Xi Yu was walking ahead, with Que Zhi close behind.
They were making their way back along the same path, not far below the snowline, when Xi Yu stepped down from a rock. As he landed, the sole of his boot brushed over a cluster of blue wildflowers growing in a crevice—their petals swaying gently among the gravel. He noticed them, paused, and crouched down to take a closer look. Just then, a dull thud came from behind him.
Xi Yu spun around.
Que Zhi was kneeling on one knee on the scree slope, his left hand braced against the ground, his right hand clutching his right calf. Dark red was seeping through his fingers.
His expression hadn’t changed, but fine beads of sweat had broken out at his temples. His jaw was clenched tight, and the old scar on his cheekbone stood out starkly against his pale skin.
About two or three inches above his knee, a sharp piece of gravel had torn through his pant leg, gouging a deep gash. The tip of the stone was still stained with blood.
“I’m fine,” Que Zhi said, releasing his grip on the wound to take a look. It wasn’t small, but fortunately it hadn’t reached the bone. He tore a strip from the hem of his robe, about to bandage it himself with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this countless times.
But Xi Yu had already scrambled over in three quick steps.
He pressed down on Que Zhi’s hand as he was tearing the cloth, then crouched down and carefully rolled up Que Zhi’s pant leg. The wound was exposed, still oozing blood, its edges dusted with stone powder.
Xi Yu pulled out a jar of ointment and clean strips of cloth from his pack—the leftover cloth from the sleeve he’d torn off his blue robe after the sandstorm, still kept in his pack.
He poured water from the waterskin over the wound, washing away the stone powder, then applied the ointment with careful precision, his fingertip circling inward from the wound’s edge—each loop grazing the border without crossing over it.
Xi Yu kept his head down, melted snow still clinging to his lashes. His fingers were steady as he wrapped the cloth strip around and around, finishing with a knot at the side of the leg—as neat and pretty as the one he’d tied on Que Zhi’s arm last time.
He crouched there for a moment, examining his handiwork, confirming there was no more bleeding, then looked up at Que Zhi. “Last time, you said you didn’t dodge because someone was behind you. I was walking in front of you just now—you didn’t have to take a flying rock for me. There was no one else on the mountain. Why didn’t you dodge?”
“You were ahead of me. If a rock came down, it would have hit me first.”
“So you didn’t dodge?”
“I didn’t.”
Xi Yu crouched there, his hand still resting on Que Zhi’s knee. His fingers were red from the cold, his knuckles pale from the effort of wrapping the bandage.
“You idiot!”
He looked at Que Zhi, his eyes rimmed red. He found this man utterly unreasonable—taking a hit for a stone that might not even have hit him.
And yet, he realized, this was the most unreasonable—and least in need of reason—thing he’d heard in all his eighteen years.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Que Zhi gazed at the red-rimmed eyes before him. He gently cupped Xi Yu’s face in both hands, all the fierce pride in his brows melting away, softening, shedding his sharp edges.
“I did it willingly.”
His gaze was slow and warm, carrying a tender, fitting reassurance. His voice was low and gentle, hoarse yet deeply soothing. He looked steadily at Xi Yu, deliberately softening his entire bearing, patiently comforting the person before him.
Xi Yu lowered his head. Something in his chest was expanding—aching and pleasant all at once, like a spring that had been blocked for too long, its stone finally moved aside.
He didn’t know what it was, but he knew—from the lamb bun at the inn gate, from the wooden comb handed to him at the oasis, from that back that had stood in front of him during the sandstorm—this man had been taking care of him in every way he could think of.
Not out of pity. Not out of compassion. Not out of charity. He took care of him—Xi Yu. Not because of who he was, but simply because he was him.
He pulled his hand back from Que Zhi’s knee, rolled up his one-sleeved blue robe and tucked it under Que Zhi’s arm as a support, then let Que Zhi lean on his shoulder as he stood up.
