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Winter in Nanping Mountain is a thick blanket of snow, so dense and icy that Taxian Jun's beloved flowers die in its wrath and Chu Wanning's nature spirit friends hibernate for the time being. The morning sky blends with the horizon line, creating an endless, desolate valley of white, and the sun vanishes behind the clouds. There will never be enough layers to combat the freeze, not until the sun melts the ice to slush and the leaves grow green over dead, weak branches.
But the house is warm.
The kind of warmth Chu Wanning sleeps and wakes every morning with, but spread in every room, from floor to ceiling to the corners left untouched. The kind of warmth that wraps Chu Wanning up in Mo Ran's arms and radiates especially at his chest, over his heart as its calming rhythm sings a lullaby in his ear and wakes him with it too. A fire near the bedside dispels the cold outside, as do the candles in every other room, but what Chu Wanning has beside him is present no matter the season. Winter, spring, summer, fall—each offer a new feel against the skin to mirror nature outside. When Mo Ran's skin is against Chu Wanning though, bronze and familiar and oh so homely, he is immensely happy to have chosen and received this warmth for the rest of their lives.
Yet their days feel counted in winter.
And their days are not counted, Chu Wanning reminds himself before he fades to sleep every night, their days won't be counted anytime soon, but the fact doesn't stop him from feeling as such. In spring and summer and fall, the warmth surges through his bloodstream, encircling throughout until it becomes a reason he's alive. There's nothing in this life, the previous or the next, that Chu Wanning would trade it for.
Winter stings a little differently, however. Winter challenges this warmth, taunts its very existence, and dares to zap it of life.
It doesn't. It hasn't done so in years, but every time snow begins to weigh heavy on the plum blossom branches outside their window, Chu Wanning fears one day it might succeed again.
He does not voice this fear no matter what. Just as it begins to freeze over his body, his thoughts, his lungs, Mo Ran pulls him against his chest, melts it, and lets it evaporate. And he whispers to himself that the body beneath his cheek is not cold, only the weather outside is. The home is warm, the lights are on, and the war is over. Snow may trigger these thoughts—maybe they'll trigger them forever—but Chu Wanning lives in warmth, and he's learned now that even the impossible can be disputed.
He'll still shiver from time to time. Should there be four hearths in the room, Chu Wanning will tremble from the sliver of cold and snuggle closer to Mo Ran, to which Mo Ran will make sure not a bit of their skin stays untouched. Chu Wanning loves this as much as he loves him, legs tangled and breaths mingling.
The heavy snowfall last night must have rattled something against their bedroom window, and now there's a slight crack that brings in a biting rush of wind inside. It hadn't been too much of a bother for the past hour Chu Wanning and Mo Ran have been in bed, with Mo Ran idly putting a braid in his husband's hair while retelling a story from his few hours out in the town.
Just as Chu Wanning begins to feel sleep weigh heavy on his eyelids, a breeze blows quickly into their bedroom and flicks at the fire, threatening to extinguish it. It catches both of their attention, watching as the flame sputters for a second then rises back to its height.
“That won’t do,” Mo Ran says, fingers pausing in Chu Wanning’s hair, then he sits up. “What do you think we can fix it with? There should be something…”
Chu Wanning peels himself off Mo Ran as he leaves the bed to shuffle around their things. He eyes Chu Wanning's work table but doesn't dare move any of the mess. Chu Wanning's patience begins to wear thin and the cold begins to build without his human heater of a husband.
"Mo Ran," he calls for, voice tinged by a desire to sleep, "we can fix it in the morning together."
He blinks. "You'll be cold," Mo Ran says.
And that is true, he'll be cold throughout the night and into the morning, but maybe he wants to be cold if it means he has reason to curl up tighter against Mo Ran.
It would do him no good to admit something so selfish out loud.
Then Mo Ran lights up. "We have blankets!" he remembers, then digs through their drawers to find them.
Chu Wanning recalls when they bought the massive fur blankets—one night out in autumn, when Taxian Jun had the day and the urge to spend what little money they already had. His eyes had caught on a blanket made of the finest mink fur and he bought it without a moment's hesitation. Chu Wanning let it slide, and during the following winter months, Mo Ran found it at the far end of one of the drawers. He didn't recognize it, had asked Chu Wanning about the strange new blanket, and immediately felt it in his capacity to buy an even warmer blanket after finding out it was his other half’s buy.
Taxian Jun found out about it eventually, and of course he wanted to outshine his counterpart, but Chu Wanning managed to steer their useless competition in a direction that didn't include hoarding expensive fur blankets.
Right now, the competitiveness the blankets represent matter nothing. Chu Wanning settles back into bed while Mo Ran takes out the blankets, hoping he'll find the urge to sleep again. He shuts his eyes and a few seconds later, a heavy blanket is gently placed over him. And another, and then a dip in the spot beside him, and soon enough a chest under his cheek.
A chest too bare.
Chu Wanning’s eyes flit open. Indeed, Mo Ran's bare tanned chest is underneath his cheek, smooth and comforting, as is the rest of his torso.
