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Song Zichen is never one to sleep in late. It is about the principle of seizing the day. Growing up in Baixue Temple, Zichen was used to waking up before the sun rises and the rooster crows. There are many things involved in the upkeep of an ancient temple, and for a young boy whose strides had not yet grown to their eventual length, sweeping the grounds of fallen leaves took considerable time and effort.
It has been many years since he was a boy at Baixue Temple, and yet, Zichen’s sleeping habits rival that of the rigidity of the Cloud Recesses. Still in bed, he turns to one side and gazes out the window at the darkness of the woods around their home, unsullied by the light of men. He thinks this is what it must be like for Xingchen all the time, how it must have been for Zichen himself once, before Xingchen gave him the gifts he never wanted and could not return.
It is quiet in their house. A-Qing likes to sleep in, as teenage girls are wont to do. Xingchen likes to indulge, when his schedule permits. And with the lockdown and everyone working from home, his schedule definitely permits. Zichen can always tell when Xingchen is awake. It is not that Xingchen moves loudly or knocks over things or creates unnecessary noises, but it is possibly the case that Zichen is hyper-attuned to anything that goes on around Xingchen, so that the clatter of a bowl in the sink or the opening of the refrigerator door can very distinctly be identified as Xingchen. Zichen does not like to advertise this fact about himself. It may come across as vaguely obsessive or creepy. A-Qing thinks it’s cute, as she has said to him more than once.
Zichen moves through his morning ablution and makes his way to the kitchen. The world gradually welcomes the dawn, pale pink light beginning to peek over the top of the mountain peaks. Soon enough, the room will be bathed in warm morning sunlight. This year’s spring has been long awaited. In their log cabin in the woods, winter has been an idyllic dream of gentle snowfall and frost, but only because Zichen works so hard at chopping wood to make sure the house is always well heated. Sometimes A-Qing comes with him on their trips to gather firewood. Sometimes Xingchen insists on coming along, and they would set out into the cold in heavy coats lined in fur, and Zichen would, on occasion, lose his breath as he sees Xingchen’s long black hair frosted in unmelted snowflakes, each one perfectly hexagonal, and Xingchen would smile as he nestles close, hand on Zichen’s elbow as he follows Zichen’s lead, and it is those moments that make Zichen wishes the winter snow would never melt.
The snow did melt. Zichen forced himself to think of the bounty that spring will bring, of the plum blossoms lighting the orchard near their house ablaze in blooms of white and pink, of the birds that will return to sing to Xingchen each morning, of Xingchen in a lightweight dress robe lounging on recently sprouted green grass. Soon, it will be time to start planting their garden again. It is one of Xingchen’s favorite pastimes, and Zichen already has a collection of plant seeds that he saved from last season that he is waiting for a nice occasion to present to his dear friend.
His morning meditation is uneventful, which marks a rather successful meditation period. Later during the day, Xingchen and he will move through their favorite moving meditation sequence with Xingchen in the lead. They have been trying to introduce it to A-Qing, but the girl is willful and displays little interest in the world of cultivation. Just as well. She has no aptitude for it, but contrary to the attitude adopted by most of the major cultivation sects, Zichen thinks that not everyone has to follow this path. He does not know where A-Qing’s path will lead, but he can tell, from her sharp wit and quick mind, that that spitfire of a girl will do just fine in whatever field she wishes to enter.
As Zichen starts to boil the water to prepare for breakfast, he hears footsteps coming down from the stairs. Xingchen , his heart trills rather embarrassingly. Long gone are the days when Zichen can pretend that it is just a stupid little crush between outcast boys who meet each other on a lonely mountain road at eighteen. He knows how he feels, and he is content with holding it close to his chest. No use in burdening Xingchen any more than he already has. It is quite enough for him to be able to live with Xingchen, to open a school with Xingchen, to raise this little girl that they have adopted as one of their own. Anything beyond that is just… confetti.
“Good morning, Daozhang,” he says, smiling.
