Xi Yu thought to himself—this is probably how this man handles a blade too. Clean and decisive, without a moment’s hesitation. But when lightness was needed, he could be so gentle that not even a single strand of hair would break.
“Don’t move,” Que Zhi said.
“I’m not moving.”
“Your shoulders are tense.”
Only then did Xi Yu realize his shoulders were indeed very tense.
In the cold palace, he wasn’t used to being touched—and no one ever touched him.
Xi Yu took a deep breath, slowly let his shoulders relax, and leaned his back ever so slightly against him—not much, but Que Zhi’s knee felt the weight of that lean frame. It was impossibly light.
The hair was untangled.
Que Zhi wrapped the cloth tie around twice and tied a knot—neither too tight nor too loose, just enough to hold without pulling at the scalp.
He let go but didn’t stand up immediately. He looked down at a few loose strands wrapped around his fingers—too short to be tied back, lying softly in the hollow of Xi Yu’s nape. On the skin there was a faint red mark left by his fingertips brushing past—like a light kiss from the Gobi’s wind and sand.
He tucked the stray hair behind Xi Yu’s ear, then stood up.
“Done,” he said.
Xi Yu reached back to feel the knot—it was secure, comfortable, far better than anything he’d ever managed himself. He lowered his hand and turned to look up at Que Zhi.
With his hair loose, his face looked even smaller. When those peach-blossom eyes looked up from below, the corners tilted more sharply—seductive in shape, yet utterly unselfconscious in gaze. It was the kind of ease that said “I know it’s lovely but I don’t care,” touched with a rare, childlike satisfaction: “You’re good at this, aren’t you?”
“During campaigns,” Que Zhi looked away, “I taught myself.”
“Then you can comb it for me from now on.”
Que Zhi’s movement as he turned paused for a moment. He glanced back, as if trying to determine whether that was a joke or serious. The person before him seemed utterly unaware of how stirring those words were.
Xi Yu had already looked down to tidy his blanket, as if the words had been spoken casually, as if it were only natural—but the tips of his ears, as he bent his head, were stained the color of sunset, indistinguishable from the lingering glow on the horizon.
Que Zhi didn’t answer. He walked back to the stone fire pit, crouched down, and continued stacking stones.
If anyone had been watching, they’d have noticed he built three fire pits. Only one was needed.
Stacked, dismantled, stacked again, dismantled again. He stood, brushed the sand from his knees, took two steps, then turned back. From his pack, he pulled out a comb. Wooden, with fine teeth—unused. He’d bought it at a general store in town before they left. At the time, the purchase had made no sense. Now, handing it over felt perfectly natural.
He walked up to Xi Yu and placed the comb in his palm, his voice lower than usual—as if afraid of disturbing something: “Use this tomorrow. Don’t use the cloth tie anymore—it tangles.”
Xi Yu looked down at the comb in his hand for a long time. It was new, with no signs of use—but the teeth had been carefully smoothed. Someone had taken a rough thumb and rounded off every sharp edge of every tooth before offering it to him.
He looked up—Que Zhi had already returned to the fire, crouching there to start it. The flickering flames cast shifting light across his face, revealing nothing.
But Xi Yu noticed that when he struck the flint, his first strike went wide—sparks landing on the web of his thumb. He didn’t flinch.
Xi Yu watched for a few breaths, then the corner of his mouth curved up.
“Que Zhi,” he called.
“Mm.”
“I want to wash my feet.”
Que Zhi looked up.
Xi Yu sat on his blanket, back to his usual leisurely composure, hair neatly tied behind him. He held the wooden comb in one hand, the other braced against the blanket, chin lifted slightly, those peach-blossom eyes fixed on him with utter self-assurance.
This man had been wrestling with a hair tie just moments ago, and now he was bold enough to order him around.
“The waterskin is by the camel,” Que Zhi said.
“I can’t carry it,” Xi Yu said without batting an eye.
Que Zhi looked at him. He looked back at Que Zhi. After a few breaths, Que Zhi stood up, walked to the camel, and brought back a waterskin. Xi Yu had already rolled his pant legs up past his knees, revealing two pale, slender calves—ankles delicate, ankle bones prominent, the skin on the tops of his feet so thin that faint blue veins were visible.
Xi Yu stretched his feet out, waiting, toes tilted slightly upward, curling once in the cool evening breeze. “Pour.”
Que Zhi pulled out the stopper and crouched in front of him. The waterskin tilted, and a thin stream of cool water poured over the top of Xi Yu’s foot.
Xi Yu gasped at the cold, his toes curling sharply as he reflexively pulled back. Then he slowly flattened his foot again—once the chill passed, the relief made his instep tense, toes spreading as he lightly flicked the water droplets off, splattering Que Zhi’s pant leg. He noticed but pretended not to.
“Feel better?” Que Zhi asked.
“Feel better.” Xi Yu blinked at him.
Que Zhi said nothing. He watched Xi Yu let his feet air-dry, watched him bend down and pull a clean pair of socks from his pack—one patched, but washed clean and folded neatly. He pulled them on, laced up his boots, stood and stamped his feet, nodded with satisfaction, then looked up at Que Zhi.
Xi Yu said, “Hungry.”
Que Zhi thought he must be out of his mind.
Because upon hearing that single word, his first reaction was to turn and reach for the dried provisions.
He figured he must owe this person something. From the very first glance at the inn entrance, he’d been in debt.
He brought out the dried provisions and jerky, broke off two pieces of flatbread and toasted them by the fire, and even dug out a small packet of raisins from the depths of his pack.
Xi Yu took them, took a bite, and his eyes lit up.
He said nothing else—but with his second bite, he pushed the raisins toward Que Zhi.
This was the first time since they’d set out that he’d shared food with Que Zhi. Even though the raisins were Que Zhi’s to begin with.
Que Zhi looked at the packet pushed to the middle of the fire pit, picked up one raisin, and put it in his mouth.
Very sweet.
That night, Xi Yu lay wrapped in his blanket by the fire, turning the wooden comb over and over in his hands. On the back of the comb was a faint carved line—the same Western Regions script as the one on the dagger’s leather sheath. He turned on his side and, by the firelight, looked at Que Zhi across from him with his eyes closed—still the same as ever, curved knife on his knee, back not fully leaning against the dune, never entirely relaxed even in sleep.
Xi Yu watched for a while, then said softly, “Que Zhi, I want to wash again tomorrow.”
A two-second pause from the other side, then a low voice came back: “All right.”
Xi Yu turned over in his blanket and buried his face into its edge.
Normally he slept on his back, hands folded over his stomach—a proper posture honed in the cold palace, never sleeping too deeply, always ready to wake.
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