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Les Souvenirs des Fleurs
The Recollections of Flowers
Boyao sits under a tree with black branches and translucent flowers that glow with a blue light and bloom in long petals like lilies of memories. It’s always dusk here, and he watches the petals fall. Sometimes Weicheng sits there with him, for a few hours or a few years, hard to say. He always liked the flowers better than Boyao, found them poetic - probably because he never had to see them as much.
“Come on, come back to me,” the worried tones floating around him are as familiar as the pattern of his breathing. “Boyao. Hey.”
The sight that meets him is the same as usual, a crease between dark eyebrows and tanned skin glowing colder under the strange lights of flowers.
“I’m okay,” he smiles up at his friend, fingers reaching out to smooth his frown. “Like every time.”
The smell evaporates and the last remnant of the memory accepts to let go of him.
“You only say that because you can’t see how scary it is from the outside, your eyes are white and I swear there’s drool coming from your mouth sometimes.”
“No there isn’t,” he scrunches his nose and gets away from the embrace. “Thank you for being there, though. Like every time.”
There’s no use in containing the fondness of his voice, appreciation for the unrelenting presence of Weicheng in his life. This isn’t part of his friend’s job description - he’s just supposed to deliver the scrunched-up petals of memories after all, but what they have is special, even for immortals.
When the memories are too much, the smell potent with a life he craves to live, and when the flower wilts in his hands, Weicheng is the one to pull him out, the only one who can bring him back from drowning in mortal’s lives with his hands and voice.
“You should go now.”
“Are you sure?” His friend hesitates, lingers too close and the hand that doesn’t hold the crushed petals flutters around Brett’s arm. “You look pale.”
“Weicheng, I always look pale, there’s no sunlight here.” He points at the sky, permanently inked in purple and indigo. “Go, the memory will fade if you don’t deliver it and I’ll have done all this for nothing.”
Weicheng could never refuse him for long; his friend takes a step back after another worried glance, walks on the grass that’s the same black as the tree, and marches into the sun. It suits him, the world of the living - Boyao observes the way it wraps his skin golden and puts a shine into his eyes.
“I’ll be back, okay? Don’t extract anything without me.”
But his voice distorts like an echo underwater, piercing painfully through the liminal space where the tree grows. Boyao doesn’t bother with an answer - Weicheng won’t hear it anyway.
His friend’s form flutters one last time into the light and he disappears, leaving Boyao to sag against the bark. Another burgeon sprouts just above his head - his fingers trace the blue edge of the flower, peering inside the translucent bud at the blurry memories that will keep growing until the flower blooms and he can extract them.
Behind him, whispers of comfort reach his ears, and an immortal clad in white and gold guides a lost soul toward the lake at the edge of his domain - such a grandiose word for his silly patch of dark vegetation that never grows.
Just grass eating the ground as far as the branches of his tree reach, right at the edge of both worlds. Intertwined with the green of the living - he can catch the buzz of a fly, sometimes, a butterfly coming too close before they disappear back where they belonged - and blocked by the white lake where the soul is dragged.
The woman in white has the mortal’s hand in hers, almost hugging her form as she guides her step by step toward the world she belongs to, now.
The care with which she handles it makes Boyao think she must be new.
“Pathfinder.” He nods at her and smiles when she catches him watching.
“Recollector,” she answers with a hint of a flirt in her voice.
Every other immortal finds his job as a recollector romantic - maybe having to be around flowers in eternal dusk, the eternal entity of memories gets that reputation.
He doesn’t wish to complain but the only great thing about his position is Weicheng - there are some good sides, plunging into the lives of a thousand people to see all corners of the world through their eyes, but none of them can counterbalance his loneliness as his friend does.
The pathfinder sends him one last look - she’ll probably seek him afterward, a dot of white in the black of his world for an instant - before dipping her feet in the lake, robes floating as she drags the soul with her, until the white water reaches her chest and both soul and immortal sink like two petals in milk. The lake doesn’t give a ripple.
Above his head, one of the flowers blooms and the smell of memories wraps around him, tendrils of scent pulling and the only thing keeping him seated is the promise he made to Weicheng. His eyes close and his breathing evens, trying the meditation techniques his friend showed him - he’s never been good at it, but he’s willing to try.
Footsteps crunch the grass and he raises his eyes to the thin hands of the pathfinder undoing her dress.
That will work better.
*
The white and golden robes of the immortal are gone when Boyao wakes up - she must have left to accompany another soul, maybe he’ll see her again but he doesn’t particularly desire it.