“Morning to you, Daozhang,” Xingchen replies, an answering, teasing smile on his face. Xingchen’s eyes are bare of any covering. They had a rather tense conversation about it once, one that Zichen would very much like to put out of his mind forever. But afterward, Xingchen opted to cover his eyes less and less often when they are alone. The sight of Xingchen’s sunken eyelids does hurt, but Zichen thinks it is a good kind of hurt. It is a reminder that some things should never be forgotten, and quite honestly, it is difficult to forget what had happened every time he opens his own eyes. “Would you like some coffee this morning, Xingchen?” Zichen asks, already knowing the answer. “Or should I put on some tea for you?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Xingchen replies, moving toward the refrigerator and rummaging through it, presumably for leftovers. They have made a genuine effort to modernize the cabin in recent months, and while Zichen thinks that a truly traditional lifestyle, the way he has been raised at the temple, is perfectly suitable, he knows that certain traditional aspects of the cultivation world can be needlessly, breathlessly suffocating.
Zichen measures out a portion of aged oolong, which he knows is one of Xingchen’s preferred teas, and adds the near-boiling water to it for a quick steep. For his part, he rather guiltily enjoys a strong cup of black coffee in the morning. “What should we have for breakfast, Xingchen?”
Xingchen lifts his head up from the fridge, surprise in his face. “You’re cooking today? I thought perhaps we could heat up some of the congee from last night.”
“It is a good idea. Perhaps I can fry up some youtiao to go with it.”
“You’re in a cooking mood already,” Xingchen comments, smiling lightly. “Very well. How may I be of help?”
Zichen wants to say that Xingchen absolutely does not need to lift his fingers, but he knows Xingchen, and he knows what the reaction will be. “Would you like to knead the dough after I mix the ingredients?”
Xingchen nods, moving over to the counter toward the sound of Zichen’s voice. “It will be a while until the youtiao is ready. Are you not hungry yet?”
“Never too hungry to wait for youtiao and congee,” Zichen replies. “Drink your tea first before it cools too much.”
They pass the early morning hour in companionable silence. This, at least, is something that has never changed in all their years of knowing each other. As Xingchen kneads at the dough, Zichen finds himself enraptured by the way Xingchen’s hair falls very distractingly into his face. It is unbound, loose and long, and Zichen wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through it, to comb it and braid it, the way he sometimes lets A-Qing play with his hair. He imagines it must feel a bit like touching spider silk, so light that it inevitably attaches itself to the skin, and so fragrant with the scent of tea and jasmine.
“It’s ready,” Xingchen confirms as he gives the dough a final fold. “It’ll need to rest for about ten minutes, and then we can shape them.”
“Alright,” Zichen replies distractedly, still caught in his own daydream. That is not a good sign. He has barely woken up from last night’s dreams. Hurriedly, Zichen changes the subject before it is made abundantly clear to Xingchen that it is barely 6 AM, and he is already a lovesick idiot. “Have you heard from Xue Yang recently?”
Xingchen frowns a little and sighs. “Yes. He is doing well, or as well as can be expected. He called me late last night. You know how he feels about being in rehab. I’m just glad he hasn’t tried to escape yet.”
“I’ll hunt him down if he tries to leave rehab before the program is over,” Zichen grumbles, secretly quite pleased that he would not be spending the lockdown with what A-Qing cheekily termed his archnemesis. Speaking of the girl. “A-Qing must be feeling better now that they don’t live in the same house anymore.”
“Mm. It was difficult on her.”
“And difficult on you.”
Xingchen sighs. “It is… not so much that. It’s… I guess you are right. It is difficult. There is a lot of history to work through, and I am not sure I am up for it yet.”
“My apologies, Xingchen. We can talk about something else if you’d like.”
Xiao Xingchen smiles, and the sight hurts somewhere deep in Zichen’s chest. His friend has a heart that is simply too large for his chest. “I was thinking, if the weather is nice, we could have a picnic outside for lunch. The speaker said that the forecast is expected to be quite warm and sunny.”
