Xiyu’s hair had grown longer again.
He couldn’t quite say when he’d first noticed it.
Probably it was one morning when Que Zhi was combing his hair—the wooden teeth traveled from root to tip, and it took several whole breaths before they reached the end.
He pulled his hair forward over his shoulder and looked down at the ends—it was already past his waist. Another stretch and it would brush against the mattress of the low couch.
The morning light streaming through the window lattice fell right on that lock of hair, casting the dark strands in a faint amber glow—the exact same shade as the natural thin flush at the corners of his eyes.
“Que Zhi,”
Xiyu sat cross-legged on the low couch and handed the comb back over his shoulder, “My hair’s too long. Should I cut some off?”
Que Zhi took the comb and stood behind him, gathering his hair into his palm.
Morning light seeped through the carved wooden door panels, falling directly on the pale stretch of skin at the nape of Xiyu’s neck—his hair fell just low enough to cover that tiny, faint mole beneath.
The dark tresses shimmered with a soft, healthy luster.
He ran the comb slowly from root to tip, his movements unhurried—as if afraid of breaking even a single strand, or perhaps as if he were simply savoring the act itself.
“No need to cut it. I like it this way.”
“It takes more water to wash.”
“I’ll draw the water and wash it for you.”
“It takes time to comb.”
“I’ll comb it for you.”
Xiyu tilted his head, his peach blossom eyes slanting up at him from over his shoulder—that thin flush at the corners of his eyes stretched into a shallow, teasing arc in the morning light.
“Then you’ll have to spend an extra quarter-hour every morning just combing my hair. Don’t you dare get tired of it.”
“Never.”
Que Zhi tucked the stray strands behind his ear, bent down, and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head.
“A lifetime of combing it, and I still wouldn’t tire of it.”
Xiyu turned his head back around and quietly straightened his back.
He noticed that Que Zhi’s combing technique had improved more than a little since they’d first been together—back then, when the comb hit a tangle, it would catch.
Que Zhi would move with extreme caution—too light and the tangle wouldn’t budge, too heavy and he’d worry about hurting him. Every time he encountered a knot, he’d stop and ask if it hurt.
But now it was different.
His fingertips would always find the tangled spot a step ahead of the comb. Before the teeth could catch, his fingers would already be working the knot apart, slowly and carefully teasing the strands loose.
Once the hair was smooth again, the comb would follow unhurriedly, gliding all the way through in one clean stroke—no tugging, no pulling, no pain at all.
The first time he’d combed Xiyu’s hair out on the Gobi, his thumb had fumbled awkwardly behind his ear—those hands, used to gripping hammers and curved sabers, had been afraid to close, terrified of pulling too hard.
Now his pressure was just right—firm enough for the comb teeth to glide across the scalp, light enough not to press or drag.
This wasn’t natural skill—it was practice. Once every morning, for the better part of a year. He knew Xiyu’s hair better than Xiyu himself did.
Xiyu assumed it was simply that Que Zhi’s technique had grown more polished and refined.
But there was another reason too—Xiyu’s hair, cared for so meticulously day after day, had grown softer, blacker, glossier, and fuller than ever before. It simply didn’t tangle easily anymore.
“You’ve spoiled me,”
Xiyu rested his chin on his knees, his voice a little muffled.
“Before, I’d comb my own hair in a dozen strokes—if I broke a few strands on a tangle, I didn’t care. Now you comb it, and you always take so many strokes. I can feel it if even one is missing. I don’t even know how to comb my own hair anymore.”
“Then don’t. I’ll comb it for you every morning from now on.”
Que Zhi wove the last loose strand at his left temple into the side braid, then reached for the turquoise bead on the small table to fasten at the end of the braid. He paused, then put it back and chose a different one instead—
It was a piece Helü Xiong had picked up at the hunting grounds yesterday, a small chunk of peacock-green stone washed out from the new riverbed, smoothed and rounded just enough to use.
Que Zhi fastened the new turquoise to the end of the braid and tucked the old one into the hidden pocket at his waist, telling him to keep it.
Xiyu looked down at the new ornament hanging by his shoulder.
The turquoise wasn’t large, but its color was vivid—catching the morning light and glowing like a fragment of spring itself, polished by a thousand washes of river water.
The corner of his mouth curved up slightly, but he let out a deliberate hum of dissatisfaction.
He flipped the side braid over his shoulder, stood up, and walked to the bronze mirror, turning left and right to examine himself, then commented with practiced pickiness:
“This bun is looser than yesterday’s. Won’t it fall apart when I ride?”
“It won’t. I used a triple knot this morning—one more wrap than yesterday.”
Que Zhi stood up and came to stand behind him. The bronze mirror reflected the two of them side by side.
Xiyu turned around and looked up at him, that expectant, utterly entitled glint in his peach blossom eyes undiminished.
Suddenly, he reached up and hooked his fingers around the leather cord that Que Zhi hadn’t yet tucked into his silver belt—along with his wrist guard—and pulled him a step closer. He rested his chin against Que Zhi’s chest and tilted his head up: “Then from now on, after every combing, there has to be one more thing—before it was a kiss on the forehead. Today, let’s change it to something else.”
Xiyu rose on his tiptoes and gave him a light peck on the lips.
Not the forehead, not the temple—the lips.
The pressure was light, and it didn’t last long, but it was enough to make the bronze mirror reflect the slight pause in Que Zhi’s expression, followed by the slow crinkle of his eyes.
This had become a new rule he’d been shamelessly enforcing ever since he’d learned how to kiss—a kiss after every combing, a kiss after getting dressed, a kiss before leaving, and a kiss as the first thing upon returning.
Que Zhi indulged him completely, and sometimes he’d break the rules too—one kiss wasn’t enough, he’d ask for two, three…
Until Xiyu couldn’t take it anymore and pushed him away.
This time, as always, Que Zhi broke the rules.
He lowered his head, turned Xiyu by the shoulders, pulled him into his arms, bent down, and kissed him on the lips again.
Not because he’d been pulled in—he’d leaned in himself.
This time it was no longer a light peck, but a tender, slightly restrained deep kiss—the tip of his tongue gently pressing against the center of Xiyu’s lips.
His pressure was like the way he’d wring out Xiyu’s soaked heavy cloak by the stream—
Not loose, not forceful,
Just patiently gathering, then slowly releasing.
The silver belt was still unfastened, and the wrist guard brushed against the buckle with a faint rasp of leather.
Xiyu tried to push him away, but was coaxed into staying,
His body had gone soft, lacking strength—half-resisting, half-yielding, unable to break free at all.
Que Zhi smoothly wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him steady in his embrace, his nose brushing against Xiyu’s flushed ear. His voice was low, rough, and impossibly tender, laced with coaxing:
“Good A’yu, just a little longer.”
With those words, he slowly bent down again and pressed his lips to Xiyu’s glossy, rosy mouth.
Xiyu’s pushing hands gradually lost their strength, his lashes trembling slightly. In the end, he let himself be gently coaxed, surrendering to the lingering kiss.
Soft, broken little whimpers escaped his throat.
His lashes fluttered ceaselessly, his whole body melting limply into Que Zhi’s arms, the tips of his ears flushing a delicate pink.
A long while later…
They pulled apart. Xiyu’s lips, already moist and rosy, had been kissed so tenderly and thoroughly that they now gleamed an even deeper, more vivid red, glistening with a dewy sheen.
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