Chapter Text
年复一年, 我不能停止怀念 / Year after year, I can’t stop reminiscing
怀念你, 怀念从前 / Missing you, missing the past
It wasn’t as if Shen Wei had never imagined himself and Zhao Yunlan married. But he certainly hadn’t imagined it like this.
They’re in his office on a nondescript Tuesday afternoon in the middle of spring term, Zhao Yunlan pacing in tiny, aborted circles in front of Shen Wei’s desk because jogging his knee in the visitor’s chair hadn’t been enough. There’s a student plaintively asking for an essay extension in the hall outside.
Before Zhao Yunlan had shown up, Shen Wei’s primary concern had been the stack of exams he had to mark over the coming break week.
“You want us to get married,” Shen Wei says, again, because the first time he’d repeated it for clarification Zhao Yunlan had only laughed. His voice sounds very level, nearly disinterested.
“Fake married,” Zhao Yunlan sees fit to say this time, without breaking stride. “All the people missing went missing with their significant others, and Zhu Hong figured out that their last known location was this couples’ retreat in the mountains, two months ago. One of the couples posted about it on their Moments and Lin Jing grabbed it.”
Shen Wei swallows. “And this is why you asked me to—” he makes a vague gesture that means go undercover as your husband “—pretend with you.”
Zhao Yunlan comes to a stop, eyes on Shen Wei. “That’s why the cover is a married couple. The reason I’m asking you is because there are no other options for people to go undercover with.” That Zhao Yunlan would be one of the people going undercover was a given, it seemed.
Shen Wei scoffs to give himself an excuse to look away. “You certainly know how to flatter someone, Zhao Yunlan.” But it’s fair enough. It’s hard to picture the rest of the SID successfully going undercover in any romantic capacity, except—
“Was Zhu Hong not an option?” Shen Wei asks. “She should be far more than capable of pretending to be your wife.” It’s probably the meanest thing he’s said all day.
Zhao Yunlan, to his credit, winces immediately. “She—” he cuts himself off, works his jaw for a moment before amending to, “Hong-jie refused, point blank. I didn’t want to push.”
It’s an admirably self-preserving response on Zhu Hong’s part. It’s a pity Shen Wei has never shared those instincts, when Zhao Yunlan is involved. “Mm,” Shen Wei says, to buy himself time.
“Come on, Hei lao-ge,” Zhao Yunlan cajoles, coming forward to brace his palms on Shen Wei’s desk. “You joined the SID as a consultant in the name of joining ranks to preserve the peace and tranquility of Dragon City, didn’t you? How can our citizens live and love in comfort if they’re disappearing mysteriously during romantic weekend retreats?”
Shen Wei should decline. He should join Zhu Hong in refusing outright, however revealing that would be. Whatever his instincts about protecting Zhao Yunlan, whatever his desire to be at Zhao Yunlan’s side, there’s no way he would come out of this unscathed.
He looks at Zhao Yunlan, the teasing gleam in his eyes, and says gravely, “I suppose that I cannot refuse in good conscience. Not if the romantic nature of the general populace is under threat.” He adjusts his glasses to hide his face, peeks through his fingers at Zhao Yunlan’s blinding smile.
“It’s only for a weekend, anyway,” Zhao Yunlan says, perching victoriously on the edge of Shen Wei’s desk. He pulls a lollipop out from some unknown pocket and unwraps it. “It’s just two days of recon to get a handle on what’s going on, because we’ve got absolutely nothing right now. You’ll be back to your lectures in no time.”
“If it continues for longer than expected,” Shen Wei hears himself say, “this coming week happens to be the mid-term holiday for the university. There will be a grace period before I am needed in classes again.”
Zhao Yunlan hops off the desk and turns to beam at him, the bulge of a lollipop in his cheek. “That’s a very generous offer, Shen Wei.” He pulls the lollipop out enough to smile, and says, “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”
In the doorway, Zhao Yunlan stops like he’d remembered something, twists back around. “If there’s university work you need to bring along, feel free.” He nods toward the stack of papers Shen Wei had been looking over when he arrived, slaps a palm over his heart. “I will do my utmost to provide grading time for you during our romantic weekend, Professor Shen.”
Our romantic weekend. Shen Wei has to pointlessly shuffle two sheets of paper on his desk before he can look back up at his empty doorway. He lets out a long, quiet breath. At least he will have the week of spring break to recover from the experience of pretending to be Zhao Yunlan’s husband for two nights.
