and changing their lives with your food.”
Ying Lei turns to him, looking surprised for a second before a small smile breaks through the gloom.
“Xiao Zhuo- daren thinks my food is life changing?” There’s a line of teasing in Ying Lei’s voice that is more familiar, and it makes Zhuo Yichen relax a little. It’s a relief to hear it, to know that the pain wasn’t enough to wash out that comforting lightness of the young mountain-god’s personality.
“It is quite good,” Zhuo Yichen admits.
Ying Lei’s fingers tighten on Zhuo Yichen’s hand for a second, before they relax again. Sleep is pulling at Zhuo Yichen’s eyes, but he can’t find the will to leave Ying Lei alone again. He knows how deep someone can lose themselves into the spiral of grief and guilt, and Ying Lei attached himself to their ragtag group with a quick fierceness that can only be born out of loneliness.
And so Zhuo Yichen stays. Stewing himself on the events of the day, feeling the itch of barely closed cuts on the palm of one hand and warmth on the other. In the silence, he can see the fight play out again in the empty courtyard. The blood and the light. Easily broken barriers, each of his friends hurt before he could do anything and when he did, it was barely enough damage for Yingzhao to finally suppress Zhao Yuanzhou’s madness.
“I’m sorry,” Zhuo Yichen repeats. “I’m not ready yet. I should have been able to restrain Zhao Yuanzhou, everyone was counting on me to do it. Yingzhao shouldn’t have had to sacrifice himself, it was my job to defeat him.”
He cannot look at Ying Lei while speaking but he can feel the weight of his gaze. It hurts to admit but it is just plain fact that he failed. No matter that they had anticipated the movements of a crazed Zhao Yuanzhou, Zhuo Yichen still took too long to push them into a position where they could exploit the trick created the night before.
Taking down the great demon Zhu Yan was Zhuo Yichen’s life mission, and he fails at it a little more each day.
“That’s silly.” Ying Lei sounds disbelieving and when Zhuo Yichen looks at him his expression matches the tone. “You don’t mean that, right?”
“I… Of course I do.” It’s Zhuo Yichen’s turn to be confused. “You were there when we discussed it, we had plans. I am sorry. I…”
Suddenly Ying Lei’s hands are on his face, holding him in place and cutting him off by surprise. Zhuo Yichen can only stare, wide eyed, for a second before Ying Lei leans over and kisses him.
Zhuo Yichen has been kissed before, though not too many times. Behind the palace when Yichen was fourteen, clumsy and confused, by the son of a foreign prince. Behind shuttered windows during Zhuo Yichen’s first proper investigation, by a tired man that called him beautiful and tasted of sweet rouge. Behind the shade of a paper umbrella when he was nineteen, by a shy colleague of the bureau. All quiet, stolen moments. Easy to set aside when he came of age and decided there was no space for desire in the life we wanted to lead.
The way Ying Lei kisses him is none of those things. They are seated in public, even if the courtyard is empty, both the stone bench and night air cold and real and open. Ying Lei’s hands are warm on his cheeks, his lips soft and so hot against his. He smells a little like spice, but mostly salt and blood. Grief and battle. The surprise stuns Zhuo Yichen for a long moment, stutters his breath, but the tenderness snags on thread inside his soul and pulls. Unravels something in him until one of his hands is holding onto Ying Lei’s arm.
It isn’t much, it would have been chaste if they weren’t both men. If it wasn’t something Zhuo Yichen held close to his chest and away from anyone’s sight.
Ying Lei lingers there, pressing their lips together like it was simply a way to make Zhuo Yichen stay quiet. When he moves it’s just a little, just enough to better slot their mouths, to pull Yichen’s bottom lip between his. Dry and so, so warm it makes Yichen’s chest tight.
When he’s let go, Zhuo Yichen’s breath is still stuck in his throat.
“You looked a little lonely,” Ying Lei says. His right thumb is moving carefully over the thin skin on the very top of Zhuo Yichen’s cheek. “Don’t say that again. It’s not fair to anyone.”
“But…”
Once again Zhuo Yichen is interrupted, but this time Ying Lei catches his mouth open and steals the words right out of it. Zhuo Yichen is left floundering, trying to brace himself against the heat that washes down on him from where Ying Lei’s tongue traces the cold-burned edge of Zhuo Yichen’s lips. That’s something he never had the chance to try in the few little hidden moments he allowed himself. He never had to hold tightly onto someone, never got to chase someone else’s taste.
Ying Lei seems to notice that and Zhuo Yichen is grateful to be allowed the shyness of exploring slowly, mimicking the way he’s being coaxed until they figure out a good rhythm. He lets Ying Lei lick into his mouth and hold him by the back of the head as Yichen’s own fingers tighten on the fur of Ying Lei’s collar and his other hand presses against the hard plane of his chest.
It feels so good that Zhuo Yichen is light and easy when Ying Lei’s other arm goes around his waist, slides him closer on the bench. He has the weirdest wish that his hair was down for this, that Ying Lei’s fingers could thread into it. Ying Lei is warm under his hand - under the wool and fur of his clothes his skin would be even hotter. The thought leaves Zhuo Yichen breathless enough that he has to pull away.
Zhuo Yichen can’t look up, can’t meet Ying Lei’s eyes. Instead he tries not to pant and keeps his gaze on the mix of their robes on the bench, pushes back down the ridiculous fantasies, the shameful way his body flushed with desires he had set aside many years ago. It’s ridiculous and wrong, taking advantage of a grieving person just because they are so sweet.
