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Zilong lets out another throaty yawn. How long has it been since this meeting started? He tries to keep his posture straight, a desperate attempt to not embarrass himself again. The awkward movements he's making from being unable to sit still turns heads from the rest of the people in the room, sitting on mahogany chairs in front of a long table, not just of the Dragon King. Zilong could wait for the meeting to end, he could, but he finds difficulty in not letting boredom get the best of him. He hears the Great Dragon's sermon, but he is only partly listening.
"I trust that this will be promptly dealt with," the Great Dragon says to a shorter, skinnier man sitting right across Zilong. What his old man's ever talking about, Zilong isn't quite sure. The Great Dragon looks off further into the room, eyes darting to each figure seated on the long table, as if addressing everyone:
"Does anyone have anything more to discuss?" he asks. Zilong raises a hand.
The Great Dragon nods in his direction. "Zilong?"
"May I use the bathroom?" asked Zilong, as if putting his ridiculous request in a refined manner would make it any less ridiculous.
The old man's eyebrows furrow, expressing a disappointment that was made for only Zilong to see.
Zilong puts his hand back down.
"I think you can wait a little longer," said the Dragon King, which only Zilong hears.
"Anyone else? No?" the Dragon King asks, scanning intently around the room. "I have some final reminders for some of you before we reach the conclusion of this meeting."
Zilong screams internally, the meeting dragging on for far longer than he anticipated. He feels rather embarrassed, but at least now he has a good story to tell. He can't wait to tell Ling about this, though he pushes the thought aside for now. Fairly, Ling is all he ever thinks about lately. The room gets darker and darker as the sun retreats from peaking shyly on the horizon from where he could see on one of the large open windows, making him think about how he could be keeping the Finch waiting.
"Finally," the Great Dragon says, "As for Lieutenant Han’s inquiry earlier, I would like to discuss the skirmishes on the south border privately." the Dragon King continued, clasping his hands together until the long sleeves of his robe covered them entirely.
"This meeting is dismissed," the Great Dragon announces, turning to address the rest of the people in the room. The men rise from their seats, wishing each other a good night before leaving. However, Zilong immediately takes his prompt exit, making his lie a bit more believable, though by now the Great Dragon saw right past his antics, he could at least try and trick the guests into thinking that he genuinely needed to use the bathroom.
However, he doesn't head for the bathroom. He's already making his way to the gates, stealing a few dumplings from the kitchen on his way out after being met with one of the older servant ladies chastising him. Running past the tiles of the wide main entrance, past the grand jade pillars erected as if they aim to reach farther up into the sky.
The night air bites pleasantly at his cheeks as he sprints down the stone steps, the festival lights already beginning to flicker to life in the distance. Lanterns bloom like a second sky, each one rising slowly, drifting upward toward the heavens. Zilong slows to a jog, then to a walk, allowing the cool dusk wind to ease the sweat on his brow.
He told Ling he’d be there before sundown. He’s late, obviously—he always is with his duties—but that never stopped Ling from waiting.
Zilong follows the familiar trail up the mountain, boots crunching against loose gravel. The sound of laughter fades behind him, replaced by the whisper of the wind threading through the peach trees that line the upper path. The first blossoms have already begun to fall, scattering across the ground like soft pink rain.
As he climbs, he sees a lone figure perched on their usual spot, an outcrop overlooking the entire Riverlands, bathed in soft hues of peach and gold.
Ling.
He sits with lazy ease, one leg extended, the other propped up, elbow balanced atop his knee. He doesn't turn when Zilong approaches, he doesn’t need to. Zilong saunters over to Ling, a stupid smile on his face he doesn’t bother concealing.
“You’re late,” Ling says, voice quiet, almost amused.
Zilong drops beside him, slightly out of breath. “Blame Dragon Gramps. He thinks meetings are a form of punishment.”
Ling hums. “It works. You look punished.”
Zilong nudges him with his shoulder, earning the faintest curve of Ling’s lips.