This will be survivable, Shen Wei tells himself as he packs a pile of ungraded exams into his briefcase. He’s survived worse.
Shen Wei catches up on the case details on the drive to the retreat, leafing through a discouragingly thin file of case papers Da Qing had handed him earlier. Two Dragon City couples had gone missing sometime in the last eight weeks. The cases had been passed to the SID late last week, one after the other.
The first couple was a married pair in their eighties, a Mr. and Mrs. He. Their files mentioned only that they’d found each other later in life, and that they often dominated a weekend mahjong tournament in Dragon City’s biggest park. The second couple was a pair of just-engaged women in their thirties, Ms. Teng and Ms. Peng. It had been Ms. Teng’s Moments post of her and Ms. Peng on the train into the mountains that had made the connection between the four. In the photo, they're holding the reservation print-out together, Ms. Peng's long hair falling into her face and Ms. Teng's baseball hat almost totally out of frame. On the print-out, the reservation details were carefully censored, but the retreat logo had been clear enough.
Since the two couples’ disappearances, there had been no communication relating to their whereabouts — no ransom, no threats. There were no ties — social, financial, political, or otherwise — between the two couples aside from having booked a weekend stay at Liulian Retreat at some point in the last two months and simply … never returned.
Liulian Retreat was a traditional-style mountain retreat owned and run for the last three decades by a the Lius, a middle-aged couple who had met as childhood sweethearts, reunited in college, and married shortly after. The retreat boasted acres of beautiful, tree-lined grounds surrounding a small lake, with two multi-story guest houses along the shore. For many years, it had been popular with newlywed and anniversary couples, and had developed a reputation as a destination spot for Dragon City couples.
“What do people even do at a mountain retreat that can’t be done in their own homes?” asks Zhao Yunlan, partway through the winding drive up to the retreat grounds. He’s jogging his leg again, and peering out the windshield as if getting a good look at all the greenery they’re passing will get them there any faster.
Shen Wei had proposed taking the train up, but had been vetoed in favor of a “controllable getaway.” He suspects Zhao Yunlan just wanted to drive his car up another mountain. Shen Wei shoots him a look. “Didn’t you read the pamphlet?”
Zhao Yunlan shrugs. He’s leaning way too close, and when he seems to realize this, he tilts a little closer and says in a quiet tease, “It sounds like you read the pamphlet, husband. Why don’t you tell me?”
Shen Wei pulls in a fortifying breath of air against both the proximity and the husband and says primly, “I won’t reward slacking, Yunlan. You’ll just have to see when we arrive.”
He doesn’t miss the way Zhao Yunlan’s gaze drops to his mouth when he says Yunlan, for just an instant before snapping back up to the road.
The pamphlet had said that many couples liked to treat their time at Liulian Retreat as a quiet, peaceful, reflective time, spending time boating or going on long walks in the grounds. Shen Wei pictures Zhao Yunlan in a rowboat, squinting against the sun, laughing when Shen Wei calls him Yunlan, and can’t bear it for a moment. He touches his briefcase of grading reassuringly.
Wang Zheng hadn’t been able to actually book them a room — phone calls to the listed landline had rung out repeatedly, but Guo Changcheng had disappeared into the corner with Ling Jing with Ms. Teng’s photo blown up wide on a monitor beside them, and the next day had bashfully presented a forged booking confirmation for Zhao Yunlan and Zhao Shenwei, who would be spending the next weekend at Liulian Retreat to celebrate their one-year marriage anniversary.
Guo Changcheng had winced apologetically at the look Shen Wei shot him at the fake name, but Lin Jing had given him an unnervingly smug look when he slid a printed copy of the forgery on top of Shen Wei’s stack of case-related reading and said something about Zhao Yunlan at least having done his homework properly.
They bump up the narrow road, trees unfurling tender green leaves on either side. Between one breath and the next they burst out from the forest and all at once, the retreat grounds are sprawled out in front of them: the lake reflecting the night sky spilling out above, yellow squares of windows lit invitingly in the dark shape of the main house, some of the carefully-tended trees still in bloom and glowing white in the moonlight.
