The silver hairpin stayed in Xi Yu’s hair for the entire day.
From the market, back through the palace gates, through the corridors, past the shade of the old poplar tree in the courtyard, and all the way back to Que Zhi’s quarters.
It was only after dinner, when he fetched a bronze basin to wash his face, that he finally took it off and carefully set it on the small wooden table beside the low couch.
The turquoise at the pin’s head gleamed faintly under the bronze crane lamp, its hue matching the moonlight streaming in through the window.
Xi Yu sat on the edge of the low couch, polishing his dagger by the light of the bronze crane lamp. The Western Regions carvings on the leather sheath—the one he’d carried all the way from that small border town—had been worn smooth and glossy from his touch, taking on a mellow sheen.
He polished it meticulously—the blade, the spine, the guard, every crevice. He didn’t really need to. This dagger had never tasted blood. He’d carried it all this way without ever learning how to use it.
Que Zhi sat at the other end of the couch, changing the dressing on the old wound on his calf. The injury, first sustained on the snowy mountain, had scabbed over and split open repeatedly. Now it was finally covered with a thin, clean layer of new scar tissue, its edges neat, with a faint herbal scent seeping from the wound.
He bent down to wrap the bandage around his leg, but after two loops, he found the strip was too short. He turned it over in his hands, examining it from different angles, then rewrapped it from another direction and managed to tie a clumsy knot.
Finishing, he looked up—and both of them spoke at once.
“Why have you never asked me—”
“What?”
“Why I came from the Central Plains alone. Who I really am. Why I wore a hat at the inn entrance, why I was afraid of people seeing my face. You never asked a single question.”
Xi Yu slid the dagger back into its sheath and looked up, his peach-blossom eyes meeting Que Zhi’s squarely. The lamplight burned quietly in those eyes. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Curious.”
“Then why don’t you ask?”
“Because you told me—you were waiting for camels. The camels couldn’t travel. You headed west, sat outside the inn for days, and said you just wanted to see the Gobi.”
Que Zhi’s deep gaze settled on Xi Yu, his voice low and steady, carrying the restraint and depth of someone who had seen much of life.
He spoke slowly, each word settling heavily in his heart: “Every word you said—every single one—I remember them all.”
His eyes dimmed slightly as he looked at the gentle-featured person before him, his tone gaining a hint of patient tenderness: “But there’s so much more you haven’t said—things you’ve deliberately hidden away, unwilling to show.”
He raised his hand, his fingertips pausing in midair, ultimately not daring to touch. His voice was low and restrained: “I don’t ask—not because I don’t care, and not because I’m not paying attention.”
He paused, a layer of tender indulgence and unwavering patience spreading through his eyes: “I’m just waiting—waiting for the day you let go of all your reservations and are willing to slowly tell me everything you’ve kept hidden.”
Xi Yu’s hand, still gripping the dagger, froze. He’d assumed Que Zhi didn’t ask out of respect—or perhaps because it was a custom of the Shuo people not to pry into one’s past.
He hadn’t expected this reason. Not a lack of curiosity—but a belief that Xi Yu’s secrets were his own private possessions, to be shared only when he was ready, never to be rummaged through without permission.
Xi Yu set the dagger down, rose from the couch, and pulled out the wooden comb from his robe—the one Que Zhi had given him at the oasis—and began to comb his freshly washed, still-damp hair.
“Thank you, Que Zhi.”
Facing away from him, he left that pale, almost impossibly fair stretch of skin at the back of his neck exposed to Que Zhi’s view. His movements were slow, as if offering the man who never asked a silent promise: I’m not ready yet, but one day I’ll tell you everything.
Once his hair was combed, he tied it up with a cloth band himself, then turned around and looked down at the too-short strip of cloth on the couch and the barely-tied knot beneath it.
“Get a fresh bandage. The way you’ve tied that, it’ll come undone before morning.”
Xi Yu fetched a new roll of gauze from the cabinet. Que Zhi reached out to take it, but Xi Yu dodged his hand.
“I’ll do it. With your technique, your wound won’t heal for another half month.” Xi Yu’s brows were knit together, his small face slightly taut, a thin layer of irritation gathering at the corners of his eyes. His tone carried a mix of anger and tenderhearted worry.
Xi Yu untied the short strip of cloth, examined the wound, and blew on it gently—his breath soft as orchid fragrance—before carefully redressing it.
“If you keep being this careless with yourself, I’m not looking after you anymore.”
Xi Yu shook his little fist in front of Que Zhi’s face twice. “Do you hear me!”
Que Zhi’s body went rigid for a moment, the veins on the back of his hand standing out as he looked down at Xi Yu’s movements.
He remembered that slender figure crouching on the snowy mountain to bandage him. He remembered the same posture in Liangzhou when Xi Yu had slipped the bracer onto his wrist—sitting on the ground, Que Zhi’s leg and ragged strips of cloth spread across his knee, casual instructions slipping from his lips, lamplight glowing in his eyes.
“Alright. I’ll listen.”
“That’s more like it.” Xi Yu nodded in satisfaction.
The next morning, Que Zhi arrived carrying the clothes that had been custom-made the day before.
The moment the wooden chest opened, the garment lying on top—cut in the style of a Tibetan robe—came into view. Its base was a rich saffron-red brocade, trimmed with dark red gold-thread embroidery. The diagonal collar was embroidered with the Western Regions’ signature cloud-and-vine patterns, the tailoring sharp and precise, the fit just right. The craftsmanship was exquisite—rushed through the night, yet without a single rough edge.
“Take one set and go try it on.” He opened another smaller chest, revealing an array of ornamental accessories unique to the royal court, clearly meant to match the robes.
“If you run into any trouble, just call for me.”
With that, Que Zhi stepped out, pausing at the door as he closed it. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Alright.”
Alone in the room, Xi Yu picked a set at random and went behind the folding screen to change. The court robes were, after all, quite different from Central Plains attire, and it took him a moment of fiddling to figure them out.
He then took yesterday’s hairpin and casually swept up his dark tresses. Picking up a few hair ornaments, he found he wasn’t sure how to wear them, holding one up here and there, trying to figure it out.
Fingers pinning the small silver bell hairpiece, his brows curved into a soft, puzzled arc—endearingly innocent and charming. He raised his voice and called out toward the door: “Que Zhi! How do I wear this?”
Que Zhi heard him and immediately stepped forward, pushing the door open. The moment his gaze fell upon Xi Yu, his steps came to an abrupt halt.
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