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    Summary

    This time Wen Kexing wakes with the skin of his ribs still burning, where he’d dreamed of A-Xu tracing each ridge with the edge of Wen Kexing’s fan. It had been a game, Wen Kexing keeping still under A-Xu’s steady hand, hardly breathing so that he could get the lines right. It had made sense, in the dream, as painting practice. The result was beautiful, red flowers blooming out of Wen Kexing’s skin, reaching up towards the sun. A-Xu had plucked one, and kissed the petals, his mouth coming away bloody; Wen Kexing had taken another and put it in A-Xu’s hair.

    A-Xu would probably be willing to repeat the experiment with ink and a brush. That would be its own kind of fun. Wen Kexing isn’t so sure about the knife.

    Language:
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