Archive of Our Own

Xie Lian was sleeping when something carefully nudged his shoulder.

He was still sleeping when the nudging became more insistent, easily morphing into a firm shake.

He blinked slowly—murky—everything was soft and red around him. There were no bright lights, and while he could tell the window was in front of him, there was a deep red glow emitting from behind the curtain. He was glad there wasn’t any direct sunlight in the Ghost Realm. If he had to keep waking up because the sun jostled and burned him, he would likely become a mole or a hermit in his desperation.

Instead, he groaned, pushed his face further into the pillow, and tugged at the blanket that was draped over him. Xie Lian was truly… spoiled, like this. Cradled and pampered and catered to.

And yet—when he tugged the blanket over his shoulder and then over his head, he only heard a soft voice.

“Gege,” said the person who had become very acquainted with Xie Lian’s unfortunate habits in the last month, “It’s been a while. Do you think you could get up for a little, hm? Breakfast is ready.” And that voice was equal parts soft, patient, and coaxing. “There’s jianbing and soy milk…”

His eyes started to sting as soon as the person spoke.

He didn’t move from under the covers. The touch at his shoulder had changed from nudging and shaking to a gentle pressure. “Gege,” coaxed the youth.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian said, exhaustedly, and his eyes were stinging and he didn’t want to talk or do anything.

This situation was already… something.

It was such a blessing. Soft bedding, fresh clothes, clean water, food if he was hungry, company—a willing ear—there was an armory, there were people and an entertainment hall. Ghost City was rambunctious, and Xie Lian hadn’t bothered to leave Paradise Manor since he was brought here, but—if he wanted to—there were surely things to do and see in the city, too.

But, instead, Xie Lian thoroughly abused the privilege of a soft bed and a long nap. He slept and slept and slept. When he didn’t sleep, he stayed curled under the blankets. He smothered his face. He let his hair grow wild with neglect. San Lang had washed and combed it for him a few days ago, he knew, but that was because Xie Lian had gotten watered down with all of San Lang’s careful ministrations and pleas. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t do anything at all. He would lay down in a garden or forest somewhere and become one with the dirt. He used to love watching the sunrise and cooking meals and the gentleness of conversation. Now, he didn’t cook, he didn’t eat, and he didn’t talk. He didn’t…

“Gege,” San Lang coaxed, gently rubbing Xie Lian’s shoulder. “Does gege want something else? Maybe a mantou?”

San Lang was the person that had been assigned to, at the very least, make sure Xie Lian was still alive in this weird situation. The lord of the manor hadn’t visited yet, and Xie Lian wasn’t sure what the arrangement would entail, but San Lang was the one to appear daily—likely hourly, even when Xie Lian was asleep or otherwise not focused—and talk, hum, clean, try to coax Xie Lian out of bed and into some other hobby or room. San Lang, whether a ghost or a mortal simply living it in a place made for the undead, seemed willing to deal with any version of Xie Lian—no matter how mean or sad or despondent Xie Lian became.

“I want to sleep,” Xie Lian shivered, again, and he kept his face tucked into the pillow. He didn’t want to eat.

Maybe a few decades ago, the opportunity to eat freely and have such wonderful company would have pulled him from his stupor. But, now that he was what he was, the promise of food didn’t entice him. He still liked food, but it was so much work.

Living was so much work, and he was so tired. Stumbling into Ghost City had been a streak of luck. He hadn’t meant to show up. He hadn’t meant to linger. He hadn’t meant to do anything, ever, really—his exhaustion and heavy head had made him decide that sleeping in an alley way was better than nothing, and he had fallen asleep slumped next to an empty bin—only to wake to a stranger sitting next to him, guarding, waiting. Xie Lian had just been so tired. Everything was so tiring. He wanted to sleep forever. He wanted to climb into a coffin and close the lid. He didn’t dream, but when he did, it was never pleasant. He felt sick. He felt wrong. He felt terrible. Hundreds of years had gone by, and he was alone, and he dealt with mortals who dealt with him through blades and anger and yelling and stones. Xie Lian just wanted to sleep. Sleeping was as close as he could get to death—without the bloodshed or pain—without poison making him throw up and asphyxiate.

