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Xiao Xingchen was exhausted, but he had to keep walking.
It had started to snow as the night had fallen. He hadn’t noticed at first, but he had begun to feel it at some point, the thick flakes gently landing in his hair and on his skin. He knew there was a village close by as some helpful travellers he had met on his way had pointed him in the direction of it. Hoping he would get there before he got too chilled, he continued on his way.
Everything seemed to be taking a toll on him. His eyes— or lack thereof— stung, the pain bleeding into his temples and causing a striking headache. He was so cold, not dressed at all properly for this weather. He’d have to get warmer robes in town in the morning. He had gotten into a fight with a particularly nasty spirit earlier that day, and while he hadn’t gotten horribly wounded, he’d been left with a gash on his arm that pounded in tune with his heart.
He’d heal, he knew that. It should be gone by morning. He just wanted to go to bed.
Thankfully, the small village wasn’t much farther away. He reached it and quickly spoke to an older woman shuffling about the streets who graciously showed him to the nearest inn. It was warm inside, the distinct scent of jasmine flooding his nose, and he could feel his cheeks pinking at the change in temperature.
“Room for one?” A young boy’s voice sounded from where he presumed the front desk was. He nodded in assent.
He handed over the payment that was due, and the boy took his time counting it.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said, bashfully. “M’not great with numbers. A-Niang put me in charge while she’s out of town this week.”
Xingchen chuckled. “No worries. If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“Fourteen,” the boy piped. “Fifteen in the spring.”
“Then I’d say you’re doing just fine for someone your age,” he responded lightly.
He was assigned a room on the upper floor and quickly said no thank you to offers of a bath or a meal. Once he was alone, he set Shuanghua, his horsetail whisk, and his pouch on the small table.
He was tired, but he still had to care for himself. He found the bed and sat on the edge of it. Lithe fingers found the bun tied at the back of his head, and he pulled his hair stick out of it. He dragged his fingers through the knot and released it, his scalp now feeling much more relaxed.
Xiao Xingchen was not just tired because he had been walking for miles or because he was injured. No, he was tired because he had begun to think that his master was correct.
She had warned him, countless times. He was going to get hurt.
When he had stumbled his youthful way down the mountain and into the wide arms of the mortal world, he was not entirely sure what was awaiting him. He knew he wanted to help people. It was simple.
He wasn’t expecting Song Lan.
To feel love like that was a fire hot beneath his skin. It melted him down, it lit him up.
When he had first realized this love, he’d thought something incredibly selfish. If Baoshan Sanren knew what this felt like, then she’d understand.
(Ah, but little did he know that she did.)
He put his hair ornaments aside and stripped out of his outer robes. Pulling up the blanket that rested on the bed, he sank under it, wrapping it tightly around him in an attempt to warm up.
He couldn’t parse how he felt yet. Or, well, he could. Devastated. More aptly, he wasn’t sure if Song Lan had been right about it being his fault. Either way, despite any intricacies the situation held, he had set himself on atoning. The guilt he felt was still there, despite any ways he had tried to make up for it.
(He remembers the bodies, so many bodies, a massacre of those who were old and young and in between. He remembers the blood, the sticky red blood that stained the ground and the people and Song Lan’s loudly protesting form as he dragged him up the mountain, I will fix this, he thought, or he said, or he cried, I will fix this, I will help you if it is the last thing I do, let me help you. You are hurt, I need to help you.)
The snow couldn’t be heard outside, nor could he see it, but it was quiet in the way it only was during a snowstorm.
It was worth it, he thinks. Loving him was worth it. Is worth it. We had happiness. He tries to believe it. He remembers the bodies.
—
Song Lan couldn’t sleep.
He had tossed in his uncomfortable inn bed for hours before resolving to getting up and getting some fresh air. His head slightly peaked out the small window as he gazed at the endless, darked abyss above him.
He deeply dragged his breath in and then exhaled, it coming out as a soft, white cloud. The air mingled in warm and cold, the smell of early winter mixing with the mild jasmine scent of the inn. His eyes were killing him.
The moon seemed to sag painfully in the late night sky. He wanted to reach out and touch it.
Being on his own wasn’t something he was unused to. He had spent most of his life in his own secluded bubble, not necessarily avoiding others but keeping a respectful distance. He hadn’t been particularly close with his parents, nor the other disciples at Baixue temple. He supposes that his only close friend was his master, a man several decades his senior and someone who he would never refer to so informally as a friend to his face or anyone else’s. He had acquaintances, allies. That was enough.
To a point.
Having a close friend, someone to love him in a familiar and intimate way— that was something that he never expected to happen to him. And yet it did.
Of course, Xiao Xingchen wasn’t someone he was around constantly. But when he was with him, it felt like he should be.
It was new. It was terrifying. It was right.
He folded his arms on the windowsill and lay his head in their nest. A breeze ruffled his hair and chilled his skin. He leant into it.
He thinks that he may be a horrible person after what he did. No, he knows it. He will repent, he will repent, he will. He will find Xiao Xingchen again. He needs to know that he did not deserve the words that Song Lan threw at him, carelessly. Grievously.
(He was filled with so much guilt that he was unsure that he would even be able to speak his apologies. The guilt strangled his heart and his mind, jamming him up.)
Song Lan was alone, now. Completely and totally alone. He had finished helping Wei Wuxian and his sister, and now it was just him. Everyone else was dead or driven away. The thought sank deep into his bones until he felt it throughout his whole body.
He pinched his eyes shut as they began to well with tears. He cried. It hurt. He felt his sobs echo throughout his entire body. He buried his face deep in his arms as he felt his body tense and shake, warm tears made cool on his face by the occasional breeze.
He missed his friend. He missed his master. He missed and he missed and he missed. Where was he to put all this ache? This loneliness? It leaked out of him, unable to be held inside.
