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Xiaojun stares into the bottom of the basket in misery.
The taste of bile rises in the back of this throat, and he leans over and retches violently again, his stomach turning in complaint. He takes a sip of water and swishes it around in his mouth before spitting it out to clean out the aftertaste. Sicheng rubs at his back sympathetically, and all Xiaojun can think of is how he wishes he could climb into Sicheng’s lap to sleep like he did when they were kids.
He throws up again.
“Xiaozi.”
He moans in agony, drawing his legs up to his chest on the bed and rolling over onto his side into fetal position. There’s a sharp pain behind his left eye that worsens the throbbing of his head. He feels sick. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this sick.
“Xiaozi.”
The cool touch of Sicheng’s fingers over his forehead, sweeping his bangs out of the way, feels good. Sicheng makes a low hum of disapproval.
“You shouldn’t have drank so much.”
There was wine, enough to keep the party going all night and well into the morning, and Xiaojun had been enough of a fool to keep accepting more each time his glass had emptied. He had kept drinking even though he could see Sicheng from across the room, clearly upset with him. The thought of Sicheng being angry had made him happy, the vindictiveness loosening his morals and his rules. So what if he let a handsome gege run his hand down the front of his robes? He wasn’t in any position to refuse anyways.
“He pays for me to drink.”
Sicheng’s voice tightens.
“He’s our proprietor. He pays for the production of our opera and for our troupe.”
Xiaojun laughs.
“Is that not the same thing?”
He can hear Sicheng’s soft inhale and exhale, and he imagines that he can feel it on the back of his neck, that Sicheng is curled up beside him on the bed. It’s been a long while since those times. Xiaojun can remember when they had nothing to their name, where they performed under the threat of being beaten for a mistake. They were children, and now they’re adults and Xiaojun can still feel the dread of portending failure haunting him every time the mask slips. Nowadays it’s not a physical beating he’s worried about.
“He can’t buy you.”
Sicheng is wrong. Everyone can be bought. He should know that.
Xiaojun stays quiet.
“You’re not a whore.”
The bitter acrid taste is in the back of his throat again, and Xiaojun vomits again. Or at least tries to, nothing solid making its way up this time, stomach heaving with the effort. Sicheng says it like he cares, that Xiaojun shouldn't have to debase himself by catering to the whims of some rich man. Even though that's exactly what he has to do, what they have to do to keep living, the entirety of their lives at the fingertips of their proprietor.
“He doesn't deserve your attention. Not like this.”
Xiaojun doesn’t care. It felt nice to be wanted, even if only for a moment. Because he knows Sicheng doesn't want him, at least not in the same way Xiaojun yearns for. Not when Sicheng told him earlier in the night that he plans on getting married. To who? Only to have Sicheng be purposefully evasive.
“I need to sleep.” Xiaojun pauses. “Can you stay with me?”
He hears Sicheng let out a breath slowly, almost a little sigh. He had wanted to visit her tonight, Xiaojun is sure.
“Of course, Xiaojun.”
Sicheng’s body is warm, and it doesn't take long for Xiaojun to fall asleep, Sicheng's arm draped over his body.
When he wakes, Sicheng has gone.
Xiaojun paces steadily across the stage, keeping his gaze trained on Sicheng, no, Xiang Yu, his arms gracefully framing his figure as he recites his lines. Sicheng slowly follows him with his eyes, head tilted to show he's listening.
It's a careful dance between them, a drawn out show of devotion.
His voice trills, and Xiaojun feels the song run through him until he's nothing else but Consort Yu in name and in essence, Xiang Yu’s most loyal concubine, his faithful lover until the end, willing to sacrifice her life for them to remain together even in death.
Here on stage, they love each other.
But the end does come. As it always does.
The audience erupts into applause.
She’s a pretty little thing.
An Ran is delicate, her features so soft as if they are muted watercolors about to run off the page. She’s lovely, and Xiaojun can’t help but hate her a little bit at first sight. He tries to pretend he doesn’t see Sicheng’s hand at the small of her back as they all drink in a room full of celebration.
Their show has been successful, the masses showing up in full each night for the week in the city.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
She taps a spoon to a bowl to get everyone’s attention, the hush gradually falling over the room as she looks around expectantly. It somewhat helps that she’s clambered onto a table, more than a few heads above the crowd with Sicheng’s hand steadying her at the waist. She’s swaying slightly, and Xiaojun gathers that she’s probably already tipsy if not drunk.
“I’d like to make a toast.”
Her arms make a big sweeping motion towards Sicheng.
“To one of your own. Your hero. And mine.”
There’s a few hoots and hollers at that.
“Chengyi, I would be honored to marry you. Today. Tomorrow. Every day for the rest of our lives.”
There’s even louder cheers at that, and Xiaojun stares bitterly as the two of them entwine their arms together to drink a shot as lovers. He doesn’t stay longer to see the rest. The pleasure district is bustling with patrons, the prime time for business, still early in the evening. There’s a particular house that he frequents, the matron knowing how to be discreet and keep secrets. Especially with a little extra coin.
He undresses and waits.
He’s handsome but young with a strong jawline. More importantly, he catches on quickly.
Xiaojun spends the night being fed lies that don’t fill him up.
You’re beautiful, ge.
There’s an elegance to his makeup that Sicheng’s lacks.
Years of practice form a routine, and Xiaojun always starts getting ready first, doing his own makeup, staring into the mirror while trying to keep his hand steady for the winged liner around his eyes, further accentuating the pink hues over the white.
Sometime between his liner and the deep red he paints on his lips, Sicheng will show up. He’ll mostly watch Xiaojun quietly. It’s at these times that Xiaojun feels he loves Sicheng most.
Sicheng’s makeup takes him longer.
