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Fang Duobing would never give up the freedom of the jianghu now he’s tasted it, but he has to admit, there are some benefits to being in his mother’s house again. The tea is fragrant; the chef knows all his favourite foods; the bed is soft and there’s very little chance he’ll be woken up by a cold dog nose in his ear.1
He sips his tea and stares at one of the martial arts manuals with which his mother has thoughtfully stocked the room, and wishes he had one single concern to spare for the book in front of him. His thoughts are an ugly tangle, snagging on things he’s not ready to examine and hauling them into the light.
For years, he had cherished the ideal of Li Xiangyi: the martial world’s one bright hope, tucked away in Fang Duobing’s heart like a secret. It had been so hard, in those early years, and every time he had dropped his sword and stumbled, he had imagined that elegant figure helping him to his feet and murmuring words of encouragement. The Li Xiangyi of his imagination had always known what to say.
It would be easier, really, if he could tell himself that he’d just been chasing a mirage all these years, that Li Xiangyi had never been that shining pillar of righteousness, that he’d schemed with the Jinyuan Alliance, murdered his sect brother, fallen into well-deserved ignominy and shame. Except that he’s been travelling with Li Lianhua for weeks now and none of that seems true.
He’s seen firsthand the way Li Lianhua’s mind works - no wonder the man was a martial arts genius at fifteen - and the way he never lets an easy answer lie when the truth is more complicated. (The way he avoids giving up his own truths as easily as he would dodge a swordblow.) The way he can’t seem to stop helping, in his own irascible way, whether as medicine pedlar or detective.
But Shan Gudao is dead, and Li Xiangyi has been lying to the entire world for nearly a decade, and Fang Duobing has probably just thrown away his future with Baichuan Court to hide the man he doesn’t want to believe killed his father.
The tea has gone cold by the time the first knock comes.
Trust Li Lianhua to hurt himself in an empty room, he thinks as he hurries over.
When he gets there and finds that it's yet another - what? Lie? Joke? Trick? - his concern curdles in his stomach.
What's the point? he wants to ask. Do you really need more proof that I'll come running when you call?
Li Lianhua watches him as he leaves, the smile that says life is a joke only he is in on playing around his mouth.
By the time the second knock comes, Fang Duobing has almost succeeded in reading a page of his book. He is entirely ready to leave Li Lianhua to whatever trick he has decided will be amusing this time, but Li'er looks so genuinely distressed that he agrees to be made a fool of a second time.
Except that when he gets to the shed, it is immediately clear that Li Lianhua is not faking it this time. He remembers, abruptly, all the times he has seen him stumble or cough or lose his focus, only to shrug it off as a minor side effect of his 'heart condition'. No, Li Lianhua would never let Fang Duobing see him this ill unless he had no choice.
He does not remember crossing the room to him, nor the way he crumples to the ground at his side. He's only aware of how thin Li Lianhua's robes feel under his hand, how tight a ball he has screwed himself into to hoard whatever warmth he can. This close, he can see cold sweat beading on Li Lianhua's neck, the bloodless press of his lips over clenched teeth.
"Bring quilts," he orders, voice hoarse, "and hot wine." The house is too recent a purchase and the season too early for it to be supplied with proper braziers, but if the kitchen fires are still lit, perhaps they can improvise something…
Under his hands, Li Lianhua curls further into himself, away from Fang Duobing, and something in Fang Duobing’s chest gives a sick, sharp twist.
When the quilts arrive and Li Lianhua is safely cocooned in them, he at last unfurls enough to sit upright. The look he gives them as he accepts the wine jug, cradling it carefully as though it scorches his palms, is inscrutable, but perhaps that’s simply the exhaustion. As the wine warms him, he relaxes slightly, slumping against Fang Duobing’s side. Even through three layers of quilt, his elbow is bony where it digs into Fang Duobing’s thigh.
Li’er and the other servant hover helplessly until Fang Duobing sends them for more wine and a second pillow. Since Li Lianhua clearly cannot be trusted alone, he will have to stay to keep an eye on him.
He wishes he hadn’t seen the look the two servants exchange in parting. His mother’s concern over his good friend Li Lianhua, that he can tolerate, but he dislikes the thought of their relationship becoming gossip for the whole of Tianji Manor. Particularly when he himself scarcely knows what they are to each other. He has called himself the disciple of an absent Li Xiangyi for half his life, but Li Lianhua shows little interest in being anyone’s shifu. Li Lianhua had called them friends, but he has been lying about so many things since they met that perhaps one more lie barely registers. Perhaps they will be enemies, if it turns out Li Xiangyi truly did orchestrate Shan Gudao’s death. He hopes not.
What he wants, he thinks, is for the two of them to go on as they had been, wandering the jianghu, uncovering wrongs and making the world a little more honest wherever they went. If they could have that for the rest of this life, nothing more, he would be content. (Here, perhaps, Fang Duobing allows himself a rare lie of his own.)
But how much of that had ever been real? Had Li Lianhua spotted the usefulness of a Baichuan detective to shield him from the start? Given his frequent attempts to abandon Fang Duobing and run off with ‘A’Fei’, that seems unlikely; but then, his strange affection for that terror of a thousand bedtime stories Di Feisheng hardly speaks to his good character either.
