“You know I like you too.”
His voice was pressed so low and soft, as if afraid of waking him, or as if bearing witness to himself.
Then in the darkness, he lowered his head and placed a kiss on Xiyu’s forehead.
This kiss was lighter than the one before the bonfire, and longer too. It carried no taste of fruit wine, no sweetness of raspberries—only the thinnest, cleanest layer of cool-night moisture.
His lips stayed pressed against his forehead for a long time, so long that the poplar leaves outside the window stopped their rustling, so long that the last long tune from the distant hunting grounds faded into the wind.
Then he lay back down, facing him, and closed his eyes.
Que Zhi didn’t sleep. He simply kept watch over his breathing, head to head with him, until the patch of moonlight on the window lattice slowly shifted across the pillow and mat.
Xiyu didn’t know he was awake.
Maybe he truly was drunk. Maybe he was just drunk enough to hear everything yet unable to open his eyes.
But after Que Zhi said those words, the hand he’d left outside the blanket moved on its own—curling in, and gently winding a few strands of Que Zhi’s hair, scattered across his pillow, around his knuckles.
—
Xiyu was woken by sunlight. Not the usual fine spots of light filtering through the window lattice, but a full expanse of bright daylight pouring over his face, unobstructed.
He frowned, instinctively rolled over, and buried his face in the pillow.
The pillow smelled of soapberry, with a faint trace of pine resin, mingling with the lingering smoky scent of last night’s bonfire in his hair—the smell of embers left after a fire burned halfway through the night before the wind blew it out.
Last night.
He lifted his face from the pillow.
Last night he’d drunk fruit wine, been carried back by Que Zhi, kissed him, then taken a bath—he’d washed himself—then he’d pulled Que Zhi back and wouldn’t let him leave, and they’d slept in the same bed.
Xiyu looked down at himself.
His underrobe was neatly worn, the collar tied properly, sleeves unrolled, the hem tucked securely into his waistband.
He never slept this neatly—Que Zhi had fixed it for him.
He lifted the blanket and sniffed his collar. No smell of alcohol, only the clean scent of cool water brushed over skin.
He raised a hand to touch his hair—smooth beyond belief, no tangles, no unruly sticking-up strands. His fingers ran from root to tip without a single snag, carrying the faint lingering scent of sandalwood from the comb’s teeth.
Drunk and stumbling, and he’d still combed his hair in the middle of the night.
As that thought surfaced, he felt that last night’s kiss had been too light.
He turned over and found the other side of the bed empty.
The pillow was set straight, the thin blanket folded neatly—a stark contrast to his own rumpled bedding.
Xiyu reached out and touched the mattress on that side. It was cold.
He suddenly felt a little displeased.
Last night he’d said “Don’t go” and slipped his hand into Que Zhi’s palm—and now, at dawn, when he opened his eyes, he was gone.
He sat up in bed, swept his hair back, and cleared his throat.
“Que Zhi!”
Footsteps sounded almost immediately outside the door.
Not approaching from a distance—he’d been standing right there.
Que Zhi pushed the door open, carrying a food tray. He’d already changed into his robe—dark blue, with subtle patterns on the cuffs, a silver belt at his waist, and that same old dark brown wrist guard on his left arm.
He looked exactly as he always did. He walked in, set down the food tray, then bent over to pick up the boots Xiyu had kicked under the low couch last night, placing them side by side at the spot easiest for his feet to find.
He said: “You’re up. Breakfast.”
Xiyu didn’t reach for the food tray, nor did he move to the edge of the low couch.
He just sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed, hair disheveled, the collar of his underrobe askew to reveal a sliver of collarbone, chin slightly lifted, peach-blossom eyes half-lidded, that tear mole tilting upward in the morning light.
Xiyu studied him, like a cat that had been woken up—even though he was the one who’d called out first, he wasn’t about to lose the upper hand.
“You slept here last night.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Mhm.”
“What time did you get up this morning—I touched your side of the bed and it was cold.”
