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“A-Xu, can you tell me a story?” Wen Kexing asked.
Zhou Zishu froze at the sound of his voice. He was bent over a low table in the sitting room, reading a scroll. His head hurt, as he traced the characters with one finger – they were familiar, none of the strokes and curves felt out of place, the sentences painted colourful images in his mind. But the scenes were blurred, like parchment that fell victim to an overturned jar of wine, and Zhou Zishu struggled to make sense of the details.
He relaxed when he felt Wen Kexing’s arms brush over his back, coming to hug his waist. White hair spilled across his vision as the other man crawled into his lap and settled himself against Zhou Zishu’s collarbone.
He pressed a soft kiss to Wen Kexing’s temple. “What story, Lao Wen?”
It was, in fact, a fairytale that Zhou Zishu had been trying to decipher. A fable about a girl who had fallen in love with her friend, and travelled to the moon to cut the red string that had tied her beloved to another. He let the scroll drop and splayed his palms across Wen Kexing’s back. He wanted to bring him closer, but only allowed himself the softest pull.
Wen Kexing had not wanted to be close, the previous night. They had gone to bed with enough space between them to fit another person, and woke up on opposite sides of the wooden frame, only feet touching. Decades of frostbitten fingers and ice-crusted eyelashes, and that dawn had felt the coldest Zhou Zishu could remember. Now, he was content to rub his thumb under Wen Kexing’s shoulder blade, patient.
“Something to make it hurt less,” Wen Kexing muttered against his skin.
“I’m not good at stories,” Zhou Zishu said.
“You are.”
“Not like you.”
Wen Kexing was quiet for a moment. His jaw worked. Zhou Zishu thought he could feel something cold trailing down his own skin, disappearing into his collar.
“I just want to listen to you. A-Xu, please.”
Zhou Zishu sighed, but it was all fondness. He tightened his hold around Wen Kexing’s back, and cleared his throat, before he began. “Alright, alright. Let’s see… There was a –”
“That’s not how you start a story.” Wen Kexing tensed and shook his head, leaning backwards so that he could scowl at Zhou Zishu. There was the tiniest hint of a smile around his lips, a feeble attempt at his usual playfulness.
“What? What’s wrong with it?” Zhou Zishu asked with an eye-roll.
“You should start the proper way. Once upon a time. Or, a long time ago,” Wen Kexing said.
Zhou Zishu pinched the skin on his waist and brought him back against his neck, muttering: “You were the one begging for a story. Don’t be so demanding.”
“I’m only being helpful. Because I know that A-Xu can do better.”
“Hush!” Zhou Zishu took a deep breath, then another. “Once upon a time, the ten sons of the Jade Emperor turned into ten suns – ”
Wen Kexing stirred in his arms, before he had even finished the first sentence. Zhou Zishu closed his eyes, and didn’t bother looking at the other man’s face – he knew he’d find it sulking.
“Not that one! It’s too happy.”
“Too happy? Chang’e ends up living on the moon, lonely, only with a rabbit to keep her company.”
“And it’s what she deserves,” Wen Kexing said, huffing for emphasis. “I don’t care for her tragedy, honestly. It’s so trivial. Meaningless.”
“Okay.”
Zhou Zishu took a few moments to concentrate on the rise and fall of Wen Kexing’s chest. On the way his breath tickled Zhou Zishu’s ears. The most sacred reminder of this person, this man, whose hands could snap a neck in a second’s hesitation, and who had folded himself into his hold, a soft and boneless weight, completely at his mercy. “But don’t interrupt me again, Lao Wen, or you can just tell the story by yourself.”
“Mn.”
Zhou Zishu opened his mouth to start: “Once upon a time… ”
… there were two immortals who lived on a tall, secluded mountain. Their home sat at its crowning point, a little house of stone and ice, only seen by a handful of souls who ever wandered up its path.
The immortals were happy to keep to themselves. A faithful pair, they were content to have one another for company, two halves of the same soul, sworn to stand side by side through any number of threats. Over the span of their infinite lives, they had weathered many storms – powerful blizzards that shook the whole mountain, attacks from savage beasts drawn to their scent, and countless battles against peers and adversaries alike. They loved each other, dearly, and believed that their love was enough to protect them from even the most dangerous challenges.
