My home, if you wouldn't mind. [gift-giving in a tavern just seems terribly gauche to Jin Guangyao. and he would prefer a more intimate setting for this.] I will make tea.
[ It's nice. So nice it makes him nervous. Why? The walk from the boarding house to Jin Guangyao's home pings familiar in a way that he needs the whole walk to remember: butterflies. Like first date nerves, or like audition nerves, or the weirdness of meeting a buddy's other friends. Hypothetically, he's in for something good. But what if he doesn't react right? What if it's a trick? What if Jin Guangyao expects something in return? He forgot some event, surely.
[ Quentin shows up on Jin Guangyao's doorstep in the promised few minutes, expression at once guarded and excited. Taking off his boots and scarf is rote by now, as is his drifting to the den. ] So what, just--thinking of me?
[the tea tray has been brought into the den and arranged neatly on the low table that Jin Guangyao prefers for entertaining his guests. a small selection of seasonal refreshments have been set out as well; sliced fruit, some neatly arranged cured meat, bread still warm from the baker's. in the centre of the table is a small rectangular box, wrapped in brown paper and bound neatly with twine.
Jin Guangyao is dressed down for the occasion, but in practice that just means he's set aside his outer robe and has bound his hair into a less elaborate topknot. when Quentin drifts into the den, he looks up from a book of poetry he'd been perusing and smiles, sets the book aside, and glides to his feet.]
Is that so surprising? [he asks while stepping into Quentin's space, hands lightly touching his hips as he leans up to greet him with a kiss. when he draws back, he takes hold of Quentin's hand and leads him to the sofa.] Come sit down.
[ Oh, that's nice--the natural sweetness in his touch and his kiss, the immediate closeness that soothes the greater part of Quentin's nerves. He follows Jin Guangyao close, sits down with one leg folded under him and an arm on top of the sofa back. An obvious, boyish invitation. ] I guess it's not surprising, just--I mean, you could always just ask me over. You don't have to woo me or anything.
[comfortably, Jin Guangyao settles himself into the familiar circle of Quentin's arm. he kisses the corner of his mouth one more time for good measure, then sits forward on the edge of his seat to pour the tea.] Of course I do, [he replies mildly, spares Quentin a sly look past his eyelashes, then returns his attention to the clay teapot.] I care for you and enjoy your company. And, [moving to fill his cup after Quentin's,] if gongzi will permit this one to be terribly direct: I think you enjoy being wooed.
[he doesn't trot out the courtesy language around Quentin that often anymore--except when he's being a brazen flirt, that is.]
[ Jin Guanyao has acclimated him to certain things. Tea in this style is one thing: floral in his nose, grassy on his tongue, a drink that tastes tougher than it smells, something he never tasted before--that only reminds him of one person. Another thing Jin Guangyao has taught him: this little, coy play and how to receive it graciously. Quentin doesn't fluster like he has inthe past, though he blushes as deep as ever when Jin Guangyao turns on this arch, minxy tone. ]
Maybe I do. [ He sips his smile down and, when Jin Guangyao has his tea poured and safely balanced, folds his other leg over Jin Guangyao's lap, snug around his waist. ] I guess I'm still not used to it. You're the first person to try it, I think. You're a player, A-Yao.
[ One arm wraps his stomach, too, as Quentin leans in to kiss the side of his neck firmly--something that scratches his itch to be frank and plain rather than tripping over trying to be lovely. He keeps his chin on Jin Guangyao's shoulder, tea cupped below his ribs. ] ...Did someone tell you it was my birthday?
[his physicality is lovely to Jin Guangyao, who laughs quietly and with pleasure when Quentin cleaves to him and kisses the slope of his neck as though no one ever taught him to be precious with his affection. a thing that Quentin has acclimated him to in turn, and which he has learned to treasure. warmly, he slips his fingers into Quentin's hair and curls his fingers, turns his face to the side to kiss his forehead--then blinks, and leans back enough to peer at his face in clear surprise.]