“At dawn. Went to the kitchen to get breakfast. Today’s raspberries were picked before the dew dried, just delivered.”
“Oh.” Xiyu’s momentum deflated by more than half.
Xiyu lifted his chin, pulled the thin blanket up to his waist, and pointed at the half of the bed Que Zhi had folded so neatly. “You slept here last night—and you’ll sleep here from now on too.”
Que Zhi looked at the proud little bedraggled fledgling on the bed.
Last night he’d tugged his fingers and said “Don’t go.”
He set the food tray on the table and walked over to him. “Alright.”
Xiyu pressed his advantage, reaching his hand out from under the blanket and placing it in Que Zhi’s palm. “Not done yet—you kissed me by the bonfire last night.”
“Mhm.”
“You said ‘I like you.’ I heard it clearly. I’m sober now. I want to hear it again.”
Que Zhi’s thumb paused on the second knuckle of his ring finger.
“Ayu, I like you.”
“It started a long time ago.”
Xiyu’s fingers stiffened slightly.
He remembered that in his drowsy haze last night, someone had seemed to whisper a long string of words by his ear.
His eyelids had been too heavy to recall the exact phrases, but he remembered the voice—very low, very soft—and after it finished, a strand of hair that wasn’t his had been wrapped around his fingers.
When Xiyu woke up, he saw several short, coarse strands tangled around his knuckles—thicker than his own hair. They were Que Zhi’s.
He unwound those strands from his fingers and looked up: “When did it start—”
“At the inn entrance. You were watching the sunset, holding a cup of cooled tea, a cattail fan resting on your knee.”
He closed his fingers around Xiyu’s, still holding those strands of his hair, cupping them naturally in his palm the way he’d caught grape seeds last night.
“I like you. I like you, Xiyu.”
“From the inn entrance when you looked out at the Gobi, to the well when you took off your hat, to the Gobi when you tilted your head up at the sky, to the sandstorm when you curled up in your blanket counting your heartbeats, to the snowy mountain when you crouched down to bandage me, to the stone house when you fell asleep to that long tune I hummed, to the grassland when you named every clump of grass, to Liangzhou when you slipped this wrist guard onto me, to the royal city when you stitched up the old wound on my leg and blew on it, to the old weapons shop when you touched my master’s whetstone, to the raspberries and grape seeds, to yesterday when you pecked me for the third time by the bonfire.”
Que Zhi looked into his eyes, steadying every word as if reading aloud a covenant that required no signature to take effect.
“There wasn’t a single time I didn’t want it. Not one day I didn’t want to hear you call my name. Not one day I didn’t want you to sleep soundly.”
Xiyu was pinned in place by this covenant. He bit his lower lip, his eyes rimming with red, but he didn’t cry.
He just reached up, brushed back the stray lock of hair from Que Zhi’s forehead, and grabbed the edge of his wrist guard.
He pulled him from the bedside to in front of him, tilting his face up.
He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to.
He just asked how he knew how many times he’d woken up in the night, whether he’d kicked off the blanket.
Que Zhi lowered his eyes to look at him and answered honestly: “The first night. You woke up twice—once because of the wind, once from a dream. You called out ‘Old Zhou,’ then turned over and went back to sleep. Every night after that, you woke once. Before dawn, you’d pull the blanket tight—you’re afraid of the cold.”
“You might get a headache after the wine wears off. I had the kitchen prepare an extra half-bowl of warm goat’s milk, set by your bedside.”
After hearing all this, Xiyu lifted a corner of the blanket, patted the spot beside him, and motioned for him to sit.
Then he picked up the spoon, scooped up a bite of sweet porridge, and scooped a raspberry coated in fermented milk—lifting it first to Que Zhi’s lips for him to taste, then taking a sip of goat’s milk himself.
After swallowing, he issued today’s second directive,
his tone certain, his expression serious, as if this was a conclusion he’d reached after deep deliberation:
“You’re mine. This is how every morning will be from now on. You’ll sleep on my left side from now on—you were on the left last night. Don’t switch.”
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