Shen Qingqiu wakes up over-warm, sore, and to the completely alien feeling of being held. The smell of the person holding him is familiar, and he breathes in the comfort of it before he comes fully awake, and then he goes very, very still.
That's--Bingge. He opens his eyes. Bingge, one arm flung across his stomach, Shen Qingqiu's hand in his hair. He looks so sweet, in sleep, the gravitas and power he wields effortlessly in his waking life fading away and leaving just--a man, handsome and vulnerable like any other man at rest, his forehead smooth of worries, his full mouth relaxed into what could, from some angles, be mistaken for a smile.
The dawn is grey through the windows. If Shen Qingqiu were a wife in truth--if he didn't need the pollen; if Bingge cared for him as more than a novelty, a revelation, the only man here from his own world that Bingge could show his mastery over; he would be able to stay. He would be able to kiss Binghe awake and then keep kissing him, would be able to tease until Binghe pressed him to the bed again. Binghe would still move on, of course, still chase after some brighter star, but he would have--days, probably, maybe weeks with how slowly Binghe has been moving since they got here.
But--instead he had one night, and now he needs to go.
He carefully disentangles himself from Binghe's arms and slips out of bed, replacing his body with one of Binghe's many pillows. He notices the copy of Blood at Dusk by the bedside. Ah. Binghe, ever thoughtful, must be returning it to him, putting it somewhere where he would see when he woke up so he would know to take it when he left. That, too, confirms what he already believed; this is the right move, the expected one, to sneak out before Binghe wakes.
He takes a last look at him; the dark sweep of his lashes on his cheeks, the striking crimson mark at the center of his forehead. He remembers the way he shivered, when he kissed it last night; he can't help but lean down to do it again, ever so softly, so he won't wake him up, and then he gathers his things and flees.
no subject
That's--Bingge. He opens his eyes. Bingge, one arm flung across his stomach, Shen Qingqiu's hand in his hair. He looks so sweet, in sleep, the gravitas and power he wields effortlessly in his waking life fading away and leaving just--a man, handsome and vulnerable like any other man at rest, his forehead smooth of worries, his full mouth relaxed into what could, from some angles, be mistaken for a smile.
The dawn is grey through the windows. If Shen Qingqiu were a wife in truth--if he didn't need the pollen; if Bingge cared for him as more than a novelty, a revelation, the only man here from his own world that Bingge could show his mastery over; he would be able to stay. He would be able to kiss Binghe awake and then keep kissing him, would be able to tease until Binghe pressed him to the bed again. Binghe would still move on, of course, still chase after some brighter star, but he would have--days, probably, maybe weeks with how slowly Binghe has been moving since they got here.
But--instead he had one night, and now he needs to go.
He carefully disentangles himself from Binghe's arms and slips out of bed, replacing his body with one of Binghe's many pillows. He notices the copy of Blood at Dusk by the bedside. Ah. Binghe, ever thoughtful, must be returning it to him, putting it somewhere where he would see when he woke up so he would know to take it when he left. That, too, confirms what he already believed; this is the right move, the expected one, to sneak out before Binghe wakes.
He takes a last look at him; the dark sweep of his lashes on his cheeks, the striking crimson mark at the center of his forehead. He remembers the way he shivered, when he kissed it last night; he can't help but lean down to do it again, ever so softly, so he won't wake him up, and then he gathers his things and flees.