"And your sleepwear?" Chu Wanning asks, pulling away from Mo Ran. " You'll get cold."
In winter, it is foolish for them to sleep without thick sleepwear. Chu Wanning sometimes wants to wear two thick robes and layers of pants to bed but knows it’s too much in the end. Mo Ran uses one on his own and their combined body heat does the rest.
Mo Ran chuckles, wrapping an arm over Chu Wanning's back. "The blankets provide enough heat. I'll be too bothered with any more layers."
Right. Mo Ran does not get as easily cold as Chu Wanning—he's quite the lucky one. The two blankets are mostly for precaution should the wind blow out the fire, in which case the blankets will be enough to keep them warm throughout the night. Normally, a regular blanket, normal sleepwear, the fire, and their stickiness to each other suffices.
If there's one thing Chu Wanning likes about winter, it's that Mo Ran's robes cover the scar on his chest. His mind may wander into those horrid last moments and fear their reoccurrence, but his eyes will never see the evidence.
Now it's in plain sight.
His eyes linger on the scar.
Chu Wanning loves everything about Mo Ran, from the way his hair gets awfully tangled when he runs his fingers through it to the way he smiles against their kisses, and Chu Wanning’s gentle hold of his cheeks feel his dimples dip against his fingertips. He loves the way he speaks, how sometimes the words he says do not have the brevity of his writing, but they mean well all the same. He loves that Mo Ran loves. Loves Chu Wanning. And Chu Wanning loves him back just as fiercely, with all the lifetimes lived and all the lifetimes to come.
But he hates this scar on his chest.
It isn’t an even, clean groove over his skin. It’s several jagged marks, like scratches carved in the soaked sand. They indicate it wasn’t a clean stab. It was a repeated process, over and over and over again, shattering Mo Ran’s spiritual core and puncturing his heart. His heart that carries so much good, so much love. It all bled out.
Chu Wanning has never forgiven himself for it.
It’s not your fault, Mo Ran has told him more times than Chu Wanning has told himself, It has never been your fault, Wanning.
They both have this problem with forgiveness. Chu Wanning takes blame for all of Mo Ran’s deaths, Mo Ran takes blame for all the pain he’s ever inflicted upon Chu Wanning. They can forgive each other but never themselves, a toxic thread bounded tightly between them.
Chu Wanning is not blind to the scar. It’s impossible to be so when they’re tangled in bed, or when Mo Ran is doing yard work in the sun, or when they’ve indulged in a bath together. The scar is not ugly either, for every part of Mo Ran is beauty incarnate, and if it is to symbolize any good, it is that it symbolizes Mo Ran survived. It’s a part of Mo Ran—a permanent addition, like the necklace around his neck—and he’s accepted its life in spring, summer and fall.
The snow is the one to blame for its change. In winter, he blames himself, and he can’t bear to look at the scar without reliving the trauma behind it. Not with the snow building, not in the room that hasn’t changed, not in the home once abandoned, and not in the bed he preserved his body.
The last time he saw this scar in this setting was the night Mo Ran died. And he hates it. Chu Wanning just can’t stop looking.
“Baobei?” Mo Ran pulls his attention away from his thoughts, but not from his chest. “Are you alright?”
If he had shame, he would beg Mo Ran to put his robes back on and choose one blanket over the other. The fire could go out and they could get cold but it would be far better than enduring these haunting thoughts. Yet the thought of compromising Mo Ran’s comfort doesn’t sit well with him, not in the cold, not ever.
“It’s nothing,” Chu Wanning mumbles. He forces his eyes to look away and instead at Mo Ran, then offers a soft, small smile.
Before he can catch Mo Ran’s reaction, Chu Wanning lowers himself beside his husband and hugs around his waist, head nestled on his shoulder rather than his usual spot. Mo Ran’s arm tightens over his back, gently caressing his hand down Chu Wanning’s side, humming contentedly.
Still, at this angle, the scar is in his line of view, and his heart sinks to depths unknown.
“Wanning,” Mo Ran mumbles into his hair. “Really, what’s wrong?”
Nothing is wrong. Not anymore, at least. The confusion has been cleared. There aren’t any secrets. Mo Ran is alive and well and with him every single day. They no longer have to hide in remote places to share kisses, they no longer have to pretend they’re not in love. They get to be themselves. Chu Wanning has no complaints—really, he loves his life now more than he ever did before.
But the scar’s meaning is wrong. It always has been to Chu Wanning.
He doesn’t say that though. He says nothing. He only brings one hand up to Mo Ran’s chest, unsuccessfully hoping it would stop shaking this once, and lightly traces the scar and all its grooves.
The night Mo Ran died, he lost his warmth, and though the bed was warm in the morning, his heart and body were cold. Everything was so, so cold, but Chu Wanning pretended it was alright. Nothing was wrong although he lost his whole world beside him.
He relives that night for a split second, expecting Mo Ran’s heart to run cold as it did before, but all he feels is warmth.
