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Qiu has only seen his boss cry once.
It was years ago, when they were hardly fourteen, when Qiu had only been with the He family for a few months. The incident was his fault.
Still a young rascal, he’d convinced He Cheng to slip away from his duties for a while in favor of exploring the forest surrounding the He Estate. Lost in the fun of climbing trees and playing tag, the two had vanished till sundown, only recognizing how late it’d gotten when they could hardly see the other’s face despite standing a mere two feet away.
By that time, everyone was convinced there’d been a kidnapping.
It’d all escalated the moment they’d returned, heads lowered like scolded dogs, dragging their feet toward their punishment. Ever quick to temper, He Cheng’s father had the cold muzzle of a gun to Qiu’s head, eyes fixed on his son, lips pulled downward into a withering scowl.
“One more tear, He Cheng. It’ll start with him.”
It had already started with him. Qiu’s eye was swollen shut with a developing bruise, lip dripping crimson.
He Cheng’s father never pulled his punches, regardless of the fact that his target was hardly a teenager, was still a child. The violence disguised as a lesson had been what’d sent He Cheng into his weeping state, and the warning what had got him out.
He Cheng, who had likely had his heart hardened by the age of six or seven, frosted his expression to a temperature Qiu had never seen before. It was the first and last time he’d ever see such a child-like vulnerability, until now.
All of the lights are off, save for a dim lamp on the far side of the room meant for decorative purposes only. He Cheng’s home, sleek and modern, hardly allows for any comfort, as if even the slightest inkling of warmth would invite softness that’d been banned before it could ever be welcomed.
Qiu finds He Cheng sitting on one of the steel stools lining the island, hunched over, an untouched glass of whiskey at his fingertips. If looking closely enough, which Qiu always is, one could see the slight shake of the man’s hands, the vulnerable curl of his upper body. He almost looks small, like this, as if he’s trying to hide. The sight is beyond concerning.
“What did that heathen say?” Qiu starts, an attempt at their usual conversation.
He Cheng doesn’t startle, likely knew Qiu was there before he’d even opened the front door. Instead, his shoulders rise jerkily, and he grips the glass in his hands tighter though it does little to cease the shaking. This is even more concerning.
“He…” He Cheng’s voice has an unfamiliar wetness to it.
This is the last evidence Qiu gathers that officially sounds off every alarm in his head that something is undoubtedly and horrifically wrong.
He approaches quickly at first, as if his boss is in immediate danger, slowing when he realizes there’s nothing to protect him from. Then he spends an embarrassing amount of time hovering, just out of reach, combing through every protocol and past encounter that would ready him for the severity of what he thinks to be happening here
Eventually, he takes the seat next to He Cheng and dares a glance at his boss’s face.
He is not crying. But it’s close.
They listen to silence for a long while.
“I’m tired, Qiu.” It’s said so quietly, calmly, like he’s about to announce that he’s going up to his room to rest. He doesn’t move though, and the weight of his words multiplies. This isn’t something that can be fixed with a few hours of shut-eye.
“Did He Tian say something to you?”
He won’t get a direct answer, Qiu knows this.
The relationship between the two brothers is a thin wire that He Cheng is afraid to expose to anyone in fear of it splintering at the mere weight of an outsider’s glance. That being said, Qiu understands it more than anyone, has seen firsthand what the elder brother has done to keep his younger from harm, has witnessed what he shoulders. And yet there are things still hidden, bonds and promises he couldn’t possibly fabricate when He Cheng guards them so sacredly.
“Sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t know that I do all of this for him.” He Cheng doesn’t look at him when he speaks, eyes locked on his whiskey glass but unseeing.
His voice wavers, Qiu’s stomach dropping in tandem, “Or he does know, and he hates me for it.”
Never in his life has he wished so vehemently that he’d learned how to properly comfort someone, couldn’t even soothe himself if he tried. The roaring in his head settles the moment grey eyes meet his own, a fragile hush silencing the world around them.
“I can’t go easy on him. If he ends up like me…”
The wavering voice is severe, He Cheng ripping his gaze away, jaw visibly tightening from the strength of his clenched teeth.
Qi speaks without thinking, “You can cry, He Cheng.”
It sounds stupid the moment it’s left his mouth. He Cheng can do whatever he wants. Of course, he can cry. Of course, he doesn’t need permission from anyone, especially not from Qiu.
He Cheng shakes his head, and then he’s turning to look out the window on the far side of the room, a subtle movement.
“I can’t.”
Beyond the glass, a light shines up on the hill. He Cheng’s father is not home, but his presence over the He Estate reigns like a watchtower.
He Cheng raises a shaky hand, pointer finger extending until it meets the fabric of Qiu’s shirt, poking his chest. Their eyes meet, and Qiu is fourteen again, with a gun to his head and a busted lip, witnessing the last of He Cheng’s vulnerability.
“It’ll start with you.”
Qiu swears the fibers of his heart start to pull away from each other. Was this the reason, all along?
He nearly crumbles at the pressure, vision wavering dizzily, limbs numb as he extends them out to the man before him. If He Cheng resisted the affection, he wouldn’t know, so desperate to have the shorter pressed against him that all else is drowned out.
“He Cheng, he can’t see you here.”
He cradles the back of He Cheng’s head with his hand, pressing it downward until his face is hidden between Qui’s neck and shoulder.
“He can’t see you here.”
It’s in this position that the two remain, Qiu’s arms locked protectively, He Cheng’s hands latched onto his back as warm tears find home on Qiu’s skin. Throughout it all, his gaze hones in on that distant light, that watchful building.
His eyes shine like a dog’s in the night, and for a long while, not even God can look upon them.