With their disciples home for the lockdown, the training ground is expectedly devoid of pupils. The two-week absence thus far has already brought back sprouts of green where there had only been trampled dirt. Zichen thinks of a spot between the border of the training ground and the woods, where there is a little creek that babbles endlessly, where the rabbits and the deer sometimes congregate. “Sounds perfect,” he says finally. “A spot of picnic by the creek, then?”
“It is my favorite spot,” Xingchen says, tilting his head toward Zichen. “What do you think A-Qing will want for lunch? We should start the preparation soon after breakfast just in case it is something that takes a long time to make.”
“We can ask her when she wakes up,” Zichen replies. He takes a big gulp of his coffee, appreciating the bold bitterness of the blend. “Her online lessons start today, I think.”
“Is that right? I have lost track of the days,” Xingchen comments, laughing a little. “I don’t even remember what life was like before this quarantine. Have you been in contact with the other cultivators? What is going on in the major sects?”
Nothing important, Zichen wants to say, but he indulges Xingchen anyway. “I haven’t kept in contact with a lot of people, but Wei Wuxian sent a message the other day. Things are going well at the Cloud Recesses, although Zewu-jun is stuck in Qinghe for the time being while visiting his sworn brother. I suppose it is as good a time as any to reconnect with an old friend.” He pauses, remembering something. “Old Master Lan Qiren is struck ill, but Wei Wuxian seemed convinced that he is recovering well.”
“Oh! I do hope for his quick recovery,” Xingchen exclaims. “It must be a stressful time for the Gusu Lan sect. A lot has fallen on Hanguang-jun’s shoulders.”
“Mm, these are indeed strange times,” Zichen muses. Xingchen hands him the platter of shaped youtiao , and he drops each one into the boiling wok of oil. The dough sizzles as it hits the oil, floating up immediately and turning pale yellow on contact. The smell of fried dough soon fills the kitchen. Zichen thinks about how lucky he is to have one of these mornings undisturbed with Xingchen, enjoying the sweetness of their own company. His heart twists with just how happy he is to be able to get here, after all they have gone through together and apart.
“What is going on in Yunmeng? And Lanling?” Xingchen asks after a while, cradling his tea cup. Xingchen’s fingers are long and thin and calloused along the sword grip, as all cultivators’ hands are. Zichen does not know why the sight of those calluses on Xingchen’s fingers brings an unhappy twist to his mouth.
“I haven’t heard from them. I would assume things are fine,” Zichen replies flippantly. “Especially the Lanling Jin sect. I can’t imagine anything going amiss under Jin Guangyao’s eyes.”
“Mm, you have a point,” Xingchen murmurs and sips his tea. He leans on one hand, his hair falling over one shoulder, and Zichen thinks this is rather ridiculous. He vows to get Xingchen a new hair ribbon immediately, after the quarantine ends.
The first of the youtiao has turned the perfect shade of golden brown. “We should wake A-Qing up,” Zichen says, catching the youtiao with a long pair of chopsticks, blackened at the tips, and places it on a towel-lined plate. “The youtiao will all be done soon. I’ll heat up the congee when she comes.”
“I’ll go get her.” Xingchen pushes the tea cup away from him, hand trailing lightly along the surface of the counter, and turns toward the direction of A-Qing’s room. “I hope the promise of fresh youtiao for breakfast will make up for having to get up before noon.”
As Zichen watches his friend walk away, he feels the swell of a multitude of emotions he cannot name. Instead, he turns back to the wok of oil, flipping the youtiao to brown the other side, and drinks his coffee until he hears the sound of A-Qing loudly whining in response to familiar tinkering laughter.
Zichen smiles. The house is coming alive.
Breakfast was a languid affair, and they stuffed themselves so full of youtiao and congee that no one was hungry until way after their scheduled lunchtime. At their kitchen table, A-Qing commented around a mouth full of fried dough that it would be nice to have fresh boiled soymilk to go along with it. Zichen only rolled his eyes. The girl was getting just a little too spoiled with this comfortable living.
