Work Text:
秋天，九月的第3天
Fall, 3rd day of the ninth month:
♔
It’s a little morbid, Yixing thinks, that the season of fall is so beautiful in its decay. The greens of the conifers bursting with vibrant vermillion and ochre before rusting and withering, leaves crumbling upon the slightest touch. As a child, he had loved to play in the gardens of the imperial palace, but as an adult, he contents himself with afternoons spent gazing out into the gardens and watching as the trees slowly shed their summer clothing and slip on the hues of autumn.
He shivers.
Although fall has barely made her entrance, it has been unseasonably chilly in the palace as of late, forcing Yixing to switch out his lighter, airy summer robes for his heavier ones, lined with rabbit and fox furs.
The sound of an achingly familiar voice, accompanied by another, softer, but no less familiar, startles Yixing from his thoughts. He turns, a greeting ready upon his lips, head bowed in deference.
“Emperor.”
“Yixing,” he takes that as his cue to lift his head and meet the stern gaze of his emperor. Beside him is Lu Han, his favored consort. “I have been looking for you.”
"My apologies,” Yixing bows once more, achingly formal. “What is it that you need?”
Yixing is surprised when a rich laugh bursts out of the Emperor, Lu Han and the eunuchs behind them following suit when the Emperor does not show signs of stopping. “Come now, Yixing. I’ve told you time and time again that there is no need to be so formal. How long have we known each other, now?”
When the silence stretches too long, Yixing realizes that the Emperor is waiting patiently for his answer. “Since childhood,” he replies simply, and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he remembers two children playing in the leaves as their mothers fondly watched from the balcony above.
The Emperor nods. “Since childhood,” he agrees, “so the least you could do is call me Yifan, as you used to.”
Yixing grimaces, but keeps the same polite smile on his face, and dips his head in acquiescence. “Yes,” he pauses—my Emperor, is on the top of his tongue, “Yifan.”
The name is bittersweet on his tongue, but Yixing relishes in the taste as he watches Yifan grin back at him, pleased.
♔
It’s like this.
For as long as he’s known, he’s loved his Emperor. It’s been one of the constant truths in his life—like the way the sun rises and sets, the reds and yellows of autumn making way for the cool winds and snows of winter. For as long as he’s known, he’s served his Emperor. He has been his friend, his advisor, his confidante.
Yixing should be satisfied with this, he knows. It’s selfish of him to want anything else. But that is what he is—selfish.
And so Yixing watches, and listens, and loves Yifan through the seasons, like it is part of his duty to his Emperor.
♔
“You have a meeting with the generals this afternoon,” Yixing speaks, standing to the side and watching as Yifan’s maids finish combing his hair, tying it up in a sleek knot and securing the mao, which signified his noble status, over it. He runs his eyes over Yifan’s familiar features—the stern eyebrows, the line of his nose, the strong chin. “There is talk of unrest in the provinces, and Junmyeon wants to meet with you as well.”
“Come closer,” Yifan says, and Yixing sighs, wondering if he had heard any of what he had just said. “Why do you stand so far?”
“I didn’t want to be in the way,” he explains, gesturing to the finely splayed robes on the wooden floor in front of them.
Yifan rises then and Yixing startles at their proximity. He can smell the oils that the maids had dabbed on his skin—a soothing scent of jasmine and something muskier. It’s strange, but despite how long he has known Yifan, he always forgets how tall, how imposing his presence is. Perhaps it’s because Yixing always strictly maintains the distance between them—and for good reason.
Yifan looks at him then—a long, unreadable glance—before nodding and turning away.
Yixing lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.
“When will Junmyeon arrive?”
“In three night’s time.”
“Very well. Make sure to prepare all the necessary arrangements.” Yifan sends him a smile, and Yixing smiles back. “You know what to do, of course.”
He bows, deeply. “Of course.”
♔
Of course, Yixing knows what to do.