The car wheels churn for a moment as they pass the Welcome to Liulian Retreat sign. Zhao Yunlan frowns and steps on the gas, and they’re through, turning off the road and coming to a stop beside a copse of blossoming trees just to the side of the main building.
“Ah—,” Zhao Yunlan starts, just as Shen Wei is about to leave the car.
Shen Wei glances back, one hand on the handle. Zhao Yunlan is looking the way he does when he’s trying to pass off something he’s been stewing on as something that’s come up out of nowhere. “I almost forgot,” Zhao Yunlan says, and for all that his words are nonchalant, what Shen Wei can see of his smile in the darkness is a fraction tighter than comfortable.
Zhao Yunlan pulls something out of his pocket and hovers his closed hand in front of Shen Wei until Shen Wei uncertainly extends an open palm. Something small and body-warm drops into his hand. A silver wedding ring.
“I’m sure it doesn’t fit all that well,” Zhao Yunlan says, laughing awkwardly, his body language almost sheepish as he pushes his door open. “But I figured we needed them, so I got them.” He slams his door shut a little more firmly than necessary.
So this was what Lin Jing had meant, when he said Zhao Yunlan had done his homework. Shen Wei’s stomach flutters. Alone in the passenger seat, Shen Wei slides the ring onto his hand. It fits perfectly, a snug and comfortable weight on his fourth finger.
By the time he gets out, Zhao Yunlan is unloading their luggage, his own ring shining in the moonlight as he swings the last suitcase out of the trunk. There’s something strained about the line of his shoulders, a subtle tension in his movements. He flashes a smile at Shen Wei when he hears him come around the car, but it’s a rote gesture.
“It fits well,” Shen Wei says. He holds his hand out to show. Zhao Yunlan’s smile goes genuine and a little teasing.
Zhao Yunlan has a hand on each of their suitcases, and when Shen Wei reaches for his bag he pulls it just out of reach and says, low and sly, looking at Shen Wei from under his eyelashes in a way that is far too appealing, “Let me take your bags, hm? My husband shouldn’t exert himself a moment on our anniversary.”
There are already flower petals in his hair, deposited unnoticed by some gentle breeze. Something about the way they’re standing, no closer than they would normally, nonetheless makes Shen Wei’s breath unsteady.
He wants to bicker a bit and roll his eyes at Zhao Yunlan, to reassure himself with their normal exchange, but he catches motion at the edge of his vision — one of the double doors of the main house swings open, a yellow stripe cutting down the steps onto the grass. Mrs. Liu is standing motionless and assessing in the doorway, watching them.
Shen Wei touches his hand against Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder to draw his attention to her, and murmurs, “I can handle my own luggage, Yunlan,” in a way he hopes looks loving and intimate at a distance. Zhao Yunlan, wide-eyed, gives the suitcase up without a fuss.
There’s a papercut fortune character hanging on the front door in the traditional Haixing style, upside-down to invite good luck into the home. Past it, Mrs. Liu is standing in the half-open doorway, just inside the threshold, nothing about her posture inviting.
“We weren’t expecting new guests,” she says suspiciously when they drag their luggage up to the door. She has a sleek, dyed-black bob cut and wire-rimmed glasses on a thin gold chain around her neck.
“There must be some kind of mistake,” Zhao Yunlan says, turning on the tired man charm. Shen Wei can personally attest to it being devastating, but it barely budges the stern line of Mrs. Liu’s mouth.
Shen Wei digs around in his briefcase and produces Guo Changcheng’s reservation forgery. “Is it possible we were the ones to make some kind of mistake?” He tilts the printout to catch the light. “The dates are quite clear, but if we really weren’t expected—”
“Something wrong, Yihan?” asks another voice, and Mr. Liu appears in the doorway beside his wife. His hair is greying and close-cropped, his trousers muddy below the knee. When Mrs. Liu takes his elbow and turns him back a few steps into the entryway to hold a quiet discussion, he follows her with a shuffling limp that favors his left leg.
Shen Wei catches her saying, strained, just unexpected, at this time of night and him saying, not as though we don’t have the space and then, cajoling, remember our first anniversary? we were so and then Zhao Yunlan bumps his arm and gives him a commiserating look and he loses track.
