The Truth That Lies (WangXian Modern AU)

Extra Chapter

Bringing his weight down to his hands, hovering over the pale body he loved, Xian smiles. "You're drunk, you know."

Wangji vaguely hums, for, he felt he wasn't, but also he was; drunk on different things, that is. On things like how Xian's ribs rise and his sides stretch when he pulls his shirt up.

Xian frees his neck, an arm, before he could free the other, he's pulled down to a consuming kiss, crushing his weight on Wangji; a strong grip at the back of his neck and a push on his side to be flipped around—but his mind decides to ponder on a thought he had for a while.

"Wait—let me," Xian gasps, the push and the pull getting him on the verge of losing the sense of what is going on, but at the same time, hung on a curiosity of what it'd be like if it changes.

That makes him take his lips down to Wangji's neck, to his abdomen, to his hairline—Wangji lets out a broken hum, sometimes a hasty exhale, all of that, and the act he was doing pools the fires in body southwards.

Guess that itself was an answer, but when he sits up, heart-thumping the strange combination of nerves and anxiety and excitement, asks says, "Can I? Today?"

Wangji pauses and then realizes what he asked.

There were times Xian tolls him about the time they spent separated; about things he regrets doing. As if he wanted someone to confess to; someone to redeem him. Wangji's business brain, the tactical part of him sometimes spotted differences between what Xian used to be and what they'd settled for. Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if Xian's sexual identity bugged him.

It seemed he was right.

Wangji feels his jaws set, but hums, softly, in approval.

Xian's eyes turn doubtful; doubtful of himself. "You can say no, you know," he offers, with a nervous smile.

"It's fine," Wangji assures, one hand reaching up to caress the side of Xian's face, who looked nervous; unable to figure out how he should proceed. Because with Wangji, this was all new to him.

Biting his lip with the building uncertainty, Xian decides to kiss Wangji—at least that much was familiar. At least the paths his hands followed were familiar. At least, Wangji liked this much, Xian could feel it from his responses beneath.

Xian's hands weren't steady enough to reach for the nightstand drawer without breaking the kiss in the way Wangji does. His cold hands, the heart that's trying to beat out of his ribcage, his clumsiness—all remind Xian of the very first time they held each other, and feels blood rush into his face.

Wangji found all of that endearing. If someone asked him what he liked about Xian, it'd be a very difficult question to answer. But if he's forced to choose one thing, it would be how hard Xian tries. Unknowingly, sometimes.

When the cold liquid slides between his thighs, Wangji closes his eyes. Feeling the lips on his knees, the fingers sliding down and down his thighs; he braces himself.

But instead, what he feels is the crushing weight of Xian's body against his torso. His head on Wangji's shoulder, laughing with no humor. "Ah, fuck." Only then does Wangji open his eyes.

"Wei Ying?" Wangji's embrace comes instinctively.

"I don't think I can make you feel good," he mumbles with a sigh-like chuckle. "Never the way you do."

"You can please yourself."

Xian shakes his head and sits up. "I don't think I like this." He had this look, lips pursed in a dishonest smile, eyes wide lying he's trying to force them to shine; as if he wants to pass this without any seriousness. But also like someone who just swallowed a heavy gulp of self-acceptance, like someone who had his eyes opened.