It’s far from the first time that guests have arrived at the palace, and as Yifan’s advisor, it is not technically within his duties to oversee such tasks, but as Yifan’s closest friend, it is.
There are many things to do—planning out the elaborate banquets, making sure that the wings of the palace in which the guests will be staying are comfortable and clean, taking care of the palace gardens, inviting entertainment for each night, but Yixing performs them all diligently and meticulously, knowing that this is the standard that is expected of him.
The morning dawns bright when the sovereigns finally arrive.
Junmyeon and his brother, Jongin, are no strangers to Yixing or the Emperor. As children, they often visited the palace, as their father was one of the late Emperor’s closest friends. The four of them had spent many hours running around the palace and causing mischief, and so it is with a broad smile that Yifan greets them, pulling Junmyeon up from his formal bow to embrace him instead. Yixing smiles politely and bows beside him. Only when the brothers are finished greeting the royal family do they finally move on to him.
“Yixing,” he feels warm hands bring him up from his bow, and he locks eyes with Junmyeon, surprised, before those hands are wrapping around his torso in a hug. Jongin is grinning widely beside him, also giving Yixing a hug after Junmyeon lets go.
“You’ve lost weight,” he says, tone a little scolding.
Yixing smiles, but quickly deflects. “It’s winter, everyone has lost a little weight.”
“Not Yifan,” Junmyeon whispers teasingly, and it startles a laugh out of Yixing, who quickly looks to the side to see if Yifan has overheard.
He hadn’t, seemingly in deep discussion with Qian, and Yixing feels a little lost in his head as he admires Yifan’s strong profile, his mouth that can speak cruel words and yet soft ones, loving ones as well. You don’t deserve him, he reminds himself.
“I forgot to introduce someone,” Jongin tugs a boy around the same age as himself, with long limbs but broad shoulders, out from behind him and pushes him towards Yixing. “This is Sehun, my advisor.”
Sehun bows politely to him, and Yixing bows as well. “Sehun, this is Yixing, the Emperor’s advisor.”
“You must be weary from travel,” Yifan has turned to walk back into the palace and Yixing does as well, leading them inwards. “I can have a room made up for you Sehun. I apologize as I did not know you would be traveling with Junmyeon and Jongin today—”
“—it’s alright, Yixing,” Jongin interrupts, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sehun can stay in my room.”
Smiling and hoping it masks the surprise in his expression when he looks at Jongin, Yixing replies, “As long as you’re comfortable, Jongin. It’s no trouble at all.”
He watches carefully as Jongin shares a glance with Sehun, a small smile passing in between them. It’s achingly familiar, the bond between the royal and the advisor, and though Yixing is loath to admit it, it tightens the knot of jealousy within him.
“It will be fine,” Jongin confirms, looking back at Yixing.
Junmyeon slings an arm around Yixing, gesturing around them at the palace. They’ve reached the inner halls at this point, close to their prepared rooms. “This brings back memories,” he says. “Do you remember the time when we hid and Yifan couldn’t find us for hours and he started crying?”
"He thought we’d left him,” Yixing remembers fondly. “Little did he know we were just switching our positions every time he had his back turned, and he never checked the same place twice.”
"We really got scolded for making the Prince cry though,” Jongin says.
All three of them shuddered. They had been brought in front of the late Empress, who had been a fiercely protective woman, though when she had looked upon their three quivering bodies, she had scolded them only briefly before laughing and dismissing them, saying that she was not the one they should be apologizing to.
They had found Yifan sulking outside in the gardens, kicking the leaves angrily as he muttered something about traitor friends.
Junmyeon and Jongin had run up to him first, apologies spilling over in their mouths, and eventually Yifan had relented and forgiven them. They had promptly run off, not wanting to be near Yifan’s bad temper any longer. Yixing had stayed behind, however, guilt still making a home in his stomach.