“Oh no,” Ying Lei says, cutting through Zhuo Yichen’s shame. “I thought you were fine with…”
Of course he’d notice. Zhuo Yichen is thankful for the moon washing out the world’s colors so his blush can be a little less stark. He tries to think of the least offensive way to get up and leave, but suddenly Ying Lei pulls him close again, this time into a tight embrace that pushes Zhuo Yichen’s face into his neck.
“Don’t say you’re sorry, alright? Don’t come here to console me and then be sad yourself,” Ying Lei scolds.
When he lets go, he is smiling but looking as tired as Zhuo Yichen feels. Zhuo Yichen’s eyes slide to his mouth for only a heartbeat before he’s looking away, feeling ashamed. Ying Lei’s hands are large and searing on his arms, a feeling Zhuo Yichen is sure will be branded into his mind forever.
“I should give you space.” Zhuo Yichen says, holding one of Ying Lei’s wrists but struggling to make himself push it away.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” Ying Lei says in a slightly whiny tone that is more familiar and makes Zhuo Yichen relax a little. “Xiao Zhuo- daren shouldn’t either. My room is still here, it has a nice hearth. We can rest there.”
Zhuo Yichen feels a little wild when he allows himself to be pulled up from the bench and away from the courtyard, his heart stuttering when Ying Lei doesn’t seem interested in walking too quietly through the temple. The mere idea of being seen like this - still flushed from being kissed, holding hands - makes Zhuo Yichen a little nauseous.
It's a relief when they are finally hidden behind closed doors, but still unbelievably awkward to stand in the middle of the room as Ying Lei lights a fire. There's a bed thick with fur blankets, but merely looking at it makes Zhuo Yichen feel dizzy so instead he notices how the room still looks like someone lives here. Decoration and trinkets, personal belongings beyond what he’s seen Ying Lei carry. A place untouched, for however many years its owner has been away.
“Sit here.” Ying Lei’s voice calls Zhuo Yichen back to attention. He’s standing near the bed, patting a spot on the mattress. “Your hair must be heavy like this, let me take it down so you can sleep.”
The comment calls attention to a headache Zhuo Yichen had almost forgotten about. Since the invitation seems innocent enough, Zhuo Yichen puts Cloud Light down on a little stool out of the way and settles on the bed as appointed, posture perfectly straight. Ying Lei’s hands are gentle with his hair as he undoes the ties - unwinds the thick base of the ponytail, detangles the strings of bells, smooths everything down his back. The weight almost feels weird after so long wearing it up, and Zhuo Yichen bites back a noise when Ying Lei’s fingers very deliberately scratch at his scalp for a moment before he finds the ties of Yichen’s headband to take it off.
“You should take that belt off too, it looks too rigid,” Ying Lei recommends, shaking Zhuo Yichen’s hair out like he’s having fun with it and is completely oblivious to the relief it brings. “Is that how you keep this posture?” For emphasis, taps Zhuo Yichen’s lower back over the belt and makes him jump.
“No,” Yichen answers, then realizes how rude it sounds. “Many years of training with the sword.”
“Makes more sense.” Finally leaving Yichen’s hair alone, Ying Lei moves away to kick off his own boots and coat, before climbing on the bed and burrowing into the blankets on the far side of the bed, near the wall.
It’s the kind of unselfconsciousness that Yichen never really understood. Shame has been his companion through all his life, a thin layer just beneath the skin of the person he became. Being mindful of his image came with the fragility of his job - there isn’t space for mistakes or scandal when he needs to stay in the king’s good graces to keep the Bureau running.
As he carefully removes the first stained layer of his clothes and his dirty boots, the craving settles right under his heart. This is warmth that, deep down, he knew he missed. The desire is familiar but dry, and something akin to fear wraps its arms around him as he slides under the thicker of the furs.
Then another, warmer pair of arms wraps itself around him and pulls him deeper into the nest of blankets until he’s held flush against Ying Lei’s chest.
“You’re freezing cold,” Ying Lei complains, trying to trap Yichen’s feet by tangling their legs together.
“Then let me go,” Yichen counters. “Why are you holding me like a toy? Isn’t this a little inappropriate?”
That makes Ying Lei pull back and look at Zhuo Yichen. The bedroom is even darker than the courtyard, but the fire brings out the gold in Ying Lei’s eyes and Yichen loses the train of his annoyance.
“Why would it be?” Ying Lei asks, and then undercuts his own point by leaning and stealing another brief, maddening kiss.
Yichen doesn’t even try to pull back - not that he did before, but now he really should have. Instead he lets himself be pressed onto his back, kissed until he thinks he can sink into the fuzzy blankets.
It is a ploy, because in the end he’s left laying under a man heavier than he is.
“Stay warm,” Ying Lei says, against the skin of Yichen’s neck. “Keep me company.”
It makes sense. The longer they stay quiet, the more Yichen can feel his collar grow a little damp, so he puts his arms around Ying Lei and holds him loosely. In light of that, it doesn’t seem important that someone can see them leave together in the morning.
In the end, Zhuo Yichen did what he could. Checked on Wen Xiao’s injuries, on Bai Jiu’s safety. Took care of Yingzhao in an honorable way, made sure Zhao Yuanzhou wasn’t doing anything stupid. Now he can hold a grieving little mountain god.
As Ying Lei’s weight settles into the heaviness of sleep, Yichen can admit he didn’t want to be alone either.