Liangzhou was not a large city. A single main street ran from the south gate to the north gate, lined with rammed-earth houses and wooden storefronts. Merchants displayed their goods directly along the roadside—bundles of furs, sacks of spices, stacks of flatbread, and baskets of dried apricots and figs.
The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed from deep within an alley, mingling with the jingle of camel bells, the shouts of vendors, and the shrieks of children chasing each other.
A few sheep were herded through the middle of the street, leaving behind a trail of droppings that an old broom-seller leisurely swept away. A dried-fruit vendor called out to him in broken Han Chinese: “Central Plains man? Try some—on the house!”
Xi Yu took the dried fig he offered, bit into it, and squinted with delight at its sweetness.
He held up the remaining half of the dried fig to Que Zhi’s lips and said, “It’s really sweet. Try it.”
Que Zhi looked down at the half-piece of dried fruit. He didn’t reach out to take it. Instead, he lowered his head slightly and took it gently between Xi Yu’s fingers.
His lips didn’t touch Xi Yu’s fingertips.
But his breath did—warm, carrying the dry, dusty scent of Liangzhou, lingering briefly beside Xi Yu’s tiger’s mouth.
Xi Yu withdrew his hand, turned, and continued walking, his pace unchanged. But he quietly curled the finger that had held the fruit into his sleeve, the tips of his ears slowly reddening.
He stopped again at a stall selling horse tack.
The stall hung with leather ropes, bridles, saddle pads, and several curved sabers—shorter than Que Zhi’s, with cheap colored stones set into their scabbards, meant for ordinary herders.
Tossed in the corner was a leather bracer—dark brown, the leather slightly worn from use, pressed with simple dark patterns along the edges. No gems, no inscriptions—but the stitching was fine and even.
He picked it up, turned it over in his hands a few times, pulled out a few copper coins to buy it, and tucked it into his sleeve along with the dried fruit.
—
That evening, Que Zhi found an inn near the city gate.
The Liangzhou inn was a step up from the border-town ones—rammed-earth walls but whitewashed, a well in the courtyard, and a poplar tree by the well whose shade covered half the yard.
The innkeeper was a Shuo man with high nose and deep-set eyes, who spoke a few simple phrases of Han Chinese. He gave them one room. This time, Xi Yu didn’t ask, “Why only one room?”
Xi Yu set his bundle on the bed by the window and pushed open the wooden window to look down.
Below was the main street. A few oil lamps hung in front of the shops, their warm orange glow dyeing the dirt road and the passing camels in soft tones.
Que Zhi came up with a kettle of hot water borrowed from downstairs. Pushing open the door, he saw Xi Yu leaning on the windowsill, half his body sticking out the window.
He walked over, closed the window halfway, and draped his own heavy cloak over Xi Yu’s shoulders.
The window frame rattled slightly in the evening breeze. On the distant city wall, the last sliver of sunset was slowly sinking into the tawny rammed earth. As dusk settled into his eyes, it melted into a faint, soft shimmer.
Que Zhi suddenly asked, “Are you happy?”
“Happy. I’m now a country bumpkin who’s been to the city too.”
Xi Yu closed the window, walked over, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
He pulled the leather bracer from his sleeve, took Que Zhi’s left hand, and slipped the bracer over his wrist.
The bracer fit perfectly over the old scar on Que Zhi’s tiger’s mouth. The dark brown leather contrasted against his bronze skin, and the subtle patterns along its edge caught the lamplight from the window—just right.
Que Zhi looked down at the new addition to his wrist, raised it, and turned it half a circle in the lamplight. He said nothing.
“What are you looking at?” Xi Yu adjusted the edge of the bracer, pushing it forward just enough to cover the widest part of the scar. “Picked it up on the road. Nothing special.”
His fingertips unconsciously traced the bracer as his ears grew warm. He forced his voice to sound casual and offhand, scrambling for an excuse: “First city in the Western Regions—makes sense to give something to the person who brought me in, right?” He’d bought it on purpose, but he insisted on being stubborn about it, awkward and clumsy, hiding all his care and delight behind a tough front.
“Makes sense.” Que Zhi wasn’t looking at him—he was still studying the bracer on his own wrist, his thumb tracing the embossed pattern along its edge in a light, slow motion, as if confirming it was really there.
Then he repeated, “Makes sense.”
When that word came from his mouth, Xi Yu always felt it carried an extra layer of meaning, but he didn’t press.
He just brushed a bit of dust off the bracer, rolled over, and lay flat.
Que Zhi was still gazing down at the bracer on his wrist, his fingertips gently stroking the fine leather.
He’d seen the boy buy it this afternoon—every detail clear in his mind.
His usually stern features relaxed without his realizing it, a faint, barely noticeable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A quiet, secret warmth spread through his chest—a small, hidden joy.
—
Tonight, there was no Gobi, no blizzard, no stone hut or pile of straw—just the inn’s rammed-earth walls and the rustle of poplar leaves in the night breeze, and the faint scent of leather warming against the skin beside him. Clean and fresh, like a newly tanned saddle on the grasslands.
In the middle of the night, Xi Yu woke thirsty.
The room was very quiet. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the wooden window, spilling across the floor, illuminating Que Zhi’s old boots by the bed.
They were placed side by side, just like last night—openings facing outward, neatly arranged within arm’s reach. His own boots were beside them, the soles brushed clean.
Just as Xi Yu was about to sit up, Que Zhi had already handed him the waterskin. He hadn’t been startled awake—he was already awake, eyes open in the darkness, as if he’d known Xi Yu would wake thirsty in the middle of the night, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
Xi Yu took the waterskin, drank two mouthfuls, and the cold water slid down his throat, washing away the dry Liangzhou night air.
He handed the waterskin back and said softly, “How did you know I needed water?”
Que Zhi set the waterskin by the head of the bed. “On the Gobi, you woke at this hour every night. You’d wake and reach for the waterskin. In the stone hut, it was the same.”
Xi Yu slowly lay back down, burying his face in the blanket. He hadn’t known he woke every night. He certainly hadn’t known someone had been keeping track of when.
He reached his hand out from under the blanket, letting it hang by the edge of the bed for a moment—then his fingertips brushed against the edge of Que Zhi’s new leather bracer. He didn’t pull away. He just left them there.
The moonlight fell on his fingers—pale, slender, nails trimmed short, resting against the dark brown leather like a small patch of fallen snow.
At first, Que Zhi’s wrist didn’t move. A long time passed—long enough that Xi Yu thought he’d fallen asleep—before his wrist turned over, very slowly, very gently, his palm facing upward, a hair’s breadth from Xi Yu’s fingertips. He didn’t close the distance. He just turned his hand over.
And so their hands remained there on the edge of the bed—Xi Yu’s fingertips resting against Que Zhi’s palm, neither closing their fingers around the other.
Outside the window, a camel caravan passed by on the night road. The bells jingled, sounding from one end of the street to the other, growing fainter and fainter.
Before the camel bells faded entirely, Xi Yu had fallen back asleep. This time, he didn’t pull his hand back.
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