“I’m sorry, Yifan,” he tries, tentatively. As he had expected, Yifan turns his back angrily to him, refusing to even look at him. “You know I would never leave you, right?”
That has Yifan turning around to peer at his closest friend, trying to determine if he is telling the truth.
When Yixing stares back at him, remorseful, Yifan comes up to him and hugs him tightly, and Yixing startles at the warm drops of tears that land on his shirt. Never, even when Yifan had fallen from his horse and broke his arm, has Yixing seen him cry. “I thought you disappeared forever,” he sniffles.
“I could never leave you,” Yixing vows, and even in his young heart, he knows this to be true. “You’re my best friend. I will stay by your side, in this lifetime and the next.”
♔
Despite how stern and unforgiving people might find the Emperor, Yixing will never see him that way. He knows how Yifan’s intimidating figure and strong chin gives way to kind eyes, and a mouth perhaps too pretty for an Emperor. He knows how his hands, calloused from years of horseback riding and archery training, pick up children when they clamor at his feet, how gently he caresses the petals of the jasmine flower under the watchful gaze of the moon.
He knows all this, and yet—
Yixing will never know how it feels, to have the Emperor love him in return.
♔
The scent of sandalwood trails through the air as Yixing draws closer to the concubine’s quarters. It is perhaps his least favorite area of the palace, though Yixing tells himself it is more because of the décor and less because of his jealousy of the man who lives inside it.
“Pin fei,” he bows politely, as Lu Han steps out wearing bright robes of scarlet, embroidered carefully with the autumn landscape. “The Emperor wishes to see you.”
Yixing bites his cheek as he waits for the elder’s response. For as long as Yixing has known Yifan, he has also known Lu Han, who Yifan had met when he was young, barely a man, stubble just starting to sprout on his chin. Of all the things Yixing could say about Lu Han, he will say this—he is breathtaking, possessing the kind of grace that Yixing himself could never hope to have, a certain intelligence and air about him that nearly rivals the Emperor’s own. Of all the things Yixing could say about Lu Han, he will admit this. They are a fitting pair—the Emperor deserves to be surrounded by the beautiful, by the brilliant.
Yixing pales, in comparison.
“Advisor Zhang,” Lu Han greets politely, smiling at him, though Yixing notes that none of that warmth is reflected in his dark eyes. “Please let the Emperor know that I will be there soon. I need a few moments to freshen up.”
Yixing nods, as if in understanding, though he wonders what, possibly, Lu Han could do to make himself even more beautiful, even more desirable.
“Of course, pin fei,” he bows deeply once more, understanding a dismissal when he hears one.
As Yixing takes the path back towards the throne room, where he knows he can find Yifan, the fragrance of sandalwood fades once more and he breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh air. Outside, a chilled wind blows, and the blood-red leaves of the conifers shiver, rattling, before one falls, drifting gently in the breeze before it lands helplessly among its fallen brothers, waiting to be crushed underfoot.
♔
“They will not agree to those terms,” Junmyeon speaks over the clamor of the table, and gradually, everyone falls silent as they look to him. He looks vaguely apologetic for interrupting, as he glances at Yifan, but Yifan merely tips his head towards him, gesturing for him to continue. “They won’t agree to those terms,” he repeats, “because they no longer believe that you have the power to control them.”
Yixing watches Yifan carefully as the words register. The skin between his eyebrows pinch, and the corners of his mouth tighten imperceptibly, but other than that, he gives no outwardly reaction. To others, it might seem that Yifan is impassive, unfeeling, but to Yixing, who has always known him best, he can read the anger simmering beneath the surface, the tension to his shoulders.
“We will show them what power is,” Yifan finally says, voice deep and gravelly with restraint. “We will show them the power of the Emperor.”
There is silence around the table—for a brief moment, Yixing is worried that the generals do not agree—but then Jongin stands up, chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor, and draws his sword, kneeling at Yifan’s feet. “I will stand by you, my Emperor,” he proclaims.
