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Historians will call them anything but.
Zhang Qishan brought mystery with him, an air of confidence in his stride, no flinch of scars at the mention of violence, battles of emotions a complexity no one has gotten close to enough to know. Except for him, Er Yuehong, gentle with words, understanding of peace, a person to accompany him in mutual solitude. The one who understands him.
Drunk, reckless as he poured more alcohol to his mouth, Er Ye thought to himself of the sceptical materials that changes in the wind, a quick sound in turn and twist. He thought to himself of the world, the strange and bitter emotions, the careless yet thoughtful ways. He thought to himself, why of the mind was there to move them more than oceans, more than land.
Fo Ye licked his lips silently, staring at the man across him as a tipsy tint of feeling played at his heart. A threat, a spill, a single action or move gone wrong, he was well aware of his actions – of himself. The sober weight kept his head high and his shoulders pushed back, holding his posture the way one might do when applauded with a nation’s battle, the way one would act when burdened with a fate worse of pain to the life. “Er Ye,” he sounded out, clicking his tongue with each words as he thought his sentence out. Carefully, he reached a hand forward to touch gentle against the bottle of alcohol, catching the attention of the other. “You should stop drinking.”
One would see their conversation, their place, and believe at first impression that it was merely two men drinking of sorrows and singing of dreams, yet both shared no similar words to accompany. “No,” Er Ye whispered back firmly, bringing the bottle back towards him as the soldier’s fingers drifted afar, no longer warm against the liquor. “You should drink more.”
He swallowed slightly, a shallow gulp with his tongue poking at his teeth, and Er Ye knew that would be his response; the best he could achieve from a man with a resistant method. “Then eat the noodles,” he said, a warm and lenient tone, his eyes glassy. If he could, Zhang Qishan would eat the noodles, would drink the broth, finish the bowl, but he did not feel it, did not at all. With hesitance, he looked upwards to closely examine the singer, a slow blink as he reached out to slip the bottle away. “No.”
A spring was in expectance, yet no resistance came, the liquor in the Zhang’s hands as he settled it down on the table, Er Yuehong entranced as he stared at him with quietness. “Qishan,” came his voice, a softspoken detail as he rested his chin against his hand, “why did you leave?”
He left, years ago, under pretence of his work, his family and life. Yet he acted that way, under false pretence, to the tune of the truth – his heart snapped and lost its own melody, tucked away as he pretended not to feel. “Did you hate her? Was it her?”
“It was not,” answered the commander, face bare of emotions, a deep breath in as he pulled his chair closer towards the table, tucking his legs under the furniture. He turned his head downwards as if in shame, fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “It was me, myself. Not you nor her.”
A lie, he knew, but he did not know how to ask him to tell the truth.
“I love you.”
Fo Ye widened his eyes in surprise, head flickering upwards as he watched Er Ye stare at him. “You… love me?” He noticed how Er Ye slightly sloped his head in a nod, eyes half closed as if to shield himself.
“But I knew that if I had to choose, it would be her,” he continued, and Fo Ye felt his heart reconnect the seals just in time to be broken. “Her because she is she, a female, a wife. Her because it was obvious, it was justifiable, it was easier for her confession to be known than to walk in unprepared.”
“So you still love me?”
“I do,” said Er Ye, dropping his arm from the table as he leaned forward slightly, head tilted to the right. “When you left, I thought it meant I could lose these emotions. But they strengthen, they became stronger than the feelings I had of her. Of the person I was meant to love.”
Sudden confidence came to Zhang Qishan, empathy to his words coming to his mind, his eyes watering as he held in the last taste of satisfaction. “I love you,” he whispered, watching the other male blink in response, and he surged forwards, connecting their lips with a gentle push.
Illuminated by the solemn lights, at the stall where they sat in silence, a garden near to emptiness of its precautions.
No more was Zhang Qishan misunderstood.
No more was Er Yuehong misunderstanding.
But history hates lovers.