“Having fun?” Weicheng’s tone isn’t judgmental but his eyes are shifty.
“Weicheng-”
“I told you to call me Eddy, I like it better.” His friend sits beside him - refuses to meet his gaze as Boyao readjusted his robes until he looks decent again.
“I’ve called you Weicheng for all of eternity, why change now?”
Sometimes it seems like he has always been there, like Boayo has always sat under the tree, no beginning and no end to their existence - to their strange friendship.
“It’s not all of eternity, just a very very long time.” He stares ahead and Boyao knows he’s avoiding his gaze because there’s nothing interesting to look at where he lives.
“Fine. Eddy.” The word tastes strange on his tongue but he can’t regret it when Weicheng lights up and finally smiles at him, all teeth and crescent eyes. “How was the delivery?”
“It was so nice but sad! They were for a little girl, memories of her grandma, she started crying when I dropped the petals on her but she was smiling too, it was hard to stay incorporeal. I wanted to give her a hug so badly. Oh, but I managed to sneak into the kitchen and get something for you.”
“You really shouldn’t steal food every time you go into the living world.” He shakes his head but already stretches his hands to receive the triangle wrapped in seaweed, licking his lips.
“It’s an onigiri! The one you saw in that last memory, you said you wanted to try it, of course I had to get one for you.”
Weicheng spoils him with food, trinkets, and anything mortals won’t miss - or maybe they’ll miss it, but Weicheng seems keen on breaking the rules of immortals to bring all kinds of uselessness to Boyao’s feet.
He bites into the onigiri. The inside tastes like tuna and a sauce he hasn’t tried before.
If the flowers are his window to the world of the living, then Weicheng is the hand that reaches and takes for him - it doesn’t really suit his job description, giver, but Weicheng has always been unconventional.
“You sure are popular, huh…”
“Yeah, I don’t understand what they find so attractive about recollectors. It’s a pretty boring job for an immortal,” Boyao sighs around his mouthful while ignoring the edge in his friend’s voice.
“Maybe it’s to do with you.”
He’s giving him the look again, the one that makes Boyao want to push him back and draw him closer. Like Weicheng is seeing all the layers of him he'd rather keep protected.
*
“You look like your flowers.”
“No, I don't.”
“Yeah, you do!” He’s excited again and Boyao has a feeling he won’t like whatever will come out of his mouth. “Your skin is translucent, your robes are blue, the branches of the tree are like your hair and eyes - you match well! Not forgetting you’re small too.”
Weicheng has always been shy around other immortals - clamming up when they have visitors, rumors of his misfortunes in public settings reaching even his tree - but then there is shamelessness everywhere Boyao is concerned. Waxing poetic about his nose, his hair, his skin without the hint of a blush while Boyao is dying from embarrassment, his hands fluttering close to him, grabbing and pulling until he is more familiar with the feel of Weicheng’s skin than his own.
“Oh, shut up. Do you see images floating in my body?”
The jab just leaves painful silence in its wake.
Weicheng isn’t answering; he stares like he can catch the memories shifting under his skin.
“I wish.”
*
He doesn’t remember how they met, but he knows there was a time when Weicheng wasn’t there, when the only thing breaking his boredom was the blooming of flowers and losing himself in lives that weren’t his. It’s more sensations than memories, a loneliness carved in his heart that gnaws at him when he spends too long staring at the white lake and flees away when he rests his eyes on the case beside him.
From all the gifts Eddy brought to him, this is the most valuable - a Stradivarius whose sound echoes in both the world of the living and the dead. Also, the one he put off touching for the longest time.
*
“I’m bored.”
They are lying on their back, staring at the sky sliding into shades of purple; no flowers are blooming today.
“Play violin with me!” Weicheng raises on his elbows to look at him, hope dripping from his tone, his eyes, his posture, and Boyao glances at the case nestled amid the rest of his offerings.
“You’re never going to give up, huh.”
It isn’t in his habit to refuse anything to Weicheng, he can’t even understand why he is so reluctant to touch the violin and why his friend is so insistent.
Weicheng is almost hovering on top of his body now, blocking the light coming from behind him and his skin exudes a warmth Boyao has kept the past centuries chasing in other immortal bodies.
“I thought you were bored. What else would you rather do?” Weicheng’s voice has lost its whiny quality to go in lower registers, aware of how his words can be interpreted when he leans closer still.
They talked about this already - this isn’t a good idea, Boyao had said, a hand on Weicheng’s chest to push him away.
