[That warrants a laugh, bright and warm, and he turns in Itachi's arms just enough to press a kiss to his jaw, and then another. His hand rises to smooth a finger down Itachi's cheek and he smiles again that smile reserved just for Itachi, unaware of the deeper thoughts circling his zhiji's mind.]
I should hope not. [He says eventually, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
The poem wasn't entirely suited to them, if only because he has no need to long for that which is right here in his arms, but the depth of that longing still resonates. Husband, the poem recites and the word ignites a strange feeling inside of him that he allows to pass over him.]
๏ผ he casts his mind to his family's small library. his father's books on war and strategy and poetry. itachi had read them all before he was ten, each one pressed into his memory like flower petals between pages. even before he had the sharingan his memory was exceptional. afterwards...
he has forgotten no detail of his family home. he can recall where the floors creaked, where the scars of a generation's living had bitten into the wood. it used to be that such recollections were overlaid in blood, and now...
now he can close his eyes, and remember sitting on the engawa in the long, warm nights of summer with his brother curled up at his side, watching the fireflies in their dance. he can remember his mother brushing out his hair and commenting playfully that it would be the envy of all the girls at the academy. how his father's hands had trembled, the first time itachi came home wounded from a mission, and how his mother had to be the one to fetch one of the uchiha medical nins for him because fugaku could not bring himself to leave.
there was more good than bad. until the bad had been all encompassing, and other things faded away.
but now...
itachi tilts his chin up, studying the distant moon. it seems closer in this simulation than in his own world, whether it is by artistic merit or perhaps some quirk of wei ying's world itself. finally, in a soft murmur: ๏ผ
The autumn night is long only in nameโ Weโve done no more than gaze at each other and itโs already dawn.
๏ผ he speaks in his companion's tongue rather than his own, which means that one or two words require a quick review via the earpiece. he is passably fluent now as far as conversation goes, but not archaic poetry. ๏ผ
[The smile slips from Wei Wuxian's face and leaves a different kind of look behind, eyes drinking in the sight of the man in front of him as if he can't get his fill. His heart stutters in his chest and there is a tightness in his stomach that he doesn't have a name for. More than affection, more than love. Suddenly the care with which Itachi holds him is too much. The poem, the barely accented Mandarin, the soft voice that makes him feel like he's on the edge of some precipice about to fall into the unknown.
He reaches for Itachi again and his fingers tremble with the force of his want.
I could, he thinks, I could gaze at you until dawn and for endless days after.
His hands guide Itachi's mouth to his and he kisses him, shifting to press closer as he does. He wishes they could be closer. Wishes he could press so close that they might become one entity, forever entwined.]
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no subject
I should hope not. [He says eventually, a spark of amusement in his eyes.
The poem wasn't entirely suited to them, if only because he has no need to long for that which is right here in his arms, but the depth of that longing still resonates. Husband, the poem recites and the word ignites a strange feeling inside of him that he allows to pass over him.]
Will you recite one for me?
no subject
he has forgotten no detail of his family home. he can recall where the floors creaked, where the scars of a generation's living had bitten into the wood. it used to be that such recollections were overlaid in blood, and now...
now he can close his eyes, and remember sitting on the engawa in the long, warm nights of summer with his brother curled up at his side, watching the fireflies in their dance. he can remember his mother brushing out his hair and commenting playfully that it would be the envy of all the girls at the academy. how his father's hands had trembled, the first time itachi came home wounded from a mission, and how his mother had to be the one to fetch one of the uchiha medical nins for him because fugaku could not bring himself to leave.
there was more good than bad. until the bad had been all encompassing, and other things faded away.
but now...
itachi tilts his chin up, studying the distant moon. it seems closer in this simulation than in his own world, whether it is by artistic merit or perhaps some quirk of wei ying's world itself. finally, in a soft murmur: ๏ผ
The autumn night
is long only in nameโ
Weโve done no more
than gaze at each other
and itโs already dawn.
๏ผ he speaks in his companion's tongue rather than his own, which means that one or two words require a quick review via the earpiece. he is passably fluent now as far as conversation goes, but not archaic poetry. ๏ผ
no subject
He reaches for Itachi again and his fingers tremble with the force of his want.
I could, he thinks, I could gaze at you until dawn and for endless days after.
His hands guide Itachi's mouth to his and he kisses him, shifting to press closer as he does. He wishes they could be closer. Wishes he could press so close that they might become one entity, forever entwined.]