It’s the symmetry that Xiaojun has the most difficulty with. After that, the feeling of its expression, an almost volatile crudeness to the strokes on the face with strong eyebrows while maintaining a silent restraint.
He needs to look bold and fierce, yet stately.
A man worthy of Consort Yu.
Xiaojun can never tell if he’s gotten it quite right.
“Xiaozi, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t expect that Sicheng would follow him outside, the sound of celebration faded in the background now that they’re a distance away. It’s a cold night, the beginning of fall starting to creep in. Cold enough that he can see his breath forming.
“It’s cold outside.”
“I wanted to see the moon.”
“花 间 一 壶 酒,
独 酌 无 相 亲.
举 杯 邀 明 月,
对 影 成 三 人.
月 既 不 解 饮,
影 徒 随 我 身.”
“From a pot of wine amid the flowers,
I drink alone beneath the moonshine without a partner.
Raising my cup, I invite the moon
and turn to my shadow which makes us three.
The moon cannot understand my enjoyable drinking,
and my shadow only follows silently wherever I go.”
He doesn’t respond, and Sicheng stares contemplatively at him. Waiting. The moon is bright and ethereal tonight, floating calmly in a sea of dark sky. It cuts across Sicheng’s face razor sharp, a third left in shadow. Xiaojun looks away first.
“You want to be alone.”
It’s a statement, but Sicheng poses it almost as a question.
Xiaojun knows better than to let himself want anything.
This time Sicheng doesn’t follow.
“Stay still, Sicheng.”
Sicheng is not nearly as patient when Xiaojun is helping him remove his makeup. Not like during application. Like a child who can’t sit still in the chair, anxious to leave and go outside to play. Xiaojun presses a hand to Sicheng’s knee to stop the restless shaking.
“I’m almost done. Keep your eyes closed.”
Taking off Sicheng’s makeup. It’s his favorite part of performing. Just the two of them left silently facing one another, faces being stripped bare, their shadows coming close as if reminiscing. To everyone else, he is Xiang Yu, a great general and hero in his own right, Chengyi, a master performer in a renowned opera troupe. To Xiaojun, he is just Sicheng.
He goes slowly and takes particular care, hands cupping Sicheng’s cheeks as he starts from the top, wiping with the cloth outwards. Watching as Sicheng’s face emerges. Serene, free from the constraints of the present. It’s at these times Xiaojun can glimpse the past, and his chest aches for his younger self who was foolish to fall in love.
“Xiaozi, you will come to the wedding, won’t you? An Ran says you haven’t told her you would be coming.”
His hand trembles, imperceptible.
He hadn’t responded to the invitation yet. It had been sitting in the drawer beside his bed since he received it, hidden away so that he doesn’t need to think about it. They have three more shows next week, and their proprietor will once again be present for the first. He’s been busy working on an additional stage for their amusement.
Xiaojun changes direction.
“The wedding. Are you sure you want it?”
Sicheng’s eyes snap open, glittering with accusation.
“I’m marrying An Ran. I love her.”
Xiaojun fixates on the bottom half of Sicheng’s face, avoiding his gaze, gently continuing to wipe at the makeup, dipping the cloth into his small bowl of water before tracing the bridge of Sicheng’s nose.
“She calls you Chengyi.”
“I am Chengyi.”
“She doesn’t love you.”
“She does.”
Sicheng’s mouth is flattened into a displeased line. Xiaojun presses his thumb over Sicheng’s lips, swiping over them until the pink appears. He wonders what it would feel like to kiss them.
“Not like Consort Yu loves Xiang Yu.”
Sicheng lets out a noise of disapproval.
“Xiaojun, that’s not fair. Consort Yu should never have died for Xiang Yu. And I would never ask An Ran for the same.”
Sicheng gets up suddenly, startling Xiaojun. He’s not finished. There’s still some white along the curve of Sicheng’s jaw. Clenched tight with anger.
“It’s your decision to come or not. I won’t beg.”
Xiaojun is alone.
Without the accompanying full headdress, his face looks smaller, drawn in, more sad in the mirror. His makeup is alluring on stage, and it has only lost some of its charm now. He starts on the right side of his face with his dominant hand, wiping in quick strokes.
He realizes too late there are tears tracking down the left side, the pink running. The part of his cheek that he’s cleaned off looks red and angry, raw from him rubbing too hard.
He despises taking off his own makeup.
With it, he is Consort Yu, loved by Xiang Yu.
Without, he is just Xiaojun.
Sicheng doesn’t understand.
Consort Yu doesn’t die for Xiang Yu. She dies for herself.
Xiaojun weeps.
“What’s your name?”
Xiaojun shrinks back into the corner of the room, trying to make himself as small as possible. Earlier another boy had taken his piece of bread after approaching him to be friends, pried his fingers open to steal it, and kicked him a few times in the ribs when he refused to give it up. His side still stings.
He had crawled away and hidden himself in the other room, unwilling to put himself in harm’s way again. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve his mother abandoning him with this group of strangers. He’s been sitting in the same spot since dinner trying not to cry, ignored as everyone filed in for bed, every boy already with a set place to sleep.
The moonlight streaming casts a soft glow over the other boy’s face.
Open, kind.
Xiaojun shakes his head, not sure if he can trust him, having no desire to be tricked again.
“My name’s Sicheng. You can sleep next to me for tonight.”
Sicheng offers his hand, and he hesitates only for a moment.
Xiaojun lets Sicheng lead him to the far side of the room, thankful for the warmth when he crawls into the space beside Sicheng, the blankets a welcome comfort. It isn’t until Sicheng has fallen asleep that he responds, a thin whisper in the night.
“Xiaojun. My name is Xiaojun.”