Xi Yu looked down at the two of them standing side by side on the scree slope, the cluster of blue wildflowers swaying gently in the wind at their feet, their shadows stretched long by the setting sun.
“I’ve never been taken care of before. I don’t really know what to say when someone takes care of me. That move of yours just now was clumsy. But I’ll remember it.” Then he turned his face away and helped him walk down the mountain.
….
Que Zhi said that after coming down the mountain, they would take another route into the grasslands.
“Another route?”
Xi Yu was crouched by a stream, washing his face. He looked up at the question, droplets of water still clinging to his chin. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing both forearms, flushed pink from the icy mountain spring water.
The sun was lovely today. The snow mountain behind them blazed with blinding white light, and the meadows at its foot were already turning green, dotted with wildflowers blooming with abandon—as if spring had made landfall early in this one small corner.
“The trade route.” Que Zhi sat on a rock by the stream, rewrapping the wound on his leg. He wrapped it tightly, pulling the cloth strips taut as if it weren’t his own leg.
Once he’d finished, he looked up at the long ridge stretching from the mountain’s base deep into the Gobi. “Tomorrow we’ll circle around to the south. There’s an old trade route that cuts through the mountain’s foothills without crossing the main peak. Faster than climbing over, and easier than the Gobi. There are relay stations along the way, pasturelands—once you cross the mountain, you’re in the grasslands.”
Xi Yu wrung out the cloth, came over and sat down beside him, draping the cloth over his knees.
He was still wearing that blue robe with only one sleeve—the other had been torn into strips now wrapped around Que Zhi’s leg. He glanced at the knot he’d tied on Que Zhi’s leg, saw that it hadn’t come loose and wasn’t bleeding through, and looked away with satisfaction.
“Why didn’t we take the trade route before?”
Xi Yu tilted his head slightly, a few strands of dark hair slipping loose to fall across his smooth forehead, waiting quietly for the other to answer.
“Detour. Cutting straight through the Gobi from the border town cuts the distance nearly in half. Just harder to travel.”
“Then why did we take the Gobi?”
“Didn’t you want to see the Gobi?” Que Zhi said. “You stood at the inn gate every day and watched the sunset. You weren’t looking at the town’s mud walls—you were looking toward the Gobi.”
Xi Yu opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He’d thought he’d hidden it well.
Thought that sitting at the inn gate each day and watching the street was just people-watching. Thought that staring at the sunset was just daydreaming.
But this man had noticed.
Noticed the direction of his gaze, and without a word, had taken him on a harder road.
All because he’d looked that way a few extra times at the inn gate.
“Is the trade route crowded?”
“Crowded. Caravans hauling silk and tea, weapon transports, tribute missions. Sometimes the whole road is clogged.”
“Then let’s take the trade route. I want to see the crowds. I’ve had enough sand after all those days in the Gobi.”
He rested his chin on his knees, his lashes lowering to fall upon Que Zhi’s bandaged calf, not moving away. Like some belated inspection, making sure the wound was still fine.
What he said and what he thought were two different things—it wasn’t that he’d had enough sand. It was this leg.
Que Zhi looked at him, a faint, lazy smile spreading across his lips. His brows lifted slightly, a glint of playful, indolent light flickering in his eyes. The smile was subtle, unshowy, yet it lent him an extra touch of gentleness—as if he’d seen right through some secret thought.
“What are you smiling at?”
Xi Yu’s gaze stilled, his head tilting slightly, his delicate, extraordinary features softening with a trace of innocent confusion.
Those warm, beautiful eyes fixed on Que Zhi, their gaze falling gently on his smiling face. His brows—as fine as distant mountains—drew together in a light frown, adding a touch of pitiful softness.
His bearing was refined and elegant, his skin white as jade, his exquisite features naturally stunning. His voice rang out, clear and sweet, gentle and pleasing—with a hint of delicate, curious inquiry layered into its soft tones. Beautiful—tender and sweet.
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