The immortals rarely stepped down from their mountain. The black-haired one, Zhou Xu, would sometimes walk beyond the clouds that hid them from the world, to lecture curious children on their martial arts. His companion, Philanthropist Wen, was more reluctant to breach the mortal realm. He was a handsome man, youthful despite his silver hair, and he often used his good looks to his advantage. The villagers that lived nearby claimed that his hair had turned white from grief, and the mountain was a shelter from his memories. When Philanthropist Wen appeared, seldom as it was, Zhou Xu was always by his side.
There was, each year, only one night when the two immortals would travel all the way down the snowy slopes. It was always in the eighth month, on a night when the moon was at its fullest, so close to the mountain that its peak could almost cast a shadow on its glow. On this night, the villagers would look at the moon, claiming that, if the children tried hard enough, they could see the immortals’ silhouettes reflected on the moon’s surface.
This was just a tale, however, for the two men travelled a path much longer than the one that would lead them to the moon. They set off in the early morning, crossed through forests and gorges, and held onto each other as they flew across steep valleys and small settlements. Their destination was no grander than an ordinary village, but it was the same one, each year, and they’d always find familiar faces waiting for them the moment they reached the village gates.
“ That’s where they were born,” said some people.
“That’s where they first met,” suggested others.
Neither belief was true. They had never lived in the village, and it did not even exist, back when the two immortals had first met. But it was where their family lived, and so they returned, year after year, to reunite with them in the full moon’s glow.
“You’re doing a good job, A-Xu, but I’m not sure where this story is going,” Wen Kexing said, a little curious, a little wary.
“You’ll find out if you stop interrupting me.” Zhou Zishu shushed him.
“I’m just wondering. A good story needs some twists, too – to stay interesting.”
The head of the family that welcomed the immortals, Zhang Chengling, was a well-respected man. Many people envied him – for his martial arts skills, the loyalty of his disciples, or even his beautiful wife. But it was on that particular night of the year that all of the villagers wished to stand in his shoes.
Zhang Chengling never spoke of the immortals, when strangers asked him why the two men held him in such high regard. Some speculated that he had to have helped them on a past adventure. Others thought that Chengling had made a pact with them, to learn the secrets of their long life. The villagers stopped asking, but they observed. They listened. And, over the years, most of them came to agree that the story was simpler: Zhang Chengling was the closest thing the immortals had to a son.
“You’re not wearing enough furs, Little Idiot,” Philanthropist Wen would scold him, instead of a greeting, even when the weather was still far from freezing.
“Make sure the disciples follow their training,” Zhou Xu would say, to part with him, something like tears sparkling in his eyes.
The immortals always stretched their arms wide across Zhang Chengling, before setting off for their mountain – and the same rituals repeated themselves, year after year, as Zhang Chengling’s hair grew grey and his body slumped with the heaviness of old bones.
Towards the end of his life, the immortals’ visits grew less regular.
If they came, it was always on that same night, and they would disappear into Zhang Chengling’s manor as the moon made its way up the sky, then leave as soon as it traded places with the sun. Sometimes, two falls would pass without their sighting, and the villagers whispered: “They must’ve had a fight. Lao Zhang ought to beg for their forgiveness.”
“It’s about time they stopped coming,” the more superstitious would say. “Who knows what they get up to. The village doesn’t need any more trouble.”
Just after Zhang Chengling had turned seventy, there was a period of five years, when everyone believed the immortals had said their final goodbyes. “They know the end is near. They’ve probably been through this before, can’t blame them for staying away.”
And, true to the prophecies, the immortals didn’t come, the year Zhang Chengling died.
His funeral was towards the end of summer, and all the attendees kept their eyes peeled for the familiar figures, Zhou Xu with his quiet smile, Philanthropist Wen and his mischievous smirk. There was nary a flicker of their robes, but the village knew that Nian Xiang would flinch at any hint of blue and white, for seven days, as she held vigil by her late father’s bed.
The immortals were considered invincible. According to the legends, they could survive the fiercest of battles, and bravely face the strongest enemies. When the two men returned for the lunar reunion, the next year, the villagers were surprised at the sight of their tears. Zhou Xu cried quietly, while Philanthropist Wen blew loudly into the sleeve of his elegant robes. They held onto each other, in the village square, where a random passerby greeted them with the news.
The grief cut deep, as the immortals themselves realised that there was an enemy that they could never hope to conquer – time.
“A-Xu, how could we forget?”
