The snowman wasn’t tall—only up to Xi Yu’s knees—plump and round, with a head even bigger than its body.
Xi Yu stepped back two paces to look at it, then pulled out that box of rouge from his sleeve, picked up a tiny bit with his nail, and gently dabbed it onto the snowman’s cheeks.
Only then did Xi Yu turn around, his entire face luminous against the snowy brightness, those peach-blossom eyes shimmering like stars soaked in melted snow.
His eyes curved, carrying a hint of eager, excited anticipation as he looked at Que Zhi before him and asked softly, “Does it look like me?”
Que Zhi stood rooted in place, tall and straight, his gaze resting heavily on him.
Tenderness had long since rippled through his eyes—he’d clearly spotted the resemblance at once, yet deliberately slowed his voice and asked, knowing full well: “Like who?”
Xi Yu puffed out his cheeks slightly at that, his brows carrying a hint of petulant reproach, his voice soft and crisp with a touch of rightful little pride: “It’s me!”
The snowy breeze lightly brushed through his hair, scattering a few fine flakes onto his shoulders.
He stood in that expanse of pure white, his features delicate and striking, his cheeks still flushed with a faint rosiness that mirrored the rouge on the snowman’s face—so soft it made one’s heart tremble.
Que Zhi gazed at his vivid, lively form, adoration surging in his eyes. He stepped closer, one slow step at a time, his gaze drifting between Xi Yu and the snowman, a low, husky laugh escaping him, his eyes brimming with undisguised favoritism.
Xi Yu sat down beside Que Zhi on the stone bench, his shoulder leaning against Que Zhi’s arm. The snow was still falling, landing on their hair and shoulders, and neither of them brushed it off.
“Out on the grasslands, when the snow falls too heavily, your boots sink all the way in.”
“Today I didn’t just leave footprints—I built a snowman. And not just built one—I gave it blush too.”
Xi Yu’s voice was very soft—not coquettish, not affected—as if telling him a truth he’d just come to understand.
He drew a thin line with his rouge-stained fingertip across the old scar on Que Zhi’s hand, at the base of his thumb.
Then he stood up, brushed the remaining snow off his hands, looked at the crooked snowman, and gave his satisfied verdict: it was a bit ugly, but its face was round—just like him.
Que Zhi said then they should build another one that looked like himself, right beside it.
The two of them continued rolling snowballs in the snow piled against the courtyard wall.
Under the palace lanterns, the two newly built snowmen stood side by side against the old poplar trunk—the shorter one had half a dry branch and a few wilted leaves stuck on its head, while the taller one had two brow-like lines pressed into its “face” with fallen twigs, and a turquoise bead embedded in its chest.
When the old Khan passed by the courtyard that afternoon and saw these two snowmen, he paused for a step and asked the attendant beside him who had built them.
The attendant said it was the young master and the young lord—they built one, then another. At first they were still building, but later they started chasing each other in a snowball fight, running all over the courtyard. The snow on the stone well rim had nearly been cleared out by the two of them.
(PS: Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to call Xi Yu either—”Madame” didn’t feel quite right, so I decided to go with “young lord”!)
The old Khan looked at the two snowmen standing close together, laughed, and shook his head, saying even the wrist guards were stuffed with snow—his craftsmanship back in the day was better than that.
The head cook from the kitchen brought in some butter tea midway and was invited by Xi Yu to sit on the stone bench for a bowl. After finishing, he studied the two snowmen, pointed at the base of the one Que Zhi had built, and asked who made that one—not bad craftsmanship, didn’t look like a first try.
Then he asked whether they wanted to set up a shelter in the courtyard for grilling meat at noon—grilling on a snowy day smelled even better than on a clear day.
“Yes, let’s do that!” Xi Yu waved his arms excitedly.
Que Zhi got up and went to the kitchen for charcoal.
The old cook brought out a fresh plate of butter pastries and set them on the stone table, watching as one of them stuck dry branches onto a snowman’s head and the other moved the brazier to the leeward side of the courtyard wall. He suddenly felt that this year’s snow wasn’t quite as cold as in years past.
By afternoon, the snow had gradually stopped. Following the old cook’s suggestion, the kitchen set up a grill in the sheltered part of the courtyard.
Helü Tao, Batu, and the old cook were all called over to join the meal. They gathered around the charcoal fire, skewering mutton—the meat was winter lamb sent by the Helü tribe a few days ago, marbled with fat and sizzling as it roasted.
Xi Yu handed the first skewer of grilled meat to the old cook, saying it was to thank him for coming to try it—he’d put in effort building the snowman today.
Helü Tao complained that he’d grilled it too long. Without changing expression, Xi Yu handed him the second skewer and told him to demonstrate how it should be done.
Batu had brought Halebala along from the sheepfold. Halebala refused to step in the snow, but Batu dragged him over to the stone bench anyway, where the sheep rubbed against Xi Yu’s boot tops and let out several bleats.
Then it trampled a crooked trail of hoofprints across the snow, the prints overlapping beside the earlier footprints, like adding tiny floral petals to the dry branches and leaves on the snowman’s head.
By evening, Helü Xiong had also wandered over.
He stood at the courtyard gate, looking at the two snowmen surrounded by sheep hoofprints, and let out an exaggerated exclamation:
“This craftsmanship won’t do—one has a crooked neck, the other’s wrist guards are way too big.”
Helü Xiong pointed at Que Zhi and said to Xi Yu:
“The snowmen he built as a kid at least looked like people. This one today looks like a potato. No—like two potatoes.”
Then he came into the yard, sat down, and grilled a batch of mutton skewers himself, sprinkling spices over the sizzling fat as he cooked, the aroma wafting through the entire courtyard.
As night deepened, the old cook finished grilling the last few skewers, contentedly picked up his empty earthenware pot, and headed back to the kitchen.
Batu and Helü Tao helped move the brazier under the eaves to keep a bit of warmth. The piebald horse was tied just outside the gate, its hooves having left several deep prints in the snow.
Xi Yu stood before the two snowmen, studying them under the palace lantern light for a long time. He noticed that a small corner was missing from the turquoise bead embedded at noon.
He found another small turquoise stone and set it in place. Stepping back, he saw that the turquoise on the snowman’s chest now matched the one on Que Zhi’s knife handle perfectly, catching the warm lantern light and gleaming faintly in the night snow.
After everyone had left the courtyard, Xi Yu still crouched in the snow, reluctant to go inside.
He added another small pine branch to the snowman as a finger, then stood up and turned to look for Que Zhi. He found him right behind, sweeping scattered pine needles from beside the brazier into a dustpan and piling them in the corner.
He walked over and tucked his frozen-red fingers into Que Zhi’s palm, exhaling a puff of white breath.
Que Zhi turned that cold hand over, breathed warm air onto the base of his thumb, then wrapped both hands around Xi Yu’s, rubbing them repeatedly. He bent down and gave his knuckles a light peck.
“This makes up for this morning—I forgot to do it when we were building the snowman.”
Xi Yu tilted his face up, extended his other hand from under his thick cloak, looped it around Que Zhi’s neck, stood on his tiptoes, and kissed the rest of his words away.
The kiss was cold at first—their lips still dusted with snowflakes—but gradually warmed as their breath mingled in white puffs, impossible to tell whose was whose.
“Tomorrow again. Winter’s still long anyway.”
He buried his face in Que Zhi’s chest, standing in the snow for a long time.
Until the sheep hoofprints beside the snowman were covered by freshly fallen snow.
Until the candle flame in the palace lantern flickered again and again. Only then did they walk hand in hand back under the eaves, their footprints side by side, pressed into the snow.
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