Sunday Six

He nods, and the fingers resting over his move down towards his palm and then back up again without making contact, resting briefly at the joints etched in dark pink against the pallor of his skin. Mingjue’s hands are bigger than his, the palm broader and fingers longer, nails clipped shorter. His hand raises a scrambling beneath Xichen’s skin, in the softness between his fingers, the rivers of life flowing over his palm when Mingjue touches him there. It is not that Xichen has existed without affectionate touch. Even after his mother’s death there have been pats on the back and clasps on the arm and his hair tugged and ruffled, the rare shy hug from Wangji. It is not that it is rare for Mingjue to touch him: Nie furen had folded him into an embrace the first time they met after his mother’s death, and passed him over to Mingjue to be hugged.