Junmyeon, only a few steps behind him, comes up to Yifan as well, a small smile playing on his face as he daringly locks eyes with Yifan before similarly unsheathing his sword and kneeling in front of him. “I will follow you into battle, my Emperor.”
Slowly, Yixing watches as the other generals and sovereigns bow towards Yifan as well, who stands, light gleaming gold on his finely sewn robes. The light shines through the window behind him, and from where he is standing, it looks almost as if Yifan is bathed in light, as if he is truly the god’s son, and the ancients have bestowed upon him their blessings. Finally, he is the last one standing in the room, and when Yifan’s eyes land on him, Yixing is struck, not for the first time, by the overwhelming weight of his feelings for his Emperor.
It clashes wrongly in his chest, but he forces it away and smiles gently at Yifan as well. Dipping his head into a bow too familiar by now, he kneels as well, staying silent but knowing perfectly well that Yifan would understand what he means. I would follow you to the ends of the earth, he thinks. I would follow you until the stars burn out and the heavens are reborn.
♔
The ride is bumpy and uncomfortable, to say the least. It is bitterly cold—it seems that winter has come early this year, and they travel slowly, as the roads are icy and difficult for the horses to travel on. Yixing rides next to Yifan—the Emperor had insisted, despite Yixing’s protests—and he surreptitiously glances over at him, wrapped snugly in heavy furs and yet still sitting tall, regal.
They are due to arrive at the battlefield with the other sovereigns who had heeded the Emperor’s call tomorrow, in the early morning. Their army travels with them, though they march behind the royal entourage, who are guarded by only a few of Yifan’s most trusted. Of the royal family, Yifan is the only one who has come, as war is no place for the Empress or his consorts. They had been left behind in the imperial palace, Yixing watching silently as Yifan pressed fond, adoring kisses on both Qian and Lu Han’s lips. He had watched as Yifan whispered in Qian’s ear before embracing her tightly, then turning to Lu Han and saying something as well, a radiant smile appearing on his face as he listened.
A general rides up to Yifan’s other side and says something to him, too softly for Yixing to hear. Yifan nods, before raising a hand up, giving the order to stop. “We will stop here for the night,” he announces. “Check the area before pitching up tents. We have a long day tomorrow.”
Yifan then turns to Yixing, beckoning him to follow as he rides forwards on his horse. When they reach a clearing, he dismounts and Yixing follows. Junmyeon and Jongin appear after them soon after, and they dismount as well before walking over to where they are standing. “We will set up our tents here,” Yifan explains, as his personal guards begin unpacking his supplies to begin preparing for the night. “There should be enough coverage, and it’s small enough that it will be easily defendable, should anything happen in the night.”
Junmyeon nods, and they begin to unpack, slowly setting up their tents. Yixing had planned to sleep in Junmyeon and Jongin’s tent, so he drags his bag with him to their tent, where he begins to unpack his bedding and clothing. “Here,” Jongin throws him a piece of bread and some dried meat, nodding at him to eat it. “I know you gave most of your food to the soldiers.”
Yixing tries to protest, but with a firm look from both Junmyeon and Jongin, he acquiesces and chews the food he’s been given gratefully. All too soon, it is dark outside and the tent is quiet, broken only with the occasional snore from Junmyeon and the deep breathing of Jongin. Yixing shifts, feeling every rock beneath him poke uncomfortably into his back. The crickets are loud outside, and he fancies he can hear his own thoughts, they rattle so loudly in his mind. After what feels like hours of lying and staring at the fabric ceiling of their tent, he decides to walk around, hoping it will calm his mind and force his body to fall asleep.
When he walks out though, he is greeted with someone he does not expect.
