They had a routine. It went like this:

Sunrise: the two basked in its warm light. Bare bodies laid across red silken sheets, Xie Lian in Hua Cheng’s arms or vice versa. They lazed around for the early hours of the morning, whispering nonsense and taking joy in the simplicity and beauty of each other’s presence. Xie Lian would play with Hua Cheng’s long, pretty black-ink hair and Hua Cheng would caress and memorize every faint freckle on his skin. Then, when Xie Lian got hungry (he always did), they’d cook breakfast together. More often than not, it would end up burnt or not quite right because of Xie Lian’s mediocre cooking skills but also because they simply can’t keep their hands off of each other. Soft, lingering kisses and tender, wandering caresses would interrupt the two, and they would be quickly overcome by the other. It was a beautiful, wonderful thing, Xie Lian thought, to be able to be so utterly lost in someone. Everything else went away and it was his San Lang, gorgeous and regal and gentle.

After breakfast: depending on what they had to do that day, they either went on a walk through the many gardens of Ghost City or travelled to answer prayers. When neither of them weren’t quite up to activity, they went back to bed and cuddled. Xie Lian almost always dozed off again — sleep was the warmest and easiest with a full, happy belly and his husband’s arms surrounding him. Then, after that, they either visited the Gambling Den or the Cave of Ten Thousand Gods. Xie Lian wasn’t vain; he just loved to praise his beloved’s artwork (much to Hua Cheng’s chagrin.)

Then came worshipping hour.

Xie Lian sat at a small wooden table, scrolls and books and smudges of ink everywhere. Xie Lian was making calligraphy practice books for his beloved, while his beloved in question was knelt at his feet beneath the table. Hua Cheng’s face was buried in his thigh, his breathing slow and his eye closed.