Below them, the festival glows brighter with dancers twirling through the market square, musicians plucking soft, lilting melodies, children weaving through the crowd with lanterns shaped like koi and phoenixes.
The world feels far away from this mountain, softened, almost unreal.
Zilong leans back on his palms, letting the silence settle comfortably between them. "You know," he starts, glancing at Ling from the corner of his eye, "every time we come up here… it feels like the world forgets to be heavy. Even if just for a little while."
Ling plucks a fallen peach blossom from his lap, twirling it between two fingers. "Maybe it only feels that way because you're loud enough to drown out the rest of the world."
Zilong snorts. "Loud? I prefer… vibrant."
"Obnoxiously vibrant," Ling corrects, though the faint upward pull of his mouth betrays him.
Zilong bumps their shoulders again, lighter this time. "You like it."
"I tolerate it," Ling mutters.
"Ling, you wait for me here every year after they ready the lights for the fireworks show." Zilong tilts his head with exaggerated innocence. "That's practically devotion."
Ling finally turns to fully look at him, eyes half-lidded but glinting with something softer. "I wait because if I don't keep track of you, you find absurd ways to get into trouble. I remember, you once fought a wild boar because you didn't like the way it looked at you."
"It was glaring at me," Zilong insists.
"It was eating roots." Ling refutes.
Zilong laughs, full, unguarded, echoing faintly through the branches. "Fine, fine. Maybe I'm trouble. But you still come here, you still meet me. Even when I'm late… even when your instincts tell you not to trust anyone, you trust me."
Ling’s fingers still around the blossom. He doesn’t answer for several seconds, gaze drifting back to the lantern-lit village below.
"It’s peaceful up here," he finally says. "No one asking for blood. No one calling for justice. Just… the sky, and the wind, and-"
"Me," Zilong finishes confidently with a smug grin and Ling doesn’t deny it.
Zilong watches him, the soft glow of lanterns painting Ling’s face in warm golds and pale peaches. Something in his chest clenches, something tender, intense, frightening in how natural it feels. He scoots a little closer, voice lowering. "When it's just us… I feel like everything finally makes sense."
Zilong clears his throat, trying to steady the flutter in his chest. The words he wants to say sit heavy on his tongue, too large to swallow, too fragile to speak. He reaches into his sleeve, pulling out a small cloth bundle.
Ling raises a brow. "What did you steal this time?"
"Steal?" Zilong scoffs, offended. "I liberated these from the kitchen for us. A noble act, actually." He unfolds the cloth to reveal a single, slightly squished dumpling, the last survivor of his messy escape.
Ling stares at it. Then at him. "You brought me… one dumpling?"
"It was a stealth mission gone wrong," Zilong explains with great dignity. "But I risked my life for this, so you better appreciate it." He holds it out to Ling with both hands as though presenting a royal offering. Ling accepts it reluctantly, inspecting it with that same calm, deadly seriousness he applies to weaponry.
"It’s lopsided."
"It’s made with love," Zilong counters.
Ling takes a small bite. His expression doesn’t change, until it softens imperceptibly. "…It’s good."
Zilong beams, warmth flooding his chest. "See? I know your taste."
"You do,” Ling nods, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth. "But… thank you."
Zilong watches him chew, his heartbeat starting to race again, too fast, too uneven, too much. The lanterns rising below blur slightly as he tries to steady his breathing. This is the moment.
He’s rehearsed it all in his head, five different ways to say it, six backup plans, even a dramatic monologue he instantly threw out because Ling would absolutely walk away mid-speech. But now, sitting here, the world quiet except for the wind and Ling beside him… the words gather in his throat like a storm.
He wipes his palms on his trousers. Ling notices. "You’re fidgeting. That’s rarely a good sign."
"No, no, it’s– it’s a great sign, actually," Zilong insists, voice cracking slightly. "I mean– not great, not bad– just– just a sign– of something–" He squeezes his eyes shut, slapping himself in the face mentally.
"I’m messing this up, aren’t I?"
"Catastrophically," Ling replies.
