Zitao is reminded constantly of how fragile Junmyeon is, how easily flowers can wilt, and when water freezes into ice, it is only natural that it cracks.

Now it is Zitao’s turn. His pretty fingers trace Junmyeon’s face, caress the wilted petals of the flowers as they cripple and close in the cold, and his heart aches. He does not like this. Junmyeon is so pretty — even when he cries and hides — but he is so much prettier when he can flourish.

“They’re wilting.” Zitao says softly, voice melodic and soothing, and Junmyeon presses his face against Zitao’s collar bones and smiles against the skin, despite the sadness in his eyes and on his cheeks.

“Sorry.” He offers weakly. He cannot help it.

Sometimes Zitao gets lost, and Junmyeon follows him.

Sometimes Junmyeon gets cold, and Zitao warms him.

this one is weird

liberally interpreted mama au, very vaguely implied sutaoris