The bed creaked, only a little, and then Xie Lian could feel San Lang sitting next to him. The hand on his shoulder started doing sweeps along his back, curling carefully across the blanket and following the slope of Xie Lian’s neck and shoulder blades.

“Gege, gege,” said the youth, still insistent on breakfast, “You’ve slept a lot already.”

Xie Lian’s eyes were still stinging, and the more San Lang tried to cajole him into living—being grateful, even if those weren’t the words—the more Xie Lian’s head hurt.

“I want to sleep more,” Xie Lian mumbled, raggedly, and he felt something wet start clinging to his lashes. He pressed his face more firmly into his pillow. He held onto the blanket for dear life—he didn’t want to see the rest of the room, and he didn’t want to see whatever face San Lang was making. “I want to…”

San Lang tried a different approach—one he had deployed frequently with Xie Lian in the last week alone. “I know,” he said kindly, and he continued rubbing circles into Xie Lian’s shoulders. “I know, gege.”

Xie Lian didn’t want to cry. He had gone so long without shedding a single tear—he gave up instability, traded it for a pleasant smile and thicker skin—wore his hat and stayed low to the ground, never made plans, never decided to become bigger than life ever again. That, of course, changed over the years. He grew weary. He grew sadder and sadder. Loneliness began to take its toll, and it proved aggravating and terrible—that sadness made him weak to the soil, crumbling down a mountainside. He followed ghosts and didn’t do anything when they seethed at him. When people were angry at him—for one reason or another—Xie Lian had stopped reacting at all. Pain bloomed like flowers and he let it grow and grow and grow, and then promptly lose its petals and colors. Withering. He was withering, aching, melting into a puddle of barely distinguishable human goo. He didn’t want to cry. He was so tired. Crying was exhaustive, like breathing, like everything. But his eyes were wet, and now that San Lang had disrupted his sleep—however fruitless—his head had become as heavy and prickly as a barbed cactus.

He made a terrible sound into his pillow.

San Lang said something else, and Xie Lian begrudgingly stayed under the covers.

“I want to sleep forever,” Xie Lian hiccuped. “I want to sleep forever.”

“I know, gege,” said San Lang, who was speaking very softly and very calmly. He continued rubbing Xie Lian’s back through the blanket, tracing along his shoulders and remaining steady. “I know.”

Of course San Lang knew.

It must be a common thing, Xie Lian thought, for ghosts. Some were simply so sad. Surely San Lang had seen his fair share in Ghost City, while being here in Paradise Manor and serving Hua Chengzhu. San Lang had so much energy already, and Xie Lian didn’t need to be so attentive as to keep track of it. He knew. He already knew, of course he knew, but his stomach hurt so badly and he felt so sad for even the littlest things and no matter what he tried, what he had tried in the past—he simply couldn’t brighten.

To Xie Lian’s disgust, he began to cry.

It simply flowed from his eyes and mouth in similar parts—weak sounds that came across like an injured animal, a bunny with its leg caught in a trap—eyes no matter than a rain cloud.

He felt the blanket shift, as if San Lang was braving the wilderness and trying to peel it away. There was still a hand gently rubbing at his back. But Xie Lian’s hands grabbed at the inside of the blanket, now desperate, and his chest was aching so badly. There was a moment of resistance, maybe an internal debate, before San Lang continued to pull the blanket away. He said something else, rather softly, but Xie Lian had already begun to tune him out. Feeling his hiding spot be taken apart, Xie Lian felt his chest heave. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to sleep. He just wanted to sleep and stay here forever.

The blanket was painstakingly pulled away, being removed from Xie Lian’s head. It curled around his shoulders, being deposited back over the rest of his body.

As his second plan—a sudden fear—Xie Lian completely pressed his face into his pillow. His body shook in pathetic increments, and his tears caused the pillow to cling to his cheeks. He didn’t say anything, nothing at all. Instead, San Lang kept talking gently—there wasn’t any real silence, just weak breaths as Xie Lian tried to stop himself from crying and whining and biting like a child.

He bit his tongue harshly and squeezed his eyes shut.

After a while of San Lang smoothing his hand up and down Xie Lian’s shoulders, the youth then concernedly placed a hand over the back of Xie Lian’s neck.