The thing with living forever stuck under a tree is that if you screw up the only friendship you have, then you get nothing left but transparent flowers and dark grass.
The emptiness that was before Weicheng is not something he can return to. It doesn’t matter if Weicheng came back sometimes smelling of mortals, or if he frowned every time another pathfinder let their clothes fall under Boyao’s tree.
At least he is still here.
“Nothing,” he lies. “You’re right, might as well try that violin.”
*
“Should we play something?”
“Yeah! Sure?” Weicheng- Eddy perks up at the suggestion. Violin always seems to do the trick when he’s down. “Let’s bring some birds to the branch of that tree, Navarra?”
There’s humming already, leaving his friend’s lips as he takes the two instruments from their spot on top of his treasure pile, life radiating from him and Boyao hides his smile under the blue of his robes, just in case Eddy turns around and catches him in the act of being too fond.
None of the other recollectors has an attributed giver like Weicheng, faithfulness in every step as he comes back every single time for a new flower, a new memory. Boyao doesn’t think he ever did anything to deserve the adoration his friend laid upon him from the very start but with every century that trickled past, saying no to longing looks and fleetings touches became harder.
They play under the black branches and it’s sweet, filling the air with energy when the vegetation looks lifeless. The lake of the world of the dead ripples as they laugh around the flurry of notes - they don’t mess up anymore, centuries of playing together and they are always in time with each other.
Above his head, the petals start opening.
*
“Another, already? I feel like you just extracted a memory.”
“This is what I am here to do, not eat and play violin with you all day despite what we’d prefer.”
“Shame,” Weicheng licks his lower lips with something flirty in his voice, watching as Boyao’s fingers pluck the flower, the blue glow getting stronger every second.
This memory will be intense, he can already tell, the smell is potent, so thick he can almost see it deforming the air in front of him. His heart gives a lurch of anticipation, settling against the bark of his tree, Eddy hovering anxiously near him.
He shakes his head with amusement and inhales.
*
It’s heavy and romantic, sticks to his senses like syrup, Tchaikovsky under his fingers.
“Hey.”
The conductor is sweating and he smells his own perspiration but there’s no care given as the whole orchestra swells together with him.
“Boyao!”
It resonates infinite inside his ribcage and the weight of the audience’s stare has disappeared under the music.
“Come back!”
Dark tendrils wrap around his raised arm, the bow is getting heavier but still he presses it against the strings, forges on as the concerto ladders in thinner shreds of sounds.
“Please, come back!”
There’s no air in his lungs anymore, but the music has to keep going, he can’t give it up right now, even as the hole under the stage grows and swallows the second violin, getting closer.
“Don’t leave me, not again.”
Colors and sound are spiraling away and he tries to cling to it, to grip the memory in phantom fingers as it’s sucked away, all the life and people thrumming around him.
His mouth is hot and his cheeks are cold.
The last strands of memories dissipate with the sensations of his body coming back.
He’s being kissed.
His brain doesn’t even have the luxury of wondering who it is, Weicheng’s smell is wrapped around him, quiet sobs resonating against his lips and he wishes he wasn’t that well acquainted with the sound of his friend crying.
A hand at the back of his neck is burning but tears are dropping against his skin.
It hurts.
He’s not sure what it is, exactly; something he pushed back so deeply that the kiss is excavating it in the most painful manner.
“We’re not supposed to do that,” he whispers against Weicheng’s lips, mind entangled in music and heart pushing against his ribcage.
“You’re back?” his friend croaks, incredulousness painting his voice, letting Boyao’s lips catch some respite. “It worked… It worked, oh I thought I had lost you. You were in there forever.” He buries his nose in Boyao’s hair, squeezing a bit too tight.
From the corner of his eye, Boyao catches the flower torn up on the grass.
“Well, this memory isn’t going anywhere.”
“Stop thinking about your work for one second.” There’s an edge of reproach in Weicheng’s voice, red rimming his eyes and blotching his skin as he untangles himself from the embrace. “What were you thinking, clinging that hard to a memory that’s not even yours? I know you don’t- you don’t want this- me. Us. But are you that willing to leave me behind?”
“Weicheng…”
“I told you, I prefer Eddy.”
“Eddy. Sorry-” He feels raw, his lips are still tingling, emotions crawling over his skin and he doesn’t think he can deal with this right now. “This isn’t- I never meant it that way. I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Stop pushing me away.”
And Eddy is the one putting distance between them, standing up with something desperate in his eyes - a feverish glint - as they rake over Boyao’s body, so insistent, like he’s trying again to read the memories swirling under his skin.