The truth was, Zhou Zishu didn’t know. Perhaps immortality had kept their bodies young, while their minds still eroded, like they would in any other men their age. Perhaps they had been distracted, worried about the new settlements that were crawling up the mountain, closer and closer to their home. Or, perhaps, they just got swept up in the flow of time. Years, Zhou Zishu often thought, could pass like minutes, when one had no commitments, no dates to track, and no obligations to stick to. None but the one.
Zhou Zishu brushed a stray tear away from Wen Kexing’s cheek. Flicked him on the same spot with his index finger, gently. “I’m sure Chengling understood. We talked about it –”
“We said we’d be there.”
“We said we’d try.”
“Did we try?”
Zhou Zishu wasn’t sure of this answer, either, and they had long since agreed not to tell each other lies, no matter how well-intentioned. He held onto the tense curve of Wen Kexing’s shoulders, hoping the silence would suffice. When Wen Kexing sighed, he pressed a gentle kiss to the slope of his nose.
That’s how Nian Xiang found them, a few minutes later. They heard her polite knocks, but didn’t bother disentangling their bodies, no thoughts to spare on propriety. She only froze for a blink, before smiling at them. “Tai Shishu, Tai Shifu, will you join us for breakfast?”
Familiar hands tugged at her robes, a toddler peeking in from the hallway. The boy fled when Zhou Zishu met his gaze, disappearing in a thunder of graceless stomps. The two men exchanged a single look and nodded. Breakfast would likely be nothing except fresh water, but they would gladly go thirsty, to stay for the company.
“Thank you for the tale, A-Xu. Your storytelling skills have improved,” Wen Kexing said, once Nian Xiang closed the door. “Which is unfortunate, seeing as you can now use them to hurt me.”
“After living with you for so long,” Zhou Zishu said, “it would be embarrassing if they didn’t.”
Wen Kexing protested. He straightened up, rubbed a hand across his face, and scooted down to the floor. Zhou Zishu stopped him, bracketing his body with his thighs and bringing him back towards his chest. A little harsh, a little needy. Wen Kexing chuckled.
“I wasn’t finished with the story, though.”
The immortals mourned – overtaken by the joint grief of losing Zhang Chengling, and their chance to meet him for the last time.
The family didn’t blame them. They all understood that, for a deathless being, time was like a flame. Even the biggest fire could appear to be nothing but smolder, from their home up on the mountain.
That year, for the first time anyone could remember, the immortals stayed in the human realm for longer than a day. In the manor that was once known for Zhang Chengling’s benevolent teaching, and which was now run by his daughter, his most loyal disciple, they found themselves a quiet space, away from prying eyes. There, they patched up their wounds. Slowly and imperfectly, with nothing but words and each other to lean on.
After the worst of the cuts had scabbed, the immortals revisited old stories, to help themselves turn the tide of time. They told, and wrote down, countless little anecdotes – in a drafty room with a single bed and a wooden table. They sat for days as they crafted their memories into things that could be held and passed on. A treasure that couldn’t be stolen. Heroes that couldn’t be forgotten. By the end of their work, they had almost a hundred of them, fables that told of how their lives would be forever intertwined with that of their mortal family.
Zhou Xu recorded the first one, a tale from the very beginning, when the immortals had introduced themselves to the village. They arrived one sunny afternoon, no names, no explanations, and looked for a boy who had long ago turned into a man. The residents were taken aback, but intrigued. So much so that they took it in turns to visit Zhang Chengling’s manor, just for an opportunity to spot the newcomers.
Jiamei-jie, who had the reputation of the most beautiful girl among her peers, put on her best robes and turned up with a giant basket of fruit. Her parents scolded her, later, for giving away their best pomelo. Wang-ayi, known for her baking skills as well as her scrimping nature, knocked on the door with a selection of her least shapely mooncakes, with lotus paste that had spilled over and egg yolks that had fallen apart in the oven. Lao Huang, who occasionally helped with gardening errands around the manor, claimed that he had forgotten his shears near the jasmine bushes, though he later left empty-handed, curiosity satisfied.
Many others came, each excuse less believable than the last. Together, they assembled what they’d learned about the immortals, and filled the rest in with rumours and exaggerations. That’s where the villagers started imagining the details of their love story. That’s how it came to be known that Zhou Xu could disarm a man with his glare, or that Philanthropist Wen was afraid of mice.
The latter also contributed his own share of anecdotes, like the tale that told the story of Zhang Chengling’s two weddings. While his bride had insisted on marrying in early spring, on an auspicious date months before their reunion, she agreed to repeat her vows under the glint of the full moon, when the two men arrived.