Biting his lower lip, he lifted his head again. The moon’s rays seemed blurry through his wet eyes. He blinked them over, and it was clear again.
—
Xiao Xingchen woke up in the early morning. If he could see, he’d see how the whole room seemed aglow with amber light as he took a short bath and ate a quick meal. But he couldn’t.
The gash on his shoulder had healed as he predicted. He’d caught word of a number of fierce corpses in a village near Qinghe, so that’s where he was headed next.
He bid a quick farewell to the boy at the desk, A-Huang. “Your mother is coming back soon, no?”
“Yes, daozhang, no need to worry. She’ll be here later today. And, I have lots of family in town.”
“I see.” He bowed. “Take care.”
The snow wasn’t anything hard to navigate through, most of it having melted in the morning warmth. But, how he missed having somebody by his side.
—
Song Lan awoke with the sun. His body felt stiff, but he was rested. As he blinked himself awake, he realized he had fallen asleep at the window.
He stood, stretched his body out, and rubbed his cold face with his hands. He shut the window.
That was certainly the most uncomfortable sleep he had ever gotten in his life, but he felt oddly rejuvenated, despite the odd pains throughout his body. He padded his way towards his belongings and took out his comb. He dragged it through his mussed hair.
He was going to find him. He had to.
He loved him. The light bled gold into the room. His eyes fluttered open and his hands dropped to his bag again to retrieve his hair piece. He did wrong by him. He sectioned off the back of his hair and bent his neck down so that he could fix it up. He was going to do right by him. There was so much tragedy in this world, he couldn’t purposefully add to it.
As he made his way out of the inn that morning after eating a little bit of breakfast, he stopped to talk to the innkeeper.
He bowed to her. “Madam, I must ask a favor of you.”
She ducked her head respectfully as well. “Yes, daozhang?”
“If you see a cultivator in white robes pass by here, let him know there’s someone… no, a friend looking for him. He’s my height, carries a white sword.”
She smiled kindly. “Does this man have a name?”
He wasn’t sure he could speak it. “You’ll know him when you see him. Thank you.”
Bowing once more, he left her with a puzzled expression as he walked out of the inn.
—
It was long ago. The evening air was impossibly light and stars were just beginning to bud in the summer sky. The gentle oranges and purples from above dyed the landscape in gorgeous light. They were walking on soft sloped hills, footsteps in tandem.
“We should set up camp for the night,” Xiao Xingchen mused from next to him.
They made a fire nearby a large willow tree. Song Lan kept it steady and burning as Xiao Xingchen split up their rations for the night. They ate together, and were full.
The weight of his good company and the meal rested comfortably in his stomach. He moved to let his hair down.
“Zichen,” Xingchen said. It was almost a whisper.
Song Lan looked up at him. The firelight licked at his soft face prettily.
“May I?” he continued. “Help. With your hair, I mean. I don’t mean to overstep.” he tacked on.
Song Lan froze. He swallowed and nodded.
Touch is okay, he told himself. When it is him.
Xingchen shifted himself so he sat behind his friend instead of next to him. The first touch of his fingers sent prickling fireworks down Song Lan’s spine. He inhaled sharply.
“I’ll stop if you need me to,” Xingchen murmured. Song Lan shook his head.
“Keep going,” he breathed. He wanted…. he wanted. He wasn’t used to this. His body wished to flinch away.
Xingchen ran a tender hand through the thick hair at his back in acknowledgement. The fire popped loudly as he reached up to take his hair piece out. He set it to the side. He untied his bun and smoothed out his hair from where it had been bundled, then set to undoing the few other tied down strands of hair that his head held.
Song Lan had never felt closer to someone. His insides curled around themselves, and he was probably gripping his robes much too tightly. He closed his eyes.
He relaxed, eventually. His breathing steadied as Xingchen worked through his hair, taking his time. He could feel him mindlessly twisting small braids in his hair just to run his hands through them, making them level again. He stopped after some long minutes, sweeping his hair neatly over his shoulder.
Song Lan turned his head over his shoulder to meet his eyes. Xingchen smiled at him, unsure of what to say.
“You have soft hair,” he offered. His voice broke the noisy silence of their surroundings.
“Can I…” Song Lan started. He made a vague gesture towards his companion.
His eyes widened. “You’d like to do mine?”
Song Lan nodded, flustered. Xingchen gave him a fond smile that sent him reeling.
They swapped spots and Xiao Xingchen dipped his head down just a bit, neck relaxing. Song Lan wasn’t sure where to start.
He made for his hair stick, pulling it out in one swift motion. The white wood was almost glowing, illuminated by the fire. He set it with his hair piece, then reached his fingers up to undo Xingchen’s own.
His breaths were shallow as he undid the hair pulled up at the back of his head. It was smooth and less thick than his own. He couldn’t help how his hands shook as he pulled them through his hair, or how they seemed to burn at any contact he made with his skin.
“Here,” Xingchen muttered. He leant forward to grab his pouch and grabbed something out of it. His comb. It was pure white. “Use this.”
And so he did. His hands shook less as he made the object do the work instead of himself, and his friend seemed to enjoy the feeling of the bristles on his scalp, leaning into every touch. His mind swam. It was dizzying.
He stopped after much less time than Xingchen had, but the other man didn’t seem to mind. He turned to face him. “Thank you,” he breathed.
He looked beautifully open with his hair down, a stray strand covering one of his gentle eyes.
“You too,” Song Lan said, then let himself fall back onto the grass. His face was burning. Xiao Xingchen let out a surprised titter, then shifted to join him.
The sky was kissed by an innumerable amount of stars. The moon was just about full.
“Does it look like there’s more stars than usual?” Xingchen wondered aloud.
It did.