“I’m not.” I’m trying to keep you. “You don’t understand. You’re the one leaving every time, I’m the one stuck under that tree every minute of this very long life.”
“I’m never going to leave you, you know that.”
Boyao is cold every place Eddy touched him, the grass crunch between his fingers - he hates fighting with him - near them, the petals are useless, devoid of their glow. No memories in them anywhere.
“I hate that you have to do this.” Eddy keeps talking, getting more agitated as he paces - he’s an immortal capable of crossing the earth in the span of a few minutes, his turmoil is making the lake ripple, the vegetation dance and Boyao’s chest squeeze. “Every time you breathe those flowers you disappear. You become an empty shell, white eyes and no life. It goes on forever- like you’re never coming back and I’m scared I’ll never see you again because they bring you something that I’ll never be able to give you.”
His hands are shaking and sweat is gathering at his forehead, his skin seems to pulse with a familiar energy.
“Hey, hey, hey, calm down.” Boyao scrambles to his feet, closing his hand around his friend’s wrist, running his thumb over his jittering pulse. “I’m here. I’m fine. I’ll always come back to you, I swear.”
“No you won’t,” Eddy chokes. “You’re not as tough as you think you are.”
Tears are streaming down his cheeks again, his body glowing blue under the lights, and Boyao is so confused he feels ready to cry too. Nothing makes any sense - Eddy always was a bit strange, rambling on obscure subjects and making references only he can appreciate, but this is something else entirely.
“What’s going on? What did I do?” His voice gives a shake because Eddy seems so angry at him. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t remember… You go through so many memories, you forgot your own.” A sweet smell emanates when his friend opens his mouth, leaning close enough to brush his nose against his - Boyao thinks maybe he’s about to be kissed again. “You left,” Eddy whispers against his lips.
Then crumbles to the ground.
His pupils are white.
“What did you do?! Eddy! Weicheng!”
Boyao falls next to his body, panic blocking every pathway - breathing, thinking, swallowing.
It’s when he presses his hands to the unmoving chest that he notices: the light is coming from Eddy. The sweet smell.
“No…”
On Eddy’s tongue, the petal is nothing but dead vegetation.
“You idiot! You can’t- the memories aren’t for you! Stupid-”
So this was why Eddy kissed him, ripped petal in his mouth to absorb the memories Boyao was drowning in.
To bring him back.
He’s like one of his flowers, passed out under his tree, skin glowing brighter every second like a freshly bloomed one and the smell is getting stronger.
Boyao knows what to do - what he’s done for the past centuries or millenniums.
He leans down, closes his eyes and inhales.
*
The path is sneaking between peaks and hills, the next village like a dot promising a bed and a meal. There is fog gathering behind them and a chill racks up his spine despite the humid heat.
“We should hurry.”
“Easy for you to say, your legs are at least double the length of mine.” The man next to him is smiling despite his words, xiao dangling from his belt. “How far is the village? I can’t see it.”
“Your eyesight is so bad...”
“Yup. Half-blind, short-legged, tone-deaf musician; that’s me, Yang Boyao!” He laughs and he looks beautiful. “Now let’s go before the ghosts of the fog catch up to us.”
“There’s no ghosts in the fog,” he quips back but readjusts the guqin strapped to his back before winding down the hill. “What should we play tonight?”
In the rising smoke of the village, he can read the promise of another evening playing music for a foreign crowd and tasting all sorts of delicacies, side by side with his soulmate.
“Have you seen where we are,” Boyao extends his arms to encompass the high peaks flirting with snow. “There’s only one answer to this.”
“Gao shan it is then,” Weicheng hums and the sweetness of the smile he gets in return makes him intertwine his fingers with the callused ones of his friend.
They both know what townsfolk will think when they will play this. And what there really is between them - they haven’t felt like brothers for a long time.
*
“Chen Weicheng,” he hears, with sheets rustling under them as his friends get closer - he has a way of saying his name that no one can replicate.
The nice couple who let them stay for the night in their house only had one bed and they don’t mind sharing, they’ve cuddled more than once on the border of the road, when they can’t find refuge before the night falls.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
Boyao is honest with his words, but still likes to keep the declaration sparse. Enough that his heart squeezes and expands until it hurts when he hears them.
“I love you too.”
*
There are no ghosts in the fog, he said, when they were going down the hill.