When the Lius come back, Mr. Liu steps a slipper-clad foot out onto the porch to examine the print-out in Shen Wei’s hand. “Mr. Zhao, that really does look like one of our confirmation messages. It’s possible there was some issue, but if you did pay already in advance, then…”
“I’m really so sorry for the inconvenience,” Zhao Yunlan pipes up, and casually produces the thick bill-stuffed envelope Lao Chu had insisted they bring, just in case. “We were recommended Liulian Retreat by a friend, and we just couldn’t not book here for our first wedding anniversary. It’s really a magical place,” he says, earnestly.
There’s a tensely polite back and forth, but eventually the money disappears into Mr. Liu’s pocket, and he leans over to his wife to say in an undertone, “I’ll go handle preparing the room for them upstairs, Yihan. I’m sure we all just want to get some rest.” He touches her cheek gently. “Just take them around for a basic tour, if they found our retreat they’ll have seen the details in the pamphlet.”
They encounter the first of the missing couples just minutes into the tour.
Ms. Teng and Ms. Peng are playing a half-hearted game of cards on a mahjong table in the living room, mostly cuddled up in each other. The women seem unconcerned, in love, and very much alive and well. They bob a comfortable hello to Mrs. Liu as the tour continues — hardly the image of victims, or people under any kind of duress or coercion. Shen Wei turns to Zhao Yunlan and finds him already looking steadily back.
As the downstairs tour continues, Shen Wei listens to Zhao Yunlan valiantly trying to develop his usual rapport with witnesses with Mrs. Liu. But all his conversational forays — What a traditional building, I hear it’s very auspicious to place the vase of flowers there — are met with a determined silence interrupted only by things like, “This is the living room here. It opens into the dining room there, and the kitchen is through that door. All meals are provided.” Shen Wei finds the silence interesting in its familiarity; it’s the same tactic he employs when Zhao Yunlan gets a little too close to something he doesn’t wish to speak about.
There’s a room just off to the side of the staircase with the door propped half-open and the light left on inside. Zhao Yunlan gives it an intrigued look and Mrs. Liu herds them pointedly upstairs, saying firmly, “All of the guest quarters are upstairs.” Through the door Shen Wei catches a glimpse of an office desk, piled high with papers.
They run into Mr. Liu on the top floor landing, an awkward shuffle of four people in a space not meant for that many. Mr. Liu brushes a hand against Mrs. Liu’s elbow and leans in to murmur, “Their room is ready. And I weeded the garden beds outside the second guest house earlier today, you can start thinking about what you’d like to plant there, Yihan.” This makes her soften for a moment, mouth curving into a wistful smile before she pats his shoulder familiarly and sends him downstairs.
Zhao Yunlan keeps trying after that — This is a lovely tour, I really hope we aren't causing too much trouble — but is met only with Mrs. Liu’s terse nods to the occupied rooms down the hall, one for the two women and another shared by the second couple, the Hes. Eventually Zhao Yunlan falls silent, retreating to chewing on his lower lip and looking pensively around at all the doors to unoccupied rooms they’d passed.
Shen Wei remembers how Zhao Yunlan had initially made exasperated noises about the booking forgery, because Xiao Guo, if people are only going in and not coming out, what if there aren’t any rooms left when we get there! Zhao Yunlan had finally taken the bet for lack of any better plan, but it clearly wasn’t going to be an issue. The two missing couples seemed to be the only other guests.
Mrs. Liu stops them at a door near the end of the hall, says unceremoniously, “Your room. Goodnight,” and hurries back down the hall without another word.
In the center of the long room, next to their luggage, is an intricately carved canopy bedframe made of dark wood, lined with white curtains and made with fresh sheets. Shen Wei swallows and looks around the rest of the room. It’s enormous and gorgeous — wood-paneled and high-ceilinged, with a set of traditional-style furniture — desk, chair, wardrobe, bedside tables — in matching dark wood. One set of sliding doors leads to an open-air balcony with a set of porch chairs, another set to an ensuite bathroom. Gauzy curtains drift in the breeze from big propped-open windows overlooking the retreat grounds, and the dark windows of the other guest house.
Zhao Yunlan goes directly for the bed, sprawls across it with his boots hanging over the edge. Shen Wei, suddenly dry-mouthed, pulls their suitcases across the room to the wardrobe and busies himself with unpacking.
“Well,” Zhao Yunlan starts, and Shen Wei hears him unwrap a lollipop and stick it into his mouth. “This is interesting, isn’t it. At least half of our victims seem to be present and well, and the hosts can’t be accused of much other than being crabby late at night and giving a shoddy tour. Nobody seems immediately to be Dixing. I’m almost unsure where to start.”