She deserves it, in any case. He is just as guilty of being indulgent as Xingchen.
It takes a full seven hours later for them to gather together at that spot near the creek, after the sun has already passed its summit. The day has been growing longer, to Zichen’s great pleasure. They light their house with electricity at night, and perhaps he is rather old-fashioned, but Zichen swears there is nothing that quite illuminates like natural sunlight. It is for this reason that whenever possible, his windows are wide open, and the house was built with natural lighting in mind. He does not like to admit, even to himself, that his very favorite sight is Xingchen’s hair aglow with the dying light of the afternoon sun, which he indulges in shamelessly when the two oversee their disciples on the training ground, or on the weekends, when Xingchen is content to lounge around in their living space listening to a recording of an old Chinese opera song or an audiobook. On those afternoons, Zichen stretches out on the other couch, ostensibly reading a treatise on something-or-other, but nary a word can capture his attention away from Xiao Xingchen.
A-Qing requested a lunch of various kinds of dumplings, with beef and coriander and lamb and dill and shrimp and leek. Zichen inwardly groaned at the thought of having to knead dough and roll out circles again, but Xingchen only smiled acquiescently and volunteered for the task. A-Qing is a capable girl in the kitchen, and watching them work together to roll out each circle, stuff it with filling, and gently pinch the edges shut reminded Zichen that for a long time, the two have had a life without him. The thought didn’t hurt as much as he imagined it would. He was just simply fortunate to be able to share in that life now.
And so, lunch is a little late today. Xingchen holds onto the picnic basket, A-Qing just a half step in front of him, and Zichen spreads out a large plastic sheet and a plush blanket atop, plopping down and calling for the others to join him. As the feast materializes in front of them, A-Qing gasps in delight. A small blue butterfly has approached them in curiosity, landing soundlessly on the top of Xingchen’s head. With his hair unbound and his eyes simply closed, dressed in long-sleeved white shirt and simple linen trousers, Xingchen is a fairytale come to life. Zichen gulps, turns away, and begins to pass around the utensils.
A-Qing glares at him, mouthing something, and huffs when it is clear that Zichen is completely clueless as to what she was trying to say. She gives him another glare, takes out her phone, making sure the sound is off, and snaps a photo of Xingchen. Zichen feels a light vibration in his pocket, and A-Qing’s meaningful look tells him that she has sent him the picture.
“Daozhang,” she says, pressing a light hand on Xingchen’s shoulder. “Where is your hair ribbon?”
Xingchen laughs, touching a hand to his hair self-consciously, and Zichen feels a pang of loss when the butterfly flutters away at the disturbance. “Ah, it is very silly of me. I think I have simply misplaced it. I’ve been walking around very improperly dressed all morning. It is quite fortunate that the disciples are not here to witness it.”
Zichen agrees. This is a sight that should be reserved for him alone. And A-Qing, if only because she lives here and has functioning eyes.
“Daozhang, you can borrow my hair ribbon!” A-Qing says, grinning. Turning to Zichen, she suggests, “Song Daozhang, why don’t you help him?”
“Hmm? That isn’t necessary,” Xingchen says, surprised. “My hair doesn’t bother me. Thank you, A-Qing.”
“Nonsense!” A-Qing cries insistently. “Song Daozhang, you get over here now and help Xiao Daozhang with his hair. How much of a good friend can you be if you can’t even help your good friend not get his hair tangled up in the food? Just feel this wind, hmm? Tsk, men. I’m going back to the house to grab a sweater. It’s cold. When I get back, his hair has better be tied up!” She winks shamelessly at Zichen and leaves, dropping a purple hair ribbon in his lap as she passes him.
Left alone, Zichen holds up the length of ribbon. He lifts his eyes to Xingchen, who seems just as uncertain as he is. Finally, Xingchen is the one to break the silence, smiling. “I guess we have better do as she says, Zichen. A-Qing can be quite scary when she puts her mind to it.”