But he runs, feels the cold wisps against his skin and their haunted murmurs resonate in his head. His voice is hoarse from calling Boyao’s name for hours but he doesn’t think he can stop.
In the mist, white water laps at black grass in the distance.
There’s no resting until he finds him.
“Weicheng, Gods, Weicheng,” he’s crying around the evaporating smell of memories he wasn’t supposed to absorb. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
And he’s the one kissing his lips, again and again, until his friend wakes up to Boyao stealing his air after intruding on his mind. His own memories are catching up - their days roaming the world and playing music as mortals. Fighting against the cold of the night and scrapping for food.
“You saw yourself, huh,” Weicheng blinks up at him, looking so sad when Boyao is ecstatic.
“Weicheng… This is- how could I forget? How could I forget you?” He’s laughing, a bit hysterical, because it all makes so much sense and Weicheng knew . All this time he knew. What they had been before. “You were my everything, we were the best of friends, lovers tighter bound than family. We traveled as far as our feet would take us together,” he babbles and a flower or two are blooming on his tree but he doesn’t care because his own memories are infinitely more precious.
“I know…”
“Why are you crying? Aren’t you glad I remember?”
No- No, I- you weren’t supposed to-”
“Shhh. Shh, come here, it’s gonna be okay.” He kisses his shoulder, climbs up his neck, breathes against the shell of his ear and enjoys the shivers that racks up Weicheng's body.
Memories of old nights intertwined are at odds with the centuries of longing where he somehow managed to fall back in love with his best friend after forgetting about him.
*
There are golden and blue robes under the tree when Boyao wakes up, and the warm body is still next to him.
Sitting at the top of his trinkets, a woman made of white is observing them. Her skin shimmers like the lake, unrippled and expressionless. The black of her eyes makes his tree look grey.
“Hello.” He hears even when her mouth doesn't move. “I am Death.”
Boyao doesn’t answer. Closes his hand around Weicheng’s wrist but his lover stays unmoving.
“I am impressed. I did not think he would last this long without telling you anything.”
Boyao’s mind is working twice as fast as usual when his stomach knots and his throat constricts.
“He didn’t tell me anything,” he manages to unstuck his tongue from his palate despite the presence of the woman weighing down every part of his body.
“He showed you. It is all the same for me, a deal is a deal after all.” Death rises up from her impromptu throne, floating more than walking, a finger tracing Weicheng’s cheek.
A shiver racks up his spine and Boyao exhales in relief at the sight - he’s not dead.
“What did he do?” He wraps his arms protectively around the still naked form of his lover. “What did he do after I died?”
“What do you think?” Death looks amused, like she has all the time in the world, the tone she would use to tease a child.
“He followed me to the afterlife, didn’t he?” There's a paste in his mouth at the memory of Weicheng roaming the fog, calling for him, mingling with ghosts and lost souls.
“He would follow you anywhere.”
“Idiot,” he whispers against his friend’s hair but can’t find it in himself to regret it, because they spent the past millenniums together.
“I am afraid this is the end now. If even Death doesn’t honor her deals, everything would crumble.”
“What deal? Why is Weicheng still asleep? Why don’t you want him to hear?”
“Because maybe.” she leans closer to him, and there’s no smell nor heat coming from her. “You want to make another deal with me.”
*
“So. You bargained with Death, huh.” He runs his finger up the curve of Weicheng’s shoulder. “Should have expected that from you.”
“You’re not mad?” Weicheng blinks at him slowly - always taking so much time to wake.
“No. I would have done the same,” Boyao sighs and settles himself in his lover’s arms.
They’re still naked and pressed together, he can see the indent of Weicheng’s teeth on his lower lip, all the details of his skin immortality didn’t erase, feel the calluses of his hands when they roam his skin - er-hu, then the violin, and every other instrument they played through their mortal and immortal life.
“It’s all over now,” Eddy murmurs against his cheek. “Death is going to come for me now that you remember.”
“So that was the deal, huh. You could stay as long as I didn’t know.”
“She thought you would never keep extracting memories if you remembered how colorful yours were.”
“She was right,” Boyao points to the tree - another flower bloomed, the smell nothing more than a sugary annoyance now that he can drown in Weicheng.
A few of them fell on the ground already, neglected.
“We had some good years, still, I hope.” Weicheng's embrace gets tighter, his head disappearing in Boyao’s collarbone. “I wish we had done this sooner. I had hoped maybe we could have this again, even if you didn’t remember. I tried to do my best to make your life here as good as possible.”