The patch of skin is as uneven as mountains not yet smoothed by the crashing waves at sea. There’s a particularly larger scar at the center of them all, the spot that did the most damage, and the longer he follows its path, the more he tries to battle the thoughts of “this is your fault” with “this is growth.”
Suddenly, there’s a hand over Chu Wanning’s chest, right over his own scar. Mo Ran doesn’t move his robes to feel it, only acknowledges it like this.
This scar is a little different. It proved Chu Wanning was alive. It proves Chu Wanning is human.
“You have one too,” Mo Ran says with a kiss to his hair.
“I know,” Chu Wanning whispers, and the tears threaten to build up, “but this one is different in winter.”
Mo Ran is silent underneath him.
“In winter, sometimes I fear it will go cold again.”
Mo Ran’s hold of Chu Wanning tightens by a fraction. Then his hand moves from his chest to his shoulder, down his arm, and gently onto the hand over Mo Ran’s own chest, holding it like it is made of glass. Of his own volition, Chu Wanning cups the side of Mo Ran’s cheek, his thumb following the bottom curve of his eye, and Mo Ran leans into the touch as if it beckons him. A soft kiss meets his palm.
“It won’t,” Mo Ran says, hinting it as a vow. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
They are not immortal. Promises of life can’t be made and maintained. So this second lifetime—this third try of charm—they try to live in the moment. Between the two of them, the past is not dwelled on for long, nor is the distant future where their timeline cuts short. They dwell on the now. The now , for all the snow outside and the breeze inside, is not cold. The now is warm and alive.
Mo Ran draws Chu Wanning’s hand away from his cheek and holds it in front of him, now taking his time to trace all the lines on Chu Wanning’s palm.
There are scars here too.
By now, Chu Wanning and Mo Ran know each other’s bodies like they know their own. There are no mysteries, though sometimes there are new discoveries, and the barriers that used to conceal have been dismantled by the most trustworthy hands of time.
Chu Wanning still has trouble accepting he is beautiful in his own right. A mirror cannot be looked at for too long without a self-deprecating thought bubbling and the discolored scars on his body have been labeled a tarnish.
Despite all of this, he accepts the sacrifice they represent. The scar on his chest was to prove he wants to help the people less fortunate, who he unknowingly connected Mo Ran to. The scars on his hands are from the stairs he trekked overnight, Mo Ran on his back, skin ripped and bleeding from all his weak crawling. Though they are more scars in number on his hand, they pale in comparison to the ages-old cut on Chu Wanning’s chest.
Mo Ran compares his hand against Chu Wanning’s. It’s bigger, as expected, and tanner and not as slim. Chu Wanning has slender, long fingers while Mo Ran’s are more defined by muscle. There are no similarities between them unless one pays attention.
“We match here too,” Mo Ran notes.
The scars on Mo Ran’s hands go back to his childhood. They’ve stretched with time and growth, looking more minuscule on his hand so they blend with his natural palm lines, but they’re there nonetheless. Chu Wanning recalls why they exist much as he does with all of Mo Ran’s memories, a lifetime seeped into his soul.
The knives he broke as a child for a little bit of money scar Mo Ran’s hands. One knife, two knives, three and more until his hands were crimson and the copper coins stung against his cuts. His own pain put on display for the sick entertainment of the wealthy all so he could buy his mother some medicine.
And so, while he knows these scars are equally as beautiful, Chu Wanning doesn’t like what they represent either. Each scar is a sign of Mo Ran enduring pain out of the goodness of his heart and he should have never had to go through that. Love bled out here too.
“Wanning,” Mo Ran says softly, reverently, as he takes hold of Chu Wanning’s hand once again. He speaks against his fingers, “I’m with you till the end.”
Then he plants a kiss on every finger of Chu Wanning’s hand, on the knuckles and in between, over the lines of his scars and palms, softly atop his inner wrist, and Chu Wanning is reminded that though their love has been spilled out from their scars, that’s also where it has been patched and healed.
Mo Ran nuzzles his hand one last time and lets it go.
Chu Wanning eyes the scars on Mo Ran’s hand and chest once again.
It’s time he lets go of the hate he has for them. It’s time he sees them in a new light, even in the frostiness of winter, and learn to love them as he does the rest of Mo Ran. These scars are love, twisted meaning or not, and this love has survived heavenly rifts, punctures, floods, life and death.
This is growth, Chu Wanning tells himself, without argument, in regards to Mo Ran and a bit to himself.
Steadily, like the way a snowflake drifts from cloud to ground, Chu Wanning traces the scar on Mo Ran’s chest again.
This is growth, and it matches my own.
The past is in the past, but if there’s one thing Chu Wanning will hold dear from it, it’s the way their love was condensed into their fingertips. All the hiding, all the pretending—it was painful to keep a love so strong from the rest of the world, but they had the intimate touches passed between their hands. They had the careful grip and worried eyes, they had the held hands underneath garments of robes, they had their love at their fingers when they couldn’t have it shown on their heart.
Chu Wanning traces the scar with love at his fingertips, kisses the life it radiates, and then the wind blows out the fire, but all remains warm.