“She is always scary,” Zichen confirms and moves toward Xingchen as if drawn irresistibly by a string tied to his chest. The food is growing cold, but neither of them seems to care. The spring breeze is barely cool, fragrant with the scent of fresh leaves and crushed grass, and the heady, lingering whiffs of lime blossoms in the distance.
Xingchen’s hair is spider silk in his hands. Zichen doesn’t know if he has ever held anything so fine in his life. He kneels behind Xingchen, the length of ribbon between his teeth, and he gathers the mass of hair into both hands, threading his fingers through to brush the strands into a semblance of order. It is surprisingly thick, Xingchen’s hair, and heavy, for all its silken appearance. The scent of tea and jasmine grows almost unbearable, and Zichen stifles the urge to bury his head into Xingchen’s nape and simply breathe in the essence that is Xingchen. Instead, he takes a shuddering breath, willing for this moment to last for an eternity, grazing his fingernails gently on Xingchen’s scalp.
Xingchen gasps, a stuttering sound. “Zichen,” he grounds out, a little breathless, his head tilting back toward Zichen.
“How would you like me to tie it?” Zichen murmurs, entranced by the curve of Xingchen’s throat, bare and exposed in front of him. He can see Xingchen’s slightly parted mouth, pink and soft as the curling petals of the plum blossoms above them. God. Gods. Anything above, help him.
“Anyway you want,” Xingchen breathes. They are so close that he can feel the warm air from Xingchen’s mouth. He hovers over Xingchen, hands in Xingchen’s hair, and thinks of how far they have come from that mountain road all those years ago, and how short the distance is from his lips to Xingchen’s lips, and before he can think any further, Xingchen reaches up and draws him down with surprising acuity, Xingchen’s nose nestling into the tilt of his chin, their lips connected. Honey and milk, nectar and syrup. His heart feels like it will explode out of his chest with how rapidly it beats. His ears buzz with the low burble of the creek. He thinks he has forgotten that most basic function of breathing. He thinks he is drowning, and if this is how he dies, then there is nothing Zichen regrets not having done in this lifetime.
Xiao Xingchen releases him, smiles up at him. Xingchen’s hand rises up to trail through the long tail of his bound hair. “I never got to see your hair undone,” Xingchen whispers, a note of mischief in his voice. “Zichen, I hope you don’t think me too untoward…”
Zichen is absolutely furious at himself. “Not at all,” he hurries to reassure Xingchen, grasping at his hand. How dare he let this perfect, wonderful man ever doubt the existence of his affection. “Xingchen, I… I did not dare to hope…”
“Neither did I,” Xingchen says quietly, and draws him down again.
When A-Qing returns a suspiciously long time after with a sweater that she does not wear, their food has grown cold. Xingchen’s hair is plaited into one thick cord, starting at the top of his head, a winding vine of disparate strands joining into one. It is tied at the bottom with A-Qing’s purple ribbon, and it hangs fetchingly over one shoulder.
“The dumplings are quite fantastic,” A-Qing cries, heartily tugging into her food. “And the folds are exquisite, Daozhang.” The compliment brings a bright smile to Xingchen’s face, and he piles more food onto A-Qing’s plate. Above them, a family of sparrows flits about on a tree branch, their heads tilting curiously at the scene below.
A vibration in his pocket. Zichen does hate technology, but he forces himself to take his eyes off of Xiao Xingchen for just one precious second to check his screen.
qinger (2:13pm): fucking finally
qinger (2:13pm): took u long enough
qinger (2:13pm): cant believe u idiots cant even handle this on ur own ugh
qinger (2:13pm): men is2g
qinger (2:14pm): gross but cute!
qinger (2:14pm): btw u owe me a new hair ribbon. green pls
Tonight, he promises himself, he will order fifty hair ribbons in all shades of the rainbow for A-Qing, even if he has to hop on a flying sword and pick them up himself.