Maybe. Sometime in the last couple days. [ His lips press flat. Is this embarrassing? ] The calendar's kind of weird here, but as far as I can tell...yeah.
[a shocked little laugh that gentles quickly into a smile. Jin Guangyao sighs and pushes some of Quentin's hair back from his eyes.] Then I will get you something else for your birthday.
[he picks up the little wrapped box from the table and turns to offer it to Quentin.]
[ His expression makes plain that he means to argue: there's not need for anything like that. But arguing the generosity feels crass, even moreso than the way Quentin holds him or kisses him. So, he swallows the debate, reaches to set his teacup down before taking the box. The size of it makes him think immediately of charms, chains, jewelry. His brow purses as he slips the twine off it and unwraps the box. ]
[argumentative expression or no, Jin Guangyao's small, almost nervous smile remains the same. he sits quietly at Quentin's side, one hand resting against his leg while the other absently toys with the soft hair at the name of his neck.
inside the little box, resting on a bed of soft fabric, is a comb. it's immediately obvious that it is intended more as a sentimental piece than anything one would truly use as part of their daily grooming routine; carved from dark wood and then treated with a lacquer-like resin that ensures it gleams when held in the light. suspended within that resin are dried spring flowers and green leaves--suspiciously like the very bouquet Quentin once left on his doorstep. aster, liverwort, baby's breath. the blooms are small and subtle, and kept to either end of the comb so as to not detract overly much from the elegant shape of the wood.]
In my world, [he explains quietly,] when a gentleman wishes to make his feelings clear, he might present his intended with a gift like this. I imagine, [added with a self-effacing little laugh, eyes lowered,] that in your world, such things are done differently.
...Holy shit. [ He murmurs just at the shine and the weight of it in his hands. The rich color and daint details, the solidity of it in his palm as he lifts it to the light, make it feel like a souvenir in someone's dusty office--the kind of thing his dad would chide out of his hands if he got caught snooping it out of a draw or off a shelf when someone wasn't looking.
[ It's not big enough to do his hair with, which means (if he trusts his memory of grandma's things or the buns of ladies with slower jobs around town) that this is an ornament. The kind of things girls put in their hair--or that Jin Guangyao might. His cheek color deeper, lips going dry as Jin Guangyao explainst, and Quentin sputters. ]
[it isn't a delicate enough piece to be worn by a woman, though the addition of the dried flowers beneath that layer of resin was certainly a choice he deliberated over before ultimately choosing to include them. the artisan who performed the work had been diligent and attentive to each detail of the request; now, watching Quentin's artless expression as he admires his gift, Jin Guangyao feels it was the right decision.
his smile dimples a little at that incomplete question. with a soft, reassuring laugh, he squeezes Quentin's shoulder and the slope of his neck once, then smooths his fingers across his skin.] Please be at ease, [he cuts in kindly. watching Quentin's eyes for a moment, he purses his lips, then carefully broaches a subject he's been politely sidestepping up until now.] Bao bei, I know I am not the only one in your heart. I--[a pause, considering his words,]--only wish for you to know that your place in mine is secure.
[a love confession, even if he seems to hesitate over saying the words. he traces his touch along Quentin's neck, an affectionate touch with no ulterior motive except to share affection, and closeness. Jin Guangyao's dark eyes are warm, his expression soft.]
[ The sentiment sparks and catches in between his lungs, burns warm and homely in his chest. He doesn't deserve this. He can't pay it back. He knows better than to say either thing, though, and--thanks to a little bit of self-awareness he's built up in the last few months--he manages to shove the feeling down before it shows.
[ He covers Jin Guangyao's hand with his own, peels it back to kiss the hollow of his palm emphatically. ] I love it. [ He mutters there, lingers for another little while before pulling back and brushing his hair with his fingers. ]
You're gonna...I dunno how to get it in, you're gonna have to show me...
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[because of course he will.]