Yifan is sitting in front of the fire, alone, his guard yards away, close enough to come to his aid should he need it, but far enough to not disturb him. Yixing hesitates, unsure of whether or not to talk to him. He takes a deep breath and walks forward. “Yixing,” he startles, when he realizes that there is someone in front of him. Yifan’s hair is still up in its regal knot—the strands of his hair look like fresh made ink, in the flickering light of the fire, and Yixing has the inappropriate urge to undo it, to run his hands through his hair and perhaps across Yifan’s face, to smooth away the stress and worries that have made a home there.
“Emperor,” he bows before him.
Yifan huffs a laugh, half irritated but mostly amused, and reaches out a hand to pull him down beside him, laughing more whole-heartedly when it causes Yixing to stumble.
They settle naturally next to each other, knees brushing, and somehow Yixing thinks the heat from Yifan’s body feels hotter than the heat from the fire in front of them. “How many times must I tell you,” Yifan says.
Yixing smiles back at him. “At least once more.”
They sit quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Yixing startles when Yifan suddenly speaks. “I am worried,” he admits, and the words are hushed, as if he is afraid to speak them out loud. Yifan pulls his knees up to his chest, and the action makes him look smaller, younger, more like the boy Yixing used to play with, and less like the powerful ruler that Yixing has grown to love.
“Only the foolish do not feel fear,” he replies.
Yifan sighs. “You will never tire of speaking wise words to me, will you?”
It makes him smile. “I am your advisor for a reason.”
Yifan turns, then, and his gaze is fond. It feels like warmth and sunlight against his skin, and Yixing is frozen, like a bee trapped in its own honey. He is close enough to see the cast of shadows of each one of Yifan’s individual eyelashes on his cheek, and the faint scar on his cheek from when he had gotten cut during sword practice when they were children. He wills his traitorous heart to slow down. He watches as Yifan’s gaze flickers to his mouth and then back up to meet his eyes.
When they finally meet, it feels like home.
It’s slow, sweet, noses bumping gently against each other, soft sucks of each other’s lips before Yifan pulls him closer, settles him gently on his lap so he’s straddling him. When Yixing subtly grinds into him, they both groan before Yifan swallows the sound with another frantic kiss, stealing his breath. There are fingers tugging his hair, a warm hand down at his waist, rubbing soft circles into his skin and causing goosebumps to travel up his spine. He shivers.
Yifan pulls back. “Cold?” he whispers against his lips, and Yixing is so weak—he presses back in for a firmer kiss before he nods.
What are you doing, his mind screams at him, but before he can put action to his fears, Yifan lifts him up and drapes his own thick robe around him, scooping him up bridal-style and heading into his own tent.
Helpless, all Yixing can do is cling to his broad shoulders. “Yifan,” he squeaks, face red with embarrassment. He has never been happier that it is nighttime and there is no one around to see.
Yifan sets him down on the makeshift blankets he has set up as his bed. This is wrong, Yixing thinks. He is the Emperor. You don’t deserve him. Yifan slips a hand under his chin and thumbs across his lips tenderly. Soft, so soft.
His resolve breaks.
♔
They ride out at dawn—across the hill, they can see the army of the rebels, and Yixing’s horse nickers, as if he is nervous as well. Yifan brushes a hand softly across Yixing’s thigh as if to reassure him as he guides his horse out of formation and turns him to face his army. “We fight for our nation,” he shouts, raising his sword. “To victory!”
A ferocious cheer starts up from behind him, and horns sound before they are charging—the opposing army charges as well and Yixing can only brace himself for impact, drawing his sword and holding his shield up firmly. He can see Yifan’s pure white horse in front of him, and he guides his own to follow, determined to stay beside him. Flanking him are Junmyeon and Jongin, and they exchange nods before they are each engaged in battle, Yixing grimacing every time his sword cuts through flesh, blood spilling and staining the earth.
Time passes strangely in the midst of battle—he can’t tell if it’s been hours or minutes since Yifan had first left the charge, but he knows that he is tiring quickly, and that he has lost sight of his Emperor in the melee. Panic buries itself deep in his chest, and he whirls, searching for a tall figure on a white horse.