His thoughts are running in circles, a hopelessly snarled mechanism that Fang Duobing is too tired to put right. Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning.
At his side, Li Lianhua has relaxed enough to wear his usual infuriating smile. “Who knew Tianji Manor took such care of its prisoners?” he says, voice still rough with exhaustion.
“Be quiet,” Fang Duobing tells him without heat. It feels normal, being teased by Li Lianhua. It feels…right. He scrubs a disgusted hand over his face at his own sentimentality and fakes a yawn.
Never let it be said that Li Lianhua can't take a hint. With a yawn of his own, he pulls the covers snug around his shoulders and curls up on the sleeping platform, facing the wall.
"See you in the morning, Fang Xiaobao," he says sleepily.
Fans Duobing stares at his huddled shape for longer than he means to. He should go back to his own room - Li Lianhua has enough bedclothes to smother a small army and will surely be fine overnight - but then Li Lianhua makes a small noise and burrows deeper into the covers as though he is still, impossibly, cold. Perhaps if he had made any kind of overture at this point, it would have been enough to send Fang Duobing storming back to his room in righteous indignation. But he doesn't. He isn't even looking at him.
Fang Duobing hasn't moved. He wonders how many nights Li Lianhua has spent like this, curled up alone in Lotus Tower while the wind claws its way through the gaps.2
If he wanted to, he could claim that he is motivated by entirely practical concerns: Li Lianhua has a knack for winkling out clues, and Fang Duobing needs his help if he's to get to the bottom of what's been happening in Xiaoyuan City. But Fang Duobing is not in the habit of lying to himself. He has liked Li Lianhua from the moment they met, a persistent liking that defies all his frustrations and doubts. He thinks that he will probably go on liking Li Lianhua, in some wretched way, no matter what the truth of his father’s death turns out to be.
So in the end, it’s very simple: a person Fang Duobing cares about is suffering, and Fang Duobing can help. So he does.
Li Lianhua doesn’t stir as Fang Duobing rustles his way out of his outer layers and bundles them away on a shelf. He doesn’t move as Fang Duobing extricates a corner of the quilt and slides in behind him. He could almost be asleep, except for the way he holds himself, a bowstring stretched to breaking.
Fang Duobing shuffles closer, lets the blankets enfold them both. One of his knees knocks against the back of Li Lianhua’s and he freezes.
“Fang Xiaobao, what are you doing?” Li Lianhua murmurs, voice blurred with sleep.
“Two are warmer than one,” Fang Duobing hisses. It’s certainly true for him: his entire body feels flushed with heat. It must be all those extra blankets. His face is less than a handspan from Li Lianghua’s shoulderblades and he fights the urge to tip forward and press his forehead to the hollow between them. He thinks that if he held on to Li Lianhua all through the night, he’d never be able to vanish with the morning again.
He makes no move to touch him. He won’t, he decides, unless Li Lianhua asks. The shared warmth of two of them beneath the same quilt should be enough.
“Truly the young master of Tianji Manor spares no effort for his guests,” Li Lianhua mutters, some of the tension seeping out of his spine.
“It’s what I should do,” Fang Duobing retorts. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”
Li Lianhua snorts, but he does relinquish some of his death-grip on the blankets and settles himself into a posture more suitable for sleep than for bracing for an explosion. Fang Duobing lies there and listens to his breathing even out and tries very hard to follow his own advice.
~
At some point, he must sleep, because the next thing he knows, sunlight is streaming into the little room and Fang Duobing is hotter than he’s ever been in his life. During the night, he has clearly tried to kick free of the blankets, only to end up with one inextricably tangled around his feet. But the main source of warmth, he realises with a horror that solidifies as sleep falls away, comes from the figure asleep in his arms.
Forget all his lofty vows about not touching Li Lianhua unless he’s invited: in sleep, he apparently has no such compunctions. His arm is slung around Li Lianhua’s waist, palm splayed possessively over his ribcage. As he notices this, his fingers twitch and Li Lianhua stirs slightly. Fang Duobing goes absolutely still. There is some of Li Lianhua’s hair in his mouth, he realises, which is disgusting but also… No, let’s stick with disgusting, he tells himself firmly.
For a brief, dishonourable moment, he considers staying put and letting Li Lianhua decide what to do when he wakes. But Fang Duobing’s mother has very strong opinions on correct bedfellow behaviour, opinions Fang Duobing has heard at length. She would never countenance this. And besides, Fang Duobing really is unbearably warm, the line of Li Lianhua’s spine a brand along his front.
The trick, then, will be disengaging without waking Li Lianhua. Fortunately, Fang Duobing is a very accomplished martial artist.
Unfortunately, so is Li Lianhua.
He has just managed a rather elegant stretch-and-roll manoeuvre that gets him free of the blankets and clear across the sleeping platform, when Li Lianhua shifts. But it’s only to turn onto his back and spread out under his new empire of blankets. His brow is creased slightly - still asleep, then, or at least pretending.
Fang Duobing rearranges the covers primly over him, a good host and nothing more, before turning to get dressed. And if his thoughts, as the sun slides slowly across the room, have more to do with his friend than with the case, then that is his own, private concern.