“You did good, Weicheng. You were the best thing,” his hand threads the hair tickling his chin, looking up at the sky in eternal dusk.
“It was a bit hard, sometimes. Hearing you say my name with that tone you used- like you remembered, like when we were teens and you kissed me for the first time.”
“Mmh. Hence the whole Eddy thing. I’m sorry I made your life harder.”
“Never.”
Weicheng kisses him, still lazy and slow, just a drag of lips and warmth, the smell of his skin plunging Boyao in memories of their own - the same love and companionship on different beddings each night, the same pieces for different audiences in each village and city that passed under their travels.
“I don’t want to forget,” he breathes against Weicheng’s lips. “I never want to forget you again.”
The void left by Weicheng’s absence had carved loneliness, like a missing piece with blurry edges that he never wanted to experiment again.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, I feel like I tried every tree of memory, met so many recollectors and when none of them was you I- I’m glad I found you.”
“Me too.”
“Boyao…”
“Yes?”
“Nothing, I like saying your name.”
“Sap.”
Weicheng laughs and Boyao catches the sound in a kiss, absorbs it like he breathes in memories.
On his pile of gifts, two wrapped instruments have joined the violin case, but Weicheng still hasn’t noticed, too busy loving him with his mouth and hands.
*
“She came while I was asleep, didn’t she?”
They are dressed now and four new flowers have fallen to the ground, light dissipating as the petal-like lilies let memories leak on the grass.
Boyao should feel bad for those recollections that will stay lost in time but those are not his preoccupation anymore.
“Yes.”
“She told you…”
“Yes.”
The cloth is removed from the guqin with care and respect, Weicheng’s finger plucking one string.
“And you made another deal with her.”
“Yes,” he smiles, turning the bamboo flute in his hands, fingers mimicking patterns of a familiar piece even when he hasn’t played it in so long. “As I said, I never want to forget you again.”
“I trust you know what you were doing.”
“It’s Death, Weicheng, of course I don’t know what I’m doing. I think you didn’t either when you begged her to stay with me, but thanks to that we spent a small eternity together.”
“So. What is this about?” His lover extends his hands to their instruments, to the flowers that Boyao doesn’t bother picking up, to the space between them.
“I thought you might enjoy playing with me again. You’ve been avoiding the guqin and xiao in case they brought back my memories, haven't you?”
“I always enjoy playing with you,” Weicheng’s tone has his usual flirt, warm and open, like pleasing Boyao is his existence’s purpose. “Oh. I never told you, but we’re famous, you know?”
He sends a few notes in the air, at ease around the guqin like he never stopped playing it.
“How so?”
“The tale? Boya and Ziqi? Soulmates playing music together? They wrote things about us after you went missing, when I broke my guqin and went to look for you. They probably got your name better than mine because I yelled it so much in the mountains.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“At least we have a whole legend,” Weicheng shrugs, seeming disappointed that Boyao wasn’t more impressed with their legacy. “We had something so special they wrote stories about us.”
Boyao lowers the xiao pressed against his mouth, steps closer to his lover, just enough to lean over the guqin and kiss his lips.
“We still have.” His voice is fond and his fingers light over Weicheng’s cheekbone, delighting in the smile he gets in return. “Let’s play now?”
*
“You can take your time, just step in when you are ready.” She lays the instruments down.
“The last thing we need is time, we’ve had more than enough of it already,” he tightens his grip around Weicheng’s shoulder, like maybe he can protect him from Death herself if he stays close enough. “I’m sick of seeing this tree.”
“You’ve done well until now, recollector, I suppose it is natural that I relieve you of your duties after all this time.”
“What is- what happens? After.” He makes a vague gesture toward the lake.
She doesn’t answer immediately, steps away from the guqin and xiao, and observes the space. The robes discarded at the foot of the tree, the gifts and trinkets amassed through history, the Stradivarius and translucent flowers. When her black gaze rests on the two intertwined immortals, Boyao regrets asking.
“I am not the one you want to discover this with,” Death smiles and it sends a shiver down his spine.
He doesn’t see her disappear.
*
Boyao’s throat still vibrates with music, the plucked strings loud in his ears and they have probably played enough that their music resonates in the world of the living, too strong to be contained to this patch of dark grass, slipping through the cracks.
They have been together for most of their mortal lives, spent as much as eternity as they could in this in-between, there is only one place to go together now.
“Should we take the Strad?” Weicheng sends a forlorn look to the violin case.
“Go ahead, who knows what awaits us.”
There is no pathfinder for them, as they step into the white lake, hand in hand.