→ in person
[ It's nice. So nice it makes him nervous. Why? The walk from the boarding house to Jin Guangyao's home pings familiar in a way that he needs the whole walk to remember: butterflies. Like first date nerves, or like audition nerves, or the weirdness of meeting a buddy's other friends. Hypothetically, he's in for something good. But what if he doesn't react right? What if it's a trick? What if Jin Guangyao expects something in return? He forgot some event, surely.
[ Quentin shows up on Jin Guangyao's doorstep in the promised few minutes, expression at once guarded and excited. Taking off his boots and scarf is rote by now, as is his drifting to the den. ] So what, just--thinking of me?
no subject
Jin Guangyao is dressed down for the occasion, but in practice that just means he's set aside his outer robe and has bound his hair into a less elaborate topknot. when Quentin drifts into the den, he looks up from a book of poetry he'd been perusing and smiles, sets the book aside, and glides to his feet.]
Is that so surprising? [he asks while stepping into Quentin's space, hands lightly touching his hips as he leans up to greet him with a kiss. when he draws back, he takes hold of Quentin's hand and leads him to the sofa.] Come sit down.
no subject
no subject
[he doesn't trot out the courtesy language around Quentin that often anymore--except when he's being a brazen flirt, that is.]
no subject
Maybe I do. [ He sips his smile down and, when Jin Guangyao has his tea poured and safely balanced, folds his other leg over Jin Guangyao's lap, snug around his waist. ] I guess I'm still not used to it. You're the first person to try it, I think. You're a player, A-Yao.
[ One arm wraps his stomach, too, as Quentin leans in to kiss the side of his neck firmly--something that scratches his itch to be frank and plain rather than tripping over trying to be lovely. He keeps his chin on Jin Guangyao's shoulder, tea cupped below his ribs. ] ...Did someone tell you it was my birthday?
no subject
Is today your birthday?
[shockedpikachu.jpeg]
no subject
no subject
[he picks up the little wrapped box from the table and turns to offer it to Quentin.]
no subject
no subject
inside the little box, resting on a bed of soft fabric, is a comb. it's immediately obvious that it is intended more as a sentimental piece than anything one would truly use as part of their daily grooming routine; carved from dark wood and then treated with a lacquer-like resin that ensures it gleams when held in the light. suspended within that resin are dried spring flowers and green leaves--suspiciously like the very bouquet Quentin once left on his doorstep. aster, liverwort, baby's breath. the blooms are small and subtle, and kept to either end of the comb so as to not detract overly much from the elegant shape of the wood.]
In my world, [he explains quietly,] when a gentleman wishes to make his feelings clear, he might present his intended with a gift like this. I imagine, [added with a self-effacing little laugh, eyes lowered,] that in your world, such things are done differently.
no subject
[ It's not big enough to do his hair with, which means (if he trusts his memory of grandma's things or the buns of ladies with slower jobs around town) that this is an ornament. The kind of things girls put in their hair--or that Jin Guangyao might. His cheek color deeper, lips going dry as Jin Guangyao explainst, and Quentin sputters. ]
His intended? You mean like--?
no subject
his smile dimples a little at that incomplete question. with a soft, reassuring laugh, he squeezes Quentin's shoulder and the slope of his neck once, then smooths his fingers across his skin.] Please be at ease, [he cuts in kindly. watching Quentin's eyes for a moment, he purses his lips, then carefully broaches a subject he's been politely sidestepping up until now.] Bao bei, I know I am not the only one in your heart. I--[a pause, considering his words,]--only wish for you to know that your place in mine is secure.
[a love confession, even if he seems to hesitate over saying the words. he traces his touch along Quentin's neck, an affectionate touch with no ulterior motive except to share affection, and closeness. Jin Guangyao's dark eyes are warm, his expression soft.]
🎀?
[ He covers Jin Guangyao's hand with his own, peels it back to kiss the hollow of his palm emphatically. ] I love it. [ He mutters there, lingers for another little while before pulling back and brushing his hair with his fingers. ]
You're gonna...I dunno how to get it in, you're gonna have to show me...