Lamplight seeped through the latticed gaps of the carved wooden door, casting a row of fine light spots on the bluestone floor—just like the night before, and the night before that.
What was different tonight was that he was carrying someone in his arms—drunk, who’d said he liked him, pecked him three times on the chin,
been kissed back, clutched his lapel and called him a bastard, and then fallen asleep against his chest.
Que Zhi laid him gently on the bed.
Xiyu’s head sank into the soft pillow, his silver hairpin askew, several strands of hair sticking to his cheeks, the hem of his vermilion robe bunched into a wrinkled mess.
Que Zhi pulled the silver pin out and placed it beside the pillow, brushed the stray hairs away from his face, and paused for a moment with his fingertip resting against Xiyu’s flushed cheek.
He turned and went to the courtyard to draw water.
The well water was icy cold. When he brought the bronze basin back, a few poplar leaves were still floating on the surface. He mixed it with warm water, wrung out a cloth, and wiped Xiyu’s face—
from forehead to brow bone to jaw, and finally gently wiped away the dried tear tracks beside that tear mole.
Then he removed his boots, loosened the cuffs of his robe, and pulled the thin blanket over him.
After doing all this, he sat by the low couch for a while, then stood up to head to the next room.
His hand was caught.
Not by the sleeve—by the hand. A cool hand, still carrying the sweet scent of fruit wine, reached out from under the thin blanket and caught his left pinky and ring finger.
He turned around. Xiyu’s eyes were still closed, his lashes trembling slightly, his lips parting. His voice was hoarse but clear—a far cry from the whining drunkard of moments ago: “Don’t go.”
He pulled Que Zhi’s hand to his cheek.
His whole body was burning hot from the alcohol, his cheeks scorching; craving the coolness, he pressed against it, rubbed a few times, and let out a aggrieved little mumble: “You’re cool. Feels nice.”
Que Zhi sat back down by the bedside.
He adjusted the angle of his caught hand to make it more comfortable for Xiyu, and used his other hand to brush the damp strands of hair from his forehead.
The flame in the bronze crane lamp flickered. Outside the window, the old poplar leaves rustled.
From the distant hunting grounds came the faint, fragmented strains of a long tune—some drunken herder still singing, the melody twisting through eighteen turns, the same one Xiyu had hummed in that Gobi stone house.
Xiyu’s fingers were still twined around his pinky, looser now, but still holding on.
“Bath—” he suddenly mumbled, eyes still closed. “Haven’t bathed yet. I smell like bonfire smoke. My hair too. I want to wash up, then sleep.”
Que Zhi looked at this little drunk who, even with his eyes closed, was still thinking about bathing. He was silent for a moment, then stood up to heat the water.
He had the attendants bring the wooden bathtub behind the folding screen, filled it with warm water, and tested the temperature with the back of his hand.
He laid a clean cloth over the wooden rack by the tub and folded Xiyu’s clean underrobe on the stool.
Only after everything was arranged did he help Xiyu up from the bed and walk him behind the screen.
Xiyu was as limp as if his bones had been removed, leaning entirely on him.
When they reached the tub, he pushed Que Zhi away, his words slurred but his resolve firm: “I’ll wash myself.”
Water splashed behind the screen.
After a long while, Xiyu’s muffled voice came through: “Done.”
He walked out in that clean underrobe, the collar tied crookedly, revealing a large expanse of pale skin, the hem tucked in unevenly—one side longer than the other.
His long hair hadn’t been dried in time; the ink-black strands hung wet, crystal droplets sliding from the tips, tracing the elegant curve of his neck down to the hollow of his collarbone,
soaking the fabric into a deep, darkened stain, spreading a faint, damp shadow—intimate and alluring.
Xiyu stood barefoot, his pale, slender feet lightly pressing against the cool bluestone floor. With each step, he left behind a faint, dark wet footprint on the stone—scattered and trailing, impossible to look away from.
His brows and eyes still carried the dazed, languid look of someone just roused from sleep. His damp hair made his complexion appear even more strikingly fair, his clothes disheveled, his hair dripping—an artless, careless appearance, yet every bit of disarray was an unconscious seduction.
He stood by the screen, looking at Que Zhi. His gaze was somewhat clearer than before, but his face still bore that drunken blankness, along with the flush rising from beneath his skin, steamed warm by the hot water.
Que Zhi looked up and saw this. His breath caught sharply, his Adam’s apple rolling involuntarily.
The other was simply standing there, utterly unaware of his own appearance—yet like a lingering warm breeze, carrying moisture and a fresh, clean scent, it struck straight into his heart, stirring his emotions until his composure nearly shattered. His gaze clung to that figure, every inch of his usual poise slipping away.
Xiyu reached out his hand toward Que Zhi.
Not the coy, sleeve-tugging kind of reach—but a certain, matter-of-fact one, as if his hand naturally belonged in Que Zhi’s palm.
“Dry my hair before I sleep.”
Que Zhi pulled him over to the low couch, draped a dry cloth over his head, and gently rubbed the moisture from the ends of his hair, then straightened his collar neatly.
Xiyu buried his face in the side of Que Zhi’s neck, the water from his hair soaking into his collar and against his Adam’s apple. His arm looped around his back, and he hung onto him entirely,
mumbling: “Que Zhi, I don’t want to sleep in an empty room tonight. Share your bed with me. Half for me. Okay?”
His voice was soft, laced with a childlike stubbornness, all his usual reserve cast aside.
Que Zhi’s body stiffened slightly, his Adam’s apple moving almost imperceptibly.
He looked down at the young man before him—drunken and dazed, looking up at him with eyes full of dependence. A surge of intense emotion roiled beneath his gaze, but he forced it down.
Que Zhi held back the tremor in his heart and didn’t answer. He simply stood up, settled Xiyu—still clinging to him—back onto the couch, pulled the thin blanket over him.
Then he walked to the other side of the bed.
The bedboard creaked softly as he lay down.
Que Zhi turned onto his side, facing Xiyu.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hold him—it wasn’t that he was unwilling. But he held a solemn restraint in his heart.
He wanted to wait. Wait until Xiyu was fully sober, until he was willing with all his heart, not just half-asleep and half-dependent, taking advantage of the wine’s haze to settle for less.
The wick of the bronze crane lamp had burned down to a stub. The room was dim, but moonlight streamed through the window lattice, falling exactly onto the center of the low couch.
The two lay face to face between the bedding and the moonlight. Xiyu’s lashes cast fine shadows in the silver glow, and the corner of his mouth still held the curve from when he’d said, “Share half with me from now on.”
Xiyu’s hand reached out from under the blanket and lightly rested on the back of Que Zhi’s hand, which lay between them on the bed. He said nothing more, just closed his eyes.
His breathing gradually steadied. He was asleep.
Que Zhi did not sleep.
He lay on his side on the low couch, facing him, watching the half of his face illuminated by moonlight.
At last, the bronze crane lamp burned through its final drop of oil and went out with a soft puff.
The room sank entirely into darkness. Only Que Zhi’s eyes remained open.
He reached out and brushed the stray hair from Xiyu’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear. The motion was so light—exactly the same as every time he’d adjusted his wind-tilted hat brim back on the Gobi. Only this time, as his fingertip withdrew, it brushed ever so gently against Xiyu’s sleeping, trembling lashes.
Then, in the darkness, he spoke very softly, as if answering the words Xiyu had said before falling asleep:
“From now on, I’ll share half with you. My bed, my courtyard, my curved blade and whetstone, my felt tent and royal banner. I’d give you all of it, if you want.”
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