[NieYao] Empathy Extra - Washing Feet
Jin GuangYao washes Nie MingJue’s feet
Takes place in an AU where NMJ and JGY shared memories via Empathy in the coffin, then time-travelled back to their younger bodies. (NMJ first, JGY much later.) You do not have to read the main fic to enjoy this scene but it gives some buildup to this relationship.
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“You look tired, Sect Leader Nie. I’ll heat some water for your feet,” was what Jin GuangYao told him.
He was tired, and soaking his feet in hot water sounded nice, still he protested, “You’re not a servant. Don’t trouble yourself with trivialities.”
But Jin GuangYao simply shook his head and said, “it’s no trouble. Your comfort isn’t triviality,” before heading off to retrieve a basin full of hot water and a towel.
Jin GuangYao sets the basin of water before his feet.
“Thank you,” Nie MingJue says. He looks down at the water before him, and back at Jin Guangyao. Jin GuangYao makes no move to get up.
“I’ll help you with your shoes,” he says instead, at which point Nie MingJue finally catches up to what’s happening.
“No, I’ll do it myself,” Nie MingJue insists.
“Please, allow me.” Jin GuangYao looks back up right at him, expression neutral, insistent.
He has no choice but to concede.
Nie MingJue has the vague memories of his mother washing his feet for him, back when his feet were small enough to be held in her hand. She passed away before he was old enough to do the same for her.
He remembers the feet of his father, aged, calloused, odorous; of Meng Yao’s mother, small, misshapen with binding; of Qin Su, larger, yet delicate and almost odourless.
Much like Nie MingJue never got to wash the feet of his mother, Meng Yao never washed the feet of his own father.
Jin GuangYao is not exactly gentle when he yanks off his boots, though he’s capable of it. His motions are efficient and methodical, they always are around Nie MingJue. It saves him some embarrassment. Nie MingJue cannot claim his feet are odourless like Qin Su’s, and they don’t share the tenderness between husband and wife, or the filial piety between parent and child.
Carefully, Jin GuangYao removes his socks and sets it to the side, rolling it neatly together. If he minds the odour, he doesn’t show.
Nie MingJue lowers his feet into the water. The warmth feels comfortable against his sore feet, but he’s unsure whether he should relax with one foot in Jin GuangYao’s hands.
“Just relax, Sect Leader Nie, I know how to do this.” Jin GuangYao gives him a half smile.
Jin GuangYao’s hands press against his feet gently, rubbing away the dead skin and tension. His eyes are downcast. Nie MingJue can’t read his expression from this angle, he wonders if Jin GuangYao is giving his feet the single-minded focus he gives his work.
He looks so small like this. For a moment, things are simple (like they use to be at the very beginning), and they’re just two people who trust each other. Nie MingJue wants to give him the world.
It’s madness. It has to be.
“Meng Yao, look at me,” Nie MingJue says.
Their eyes meet. The rims of Meng Yao’s eyes are tinted red.
He bends down, and takes Meng Yao’s hand into his own, tracing the rise and dip of each knuckle. Meng Yao’s hands are rougher than they look, from work, from sword practice, a writer’s callous on the middle finger from holding the brush.
He doesn’t know how long has passed when Meng Yao tells him “The water must be getting cold.“
“Right,” Nie MingJue lets go of Meng Yao’s hand and bends down to pick up the towel.
“Let me.” Meng Yao gets to the towel before him, and lifts his feet from the water. He wipes the water from Nie MingJue’s feet in the same careful methodical motion, not too fast nor too slow.
“There, we’re done.” He folds the towel neatly next to the socks. “I’ll go pour this out,” he says with a hint of a smile and leans down to pick up the basin.
“Wait,” Nie MingJue says. He holds Meng Yao there by both shoulders. He should offer to return the favour. Briefly, he imagines himself kneeling before Jin GuangYao’s feet, the way the other man did just moments before. He imagine looking up at those dark eyes and the delicate features, the soft smile.
He can’t bring himself to say the words.
“It’s okay,” Meng Yao smiles, “this is something I wanted to do for you. Thank you for indulging me. I don’t expect you to return the favour.”
“Meng Yao,” he calls his name, for the lack of better words. He doesn’t let go.
Meng Yao regards him passively.
“Meng Yao.” He lets his forehead to rest upon Meng Yao’s shoulder. He can feel Meng Yao tense and relax. He can smell the faint scent of Meng Yao’s hair, feel it against his face, feel the fabric of worn linen.
“I’m here,” answers Meng Yao softly, putting his hand against the back of Nie MingJue’s head.
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