The second wedding had been the true one – they all later referred to the spring ceremony as a mere rehearsal. It lasted from sunset till dawn, and although the immortals could only drink cold water, they toasted the attendees with fragrant osmanthus wine. Zhou Xu regaled the disciples with tales of their mountain adventures, making up ghosts and dragons and tigers that materialised from icicles. Philanthropist Wen entertained the guests by sharing scandalous domestic anecdotes, which had Zhou Xu looking at the wine with desperate desire.
Some of the stories, they helped each other remember.
They both loved the fable of Nian Xiang’s seventh birthday, when they found the girl crying near a lotus pond, just outside the village. She hugged their knees when she saw them, burying her face into the folds of their robes.
Her friends had taunted her, she explained, about all the mooncakes that they would eat. “They have big families, and all their relatives will bring presents and sweets,” she said, wailing. Nian Xiang’s maternal grandparents had died the previous year, and she only had two aunts who sent their regards each year, and never visited. “I told them stories about you, but they don’t believe me.”
“You know the stories are true, A-Xiang. Don’t worry about them,” Philanthropist Wen said, and no sooner had they finished calming the girl down, he rolled up his sleeves and stormed into the manor’s kitchen. He mobilised a dozen disciples and servants, and handed out tasks like a military general: to gather ingredients, to oil the moulds, to test the fillings that he made by himself, but couldn’t taste. Lotus paste and fatty pork and candied fruit, he grew more daring with each combination.
Zhou Xu left him to his antics, the kitchen a battlefield with tactics he had never learned to master. Instead, he went to play with Nian Xiang, building her airplanes out of branches, and lighting up lanterns, enough of them to send even the silliest of her wishes up to the moon.
When Philanthropist Wen finished his kitchen crusade, there were over a hundred mooncakes, a veritable mountain, with fillings that most of the villagers had never heard of. The family ate less than a tenth of them, and when the immortals said their goodbyes, the next morning, Philanthropist Wen told Nian Xiang that she should share the rest with her friends. “And tell them your Tai Shishu sends his regards.”
Only when all the stories were written down, over sixty moon reunions spanning farce to tragedy, did the immortals rest. They laid down in the same room that had served as their sanctuary, holding each other.
“Do you feel better now?” Zhou Xu asked.
“I do,” the other answered.
“Good. We have more stories to record, once we rest,” Zhou Xu said, pretending to close his eyes.
“Thank you, A-Xu,” said Philanthropist Wen, and kissed the other man, settling into his arms.
They slept, and in their sleep, they thought of more stories, fragments of memories and dreams alike. In the morning, they would continue preserving them. For now, they had time.
There was a heavy silence in the room, after Zhou Zishu’s final words. Then Wen Kexing sighed. “Very clever, A-Xu, now I have to kiss you.”
“Perks of being the one telling the story,” Zhou Zishu shrugged. “It’s only fair.”
Wen Kexing gave another put-upon huff, but he brought his palm to Zhou Zishu’s cheek, cradling it.
“Did you mean it?”
“Which part?”
“About recording our stories. So we don’t forget.”
“Yes. We can write them down.” Zhou Zishu nodded. “All of them. None of them. Whichever ones you want.”
Wen Kexing kissed him, then. Far more passionately than the tender kisses Zhou Zishu had envisioned for his tale, but he didn’t complain. He let Wen Kexing crawl back into his lap, to press tiny marks onto the skin of his neck. Five, ten, fifty years later, Zhou Zishu’s heart still went soft with each touch, and his body could scarcely get its fill.
They broke apart, eventually, and spent a few minutes just breathing. Wen Kexing into the crook of Zhou Zishu’s neck, Zhou Zishu against his temple. He watched as the strands of white hair fluttered before his eyes, and said: “We should clean up. They’re waiting for us.”
Wen Kexing hummed. He stood up, carefully, like his legs had grown too young for the weight of his age. Once he’d fixed his robes and ran a hand down his hair, he reached out for Zhou Zishu, pulling him up.
“I think we should spend more time with A-Xiang. There’s still so much about her father that she doesn’t know. And she misses us more than the mountain ever could,” Wen Kexing said.
“I agree, Lao Wen.”
Before they left the room, Wen Kexing stilled in the doorway, palm pressing against Zhou Zishu’s waist. He chewed on his words, silently, then smiled.
“A-Xu, will you eat mooncakes with me, when the time comes?”
Zhou Zishu just nodded.
“Of course.”