Zilong lets out a nervous laugh. "Okay. Then let me try again."
He turns to face him fully, reaching for Ling’s hands before he loses the courage.
"Ling… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. For a while now."
Ling’s expression shifts, one that’s guarded, curious, but alert. Zilong inhales deeply, grounding himself in the feel of Ling’s warm hands in his.
"Hey, Ling?"
"Mmh?"
"When all of this is over, when we finally get rid of the Black Dragon…" Zilong clasps Ling's hands tightly in his, with the intention of never letting go.
"Marry me?"
Ling freezes. His fingers twitch in Zilong’s grasp, and for a moment, the only sound between them is the wind rustling the peach blossoms above. Zilong watches him anxiously, he knows Ling might laugh, deflect, maybe even push him away. But Ling never reacts the way people expect him to.
Instead, Ling breathes out a shaky laugh, one that sounds nothing like humor.
“Zilong… I’m the Cyan Finch. I have taken countless lives for the sake of money and my own survival and… you are asking me to marry you… as someone who is tasked to protect the people of the Riverlands?”
Zilong gives him a bittersweet smile, as if all the decisions in his life never mattered until the one he was making.
“I will defend you with honor. If anyone is opposed to our union… I won’t ever let it pass.”
Ling looks down at their joined hands. His thumb brushes over Zilong’s knuckles, slow, hesitant, reverent. For the first time, the Finch looks unsure.
“Zilong… do you understand what you’re choosing?”
Zilong squeezes his hands. “I’m choosing you. I always have.”
Ling’s breath catches, and for a moment he closes his eyes, as if letting himself feel everything he usually buries. Then he leans forward, pressing his forehead against Zilong’s.
“You are… unbearably foolish,” Ling whispers, voice trembling despite the smile on his lips.
“And you love me,” Zilong counters.
Ling huffs, feeling soft and defeated. “And I love you, unfortunately”
Peach petals drift around them in a gentle fall as Ling finally says, barely above a whisper:
“Yes. When the Black Dragon falls… I will marry you.”
Zilong’s grin could outshine the lanterns below. He pulls Ling into a tight embrace, one Ling returns with surprising strength, burying his face against Zilong’s shoulder.
Below them, the first lanterns begin to rise in earnest, hundreds of soft lights ascending into the night sky, carrying everyone's wishes. But here, beneath the flowering peach tree, two wishes have already been made. And both have already been granted.
For a long while, they sit beneath the peach tree without speaking, letting the quiet settle around them like a second skin. The petals fall in slow, spiraling paths, gathering in soft drifts around their legs and shoulders. The lanterns rising from the village paint the world below in warm, living color covered in gold, amber, soft rose that blend with the fading blush of evening.
Here, the future doesn’t feel like something distant. It feels close, within reach. Zilong imagines the mountain in another season, maybe early summer, when the peach blossoms return in full. He imagines them coming here again not as two men carrying the weight of war and duty, but as something steadier, something claimed. He sees Ling standing beneath the branches with sunlight on his hair, unguarded, unhurried, the world finally quiet enough for him to breathe without caution.
Ling, though he keeps his eyes closed, sees a different image rising behind his eyelids: a home at the edge of the Riverlands, simple and small. He sees Zilong leaning against the doorframe with flour on his clothes after preparing the afternoon meal. He sees the faintest chaos of domestic life: boots left by the entrance, half-folded blankets, the distant sound of children playing in the courtyard below. He sees peace, unthreatening, unearned yet possible.
The idea feels almost foreign to him.. this softness, this permanence, but the warmth of Zilong’s hand grounds him in a future that no longer feels like a fragile dream.
They share the same vision in different shapes, mornings without urgency, dinners that do not end with one of them disappearing into the night, coming home without wondering if the other made it back. A life where their names are not spoken in whispers of admiration or fear, but in ordinary affection. A future where they are free.
Under the peach tree, the possibilities unfurl like blossoms in the dark. It’s quiet, gentle, irrepressibly hopeful. And for the first time, neither of them tries to push the thought away.