When he finally spots him, fear freezes his mind. Yifan’s valiantly fighting his way through soldiers, cleaving through them powerfully, but from this distance Yixing can clearly see the archer standing on higher ground, aiming directly for the small of Yifan’s back. There are mere yards between them, but the distance has never seemed greater to Yixing, who is urging his horse faster, slashing through people who are in his path.
He keeps one eye on the archer, whose fingers are twitching like he is about to release his arrow.
He’s a few feet away.
The arrow whistles as it travels through air.
Yixing dives, and watches as Yifan turns around, recognizing the danger too late. As he falls, he sees the surprise, the recognition, and the horror flash across his face in the span of a second.
Yixing hits the ground hard.
♔
It’s a little morbid, Yixing thinks, that death is so beautiful in its simplicity. He lies there, winded—it’s hard to draw breath, he knows his lung is punctured, and perhaps his heart—staring up at the heavens, and he thinks to himself that the sky has never seemed so blue before. It’s strange, how the process of dying changes his senses—it’s like his body knows that it will never again experience this—his mind trying desperately to grasp at the threads of life slowly slipping away.
Yixing blinks, and Yifan is there, then—the battle rages around them, still, but all Yixing can see is Yifan, framed prettily against the blue, blue sky. He coughs. There is blood trickling down the corner of his mouth—sticky and hot, it drips onto the grass beneath his head.
“Yixing,” and in all his years of knowing Yifan, he has never heard his name sound like that, from Yifan’s lips. Yifan’s eyes are dark, stormy, upset. He’s scanning them desperately across Yixing’s figure, like he’s trying to figure out the best way to fix him, to protect him, though Yixing knows it’s hopeless.
“Yifan,” he manages to say. He’s still lucid, and he wants his last memory to be of this—how pretty Yifan looks, with his dark hair against the cerulean sky, the strong line of his jaw, the power behind his gaze. He wants to remember how much he loves him.
“You fool,” the Emperor mutters, and Yixing wants to laugh, though he knows this is no occasion for it. “Of all places to play hero,” Yifan’s hand is tenderly cupping his chin now, thumb rubbing absently against his lips, probably smearing the blood there. “I promised to protect you.”
“You promised to protect your people,” Yixing gently corrects.
It infuriates Yifan, “And are you not one of my people?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now.” It’s getting harder and harder to speak—he can feel the blood welling up in his lungs, slowly drowning him. He still has so much he wants to say though, so much he wants to tell Yifan. He wants to tell him how proud of him he is, how he has been the best Emperor, how it has been his honor to serve him. He wants to tell him how much he loves him.
He wants to tell him all of this and so much more, but the words get caught in his throat and he can only manage a last, weak smile, squeezing Yifan’s hand gently before his vision begins to dim and he can’t feel anything anymore.
“Yixing,” he thinks he hears, but he isn’t sure.
He waits, but he hears nothing else.
I love you.
♔
The Emperor rises from the dais, a tall figure swathed in somber colors. Beside him, several other figures rise as well, similarly dressed. He turns his back on the man dressed in robes of pure white, surrounded by bronze jars of food and offerings to accompany him into the afterlife. The Emperor does not look back.
♔
Yifan collapses on top of Lu Han, trembling. Tenderly, Lu Han pushes a gentle hand up into Yifan’s hair, brushing it out of his eyes. “What ails you, my Emperor?” he asks, though he knows.
Yifan squeezes his eyes tightly shut, looking away from him but allowing Lu Han’s hand to remain there. There is a brief moment of silence before Lu Han leans up and captures Yifan’s mouth in another bruising kiss.
He hungrily kisses him back, like he can drown himself in Lu Han’s affections, like it will help him forget.
Neither of them notice the pale young man standing in the corner of the room, half translucent in the light, smile bittersweet as he looks upon them.
I would follow you until the ends of the earth.