“There isn’t something that immediately sets Dixingren apart from Haixingren, appearance-wise,” Shen Wei says mildly. “And I did notice some,” he pulls a hanger out of the wardrobe, seeking language, “resistance, perhaps. As we were driving in.”
Zhao Yunlan makes an agreeing noise, muffled by his lollipop. “Just as we were driving past the entrance sign, right? The car engine went a little weird. You really think it’s related?”
Shen Wei makes the momentary mistake of looking up at Zhao Yunlan, propped up on one insouciant elbow on what is, for all intents and purposes of this weekend, their marriage bed. “I— perhaps,” he says hastily, and looks away again.
“If there’s something going on like a boundary line that’s difficult to cross coming from the outside, well. That sounds … protective, almost. If someone’s maliciously trapping people here … wouldn’t they want to catch as many people as possible? ” Zhao Yulan says, lollipop clacking against his teeth as he talks. “Ah, but if the targets were here when the trap was created, more people would only get in the way.” A sound like him rolling over on the bed. “In that case, I wonder which of the guests it is, that whoever is doing this wants to keep around. Or maybe it’s the Lius themselves.”
Shen Wei looks back down at his suitcase to find he’s run out of clothes to unpack, flicks a glance at the bed, and starts on Zhao Yunlan’s suitcase without asking. “Perhaps,” he says again, into the silence Zhao Yunlan has left him.
“Mr. Liu seems amiable enough,” Zhao Yunlan picks back up, “but that Mrs. Liu, she certainly dodged my questions.” He sounds a little sour about it still, and Shen Wei looks up to check on him. Zhao Yunlan slants a sharp, teasing look at Shen Wei in reply, sucking his bottom lip in before he adds, “Much like someone else we’re both familiar with, hm, husband?”
Shen Wei swallows, involuntary, and doesn’t reply. He fixes his gaze determinedly on his hands, and spends far too long adjusting Zhao Yunlan’s next shirt to drape just right on the hanger. He really should be used to this now. Zhao Yunlan has always been like this, had only gotten worse once he’d learned that Shen Wei and the Black Cloak Envoy were one and the same.
But having the teasing happen in the wide-open SID office in front of the rest of their colleagues was one thing. Even when it happened behind the closed doors of Shen Wei’s university office, or in Shen Wei’s own apartment, it was a different thing than here in a room neither of them would be leaving, here with Zhao Yunlan sprawled across a bed they would share in only moments.
He hears Zhao Yunlan snicker to himself, and get up with a, “Enough thinking about this for tonight. I’m headed to bed.” Shen Wei, hanging the last of Zhao Yunlan’s shirts, listens to the strangely intimate sound of him splashing around in the ensuite, and ducks past him with his own toiletries when the door opens again.
By the time Shen Wei re-emerges in sleep clothes, Zhao Yunlan has already claimed the side of the bed closer to the door and is sound asleep. Kunlun used to do the same, far more conspicuously, teasing Shen Wei while jostling him until he had no option but to lay his bedroll further inside the tent.
It’s perhaps unfair to compare Zhao Yunlan to a version of himself that he has yet to become, but for a moment Shen Wei is so full of remembering Kunlun that he feels it catch in his throat. He reaches for his necklace. It’s strange to miss someone who’s right there and who isn’t right there at the same time.
His ring taps against the edge of the pendant under his shirt, and he pulls his hand away in surprise. He’d gotten so used to the weight and feeling of it on his hand already.
Shen Wei pulls the ring off, sets it on the bedside table as he sits down. His gaze catches on the glint of silver by Zhao Yunlan’s chin.
In sleep, Zhao Yunlan has curled toward the dip of Shen Wei in the mattress, hands nestled against his cheek, ring still on his finger. His mouth soft, eyelids smooth in sleep, and so dear and familiar that when Shen Wei climbs under the blankets he has to roll over to fall asleep facing the wall of their room.
This isn’t real, he reminds himself, eyes closed and heart anchored to the gentle sound of Zhao Yunlan’s breathing. However easy it had been to touch Zhao Yunlan’s cheek that evening, however easy it is to fall asleep beside him now, he has to remember they’re only pretending.