sweeping grass from the grave

Sui Zhou is the first of them to wake, as he so often is.

There is no pursuant haunting; no panic, bereaved. Only a relief that lingers in the lived-in familiar. The recognition of the bed beneath him, the home it stands in. The comfort of the body pressed to his own, all of its charted heft and heat, still yet breathing.

If just. If only. If Sui Zhou had spared but a second for hesitation's sake, then—

Tang Fan's evened breath hitches against his neck, and Sui Zhou swallows his own, leaves it to sink like a stone deep in his chest, holding him. They are twined together all too closely for him to see Tang Fan's face, but he can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against his jaw as he stirs, the feather-brush of his lips over his skin, shaping around a soundless sigh.

"Go back to sleep," Sui Zhou whispers to him, though he knows, already, that it is a futile bidding. Wherever one of them goes, the other then follows, as equal in surety as the rise of the sun from the east. That is their way of things, and always has been, long before they could have ever even known it would be.

Tang Fan shifts in answer, then stretches. His whine shudders out of him, his voice still shuttered. Sleep unravels from the long, lean line of him, slow, like a thread pulled at by an idled hand. Something in the very peace of it gentles Sui Zhou, in turn, if barely, enough that he can pull in a breath past the tightness flourishing in his throat.

"You, first," Tang Fan croaks. "Or have you not slept at all?" His tone is a testy thing, but toothless. Chaste as the kiss that chances over Sui Zhou's pulse.

"I have," Sui Zhou answers, though perhaps it is less truth than it is promise. The hours that have preceded are blurred by rushing, of pressing Tang Fan to the bed as much as being pulled to him, of taking proof of his living from all the heat and wet and noise of him, all the ugly mess of surviving. Then stillness. He could have slept, or he could have simply lain here in a silence so full it submerged him.

"Hm." Tang Fan does not seem convinced, which is fair of him. Between them, his hand smoothes up Sui Zhou's chest, fingers trailing through the wiry hairs dusting his sternum. His touch charts the current of Sui Zhou's naked shiver, curving over his throat, fanning his jaw. Clumsy for the dark, but certain in the journey.

"Tang Fan." He does not know for which of them he's speaking for, but Tang Fan comes to it as if called, leaning up to kiss into the space it has left for him in Sui Zhou's mouth. Sui Zhou whines softly, stirred, and Tang Fan takes his taste of that sound, too, the nip of his teeth soothed by the tease of his tongue over the swell of Sui Zhou's bottom lip. There is no part of him that is not in reach of Tang Fan, and so he knows he must feel Sui Zhou's cock twitch where the stiff, heavy line of it is digging into the soft meat of his thigh.

"So loud," Tang Fan murmurs, still scratchy and slurred with sleep. "What is there for you to think so much about at this hour?"

Everything. There is everything: each and all the could-have-beens and almost-weres. They knot in his throat; he can say nothing around them, be it an apology or an ask for absolution. He does not need to try, anyway, when he is hushed before the struggle.

"Enough." Tang Fan's grumble gusts against his mouth. "Enough of that." His hand curls around to collar Sui Zhou's nape, blunt nails scrabbling over the soft hairs that have teased free of his bun. "Come here," he bids him. "Come here to me, now. You are so far away."

Sui Zhou is not left to wonder long at how it is even possible for them to be closer than they are. Tang Fan's grip anchors itself firmly in his hair, the other clutching for his shoulder, and then he is detangling the braid of their legs so he can throw his knee over Sui Zhou's hip. Sui Zhou presses into it, instinctive, groaning tightly as his cock snubs up behind Tang Fan's balls and slips along his cleft, parting him.

"Oh," Tang Fan gasps, praiseful, "yes, that's it." He cants into the clumsy drag of Sui Zhou's cock, arching sweetly under Sui Zhou's palm as it sweeps down his spine. "That's it, find me."

Sui Zhou takes the lead of all of Tang Fan's trembling and his tugging, tucking his mouth flush to his temple as he grips his ass, spreading him wider. The next shove of his cock is steadier, surer, and Tang Fan makes a sore, satisfied sound as it slides true, the head catching on his rim. He is still soft and warm to the touch, there, slick with oil and come, stretched open. There is little resistance as he bears his weight down on Sui Zhou, moaning quietly, and gives over to him.

"Tang Fan," Sui Zhou rasps, shattered, as he sinks into the tight sheathe of his body. He scrabbles to grasp his hip, to still himself as Tang Fan squirms against the fetter of his grip.

"Go gently," Tang Fan complains emptily, his breath shallowing. He is so— he takes it as easily as anything else practiced, intended. But there is so much of Sui Zhou, and Tang Fan cannot have all of him like this, not as they are. The most Sui Zhou can give him is a deep, hilting half, and even that is straining; he can feel its shudder rippling down the back of Tang Fan's thigh where Sui Zhou's bulk has folded him.

"There?" Sui Zhou manages to ask, voice cracking as he feels Tang Fan's hole flutter around his shaft. "Enough?" It would be nothing to detangle them, to press Tang Fan to his back and fuck into him to the root. Sui Zhou needs only his word to put him to task; would adhere it with the reverence shown to any same proclamation that arose from the holy.

"Yes," Tang Fan answers, no less unaffected. There is sweat beading on his temple; when Sui Zhou breathes in he can almost taste it, tart on the roof of his mouth. "Ah— there you are."

There he is; here they both are. Sui Zhou inches himself, gradual, trying to relent the last of his lingering tension so Tang Fan can better settle in against his chest. It is a precarious coupling, how their bodies are cradled; if he wants to stay inside Tang Fan, he must remain deliberate. Truly relaxing will steal away this proximity, and in this moment, he is more than terribly selfish.

Tang Fan, of course, senses it — he knows the lines of Sui Zhou's body and their configurations better than anyone, and he has acquainted himself with all the bends and sprints of Sui Zhou's thinking. "Go to sleep," he mumbles, snuffling against Sui Zhou's neck as the heel of his foot skates idly down Sui Zhou's calf. "You are keeping me from breakfast."

"And what would you like?" Sui Zhou murmurs. "To eat." It is more— teasing, than anything. Gentled. It is impossible not to be. Tang Fan has had his way with him, as expected.

"Sui Guangchuan," Tang Fan grouses, chiding. "I know you. You can't trick me." He kicks out again at his calf, a little harder, needling. "I will tell you when we get there."

"All right," Sui Zhou concedes, appropriately browbeaten, and Tang Fan sees fit to reward him with a smiling kiss, sealed over the bob of his throat as he swallows.

Here, wrapped up in all of Tang Fan's earned warmth, the indescribable gift of his familiarity, Sui Zhou surrenders to the tiding of his soul's unburdening. It is the grace of his good fortune that he can choose to meet this gentling bared open, waiting patiently. He has chosen it before, and so he will choose it again, always, as long as he is offered it.

Tang Fan remains right in his way of things — the days will come when they are ready, and it is foolish to rush any further ahead than this. To risk all that haste will miss. To contemplate what fate has not had them contend with. To get older is all the road ahead promises, no matter the care taken in their steps. And so long as they are together, Sui Zhou wants to take his time walking it.