Xie Lian froze up, body locking. In return, San Lang began to smooth his palm over the back of the god’s head. Very slowly and meticulously. This—San Lang had only done this once before, and Xie Lian had been having a… very bad day. Not crying, but wallowing so utterly and completely that he had refused to do so much as nod his head or even look in San Lang’s direction.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian warbled, useless and a little angry and a lot achier.

He—no one—gentleness was appreciated but rare, and being here had opened the doors to this odd kind of affection—and being comforted had been—it was so—his lungs heaved, now, and the pillow was soft but San Lang’s care was softer.

“It’s okay, gege,” San Lang soothed. “I know. I know.”

His mouth was wet. He felt like he might throw up.

“I want to sleep,” Xie Lian wept, finally, and the dams in his eyes broke. “I don’t want to eat. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. I want to sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep? Why won’t you let me? Why? I don’t want to, I don’t, I just—let me, please—I just want to sleep…” His eyes were burning, and every word out of his mouth was an ill confession. “Why are you—it’s fine to sleep, I just want to sleep, why are you waking me—why—I don’t get it, I don’t, did I…” And he hiccuped again. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Ah… No, gege,” San Lang said, instantly. There was a new tone being used, unyielding. He cupped the back of Xie Lian’s neck and said calmly, “Gege hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s only…”

But Xie Lian just hiccuped wetly into his pillow, eyes watering, and he felt like such a child.

As if he were still a spoiled prince, throwing a tantrum when his parents did not allow him to sleep next to them.

He had survived centuries on his own; built homes and died when they fell apart; starved with the animals and died by their teeth sinking into his non-existent belly; gone to hide with the wind and the snow and the rain; been drowned and flushed out like a termite nest; fallen down more hills than he had climbed; swallowed swords for entertainment and for pride; succeeded only in hurting himself over and over again. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. He didn’t want to say mean things or eat mantou buns or drink soy milk. He didn’t want to be San Lang’s responsibility. He didn’t want to do or be anything at all. If San Lang would stop trying to coax him out of bed, he would stop feeling the need to cry. It swelled up in his chest and got stuck in his throat, like a bad mouthful, spit that got stuck in his mouth and clung to his teeth.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. To be sad wasn’t a burden. To be sad was simply an emotion that plagued him repeatedly and without reprieve. Eating a warm meal wouldn’t make him any less sad, it was all so…

“I don’t want to eat,” Xie Lian cried. “It’s tiring. I’m tired. It’s—punishing, it’s mean, it’s mean…”

“Ah,” San Lang said again, sounding like he had come to a conclusion. “This one knows. This one knows, gege, please don’t feel like it’s a punishment.” He petted Xie Lian’s hair, gently and fervently. The bed dipped further as San Lang leaned closer. “It’s okay if you cry. It’s okay if you sleep. I’ll bring you something to nibble on, how about that? You can stay in bed, it’s okay. I’ll rub your shoulders and comb your hair. I can sing you a song. Don’t feel so bad, gege, it’s only a matter of care. I’m not mad at you—I didn’t know today was a bad day. It’s okay.”

Xie Lian didn’t reply.

He kept crying into the pillow, lungs heaving as he tried over and over again to stop the sadness from expanding. But that awful feeling took over his entire body, consuming even the slightest sensation of shame or curiosity or potential neutrality.

San Lang continued to stay close, casting a shadow over Xie Lian with how much he was leaning. He barely combed his fingers through Xie Lian’s hair, mostly just cradling the back of his head and neck. His attention to Xie Lian’s shaking form was done with the utmost care and caution. Either he had been a caretaker and attendant for some time, or maybe he had a natural talent for taking care of people. After all, he was very sincere and could maintain both his cool and a teasing attitude. Or, ha, the more unlikely thing—he was simply really good at taking care of Xie Lian, being so attuned to a banished and sad god. (That terribly nosy worm in Xie Lian’s stomach wiggled at the idea. He didn’t want it to be true.) San Lang whispered a few more things, very calmly and gingerly, but Xie Lian couldn’t quite bring himself to understand them—not even to try—not even to think about it.

He might have cried for an hour or two, muffled and useless, before he was aware of himself and the room again.

This time, when his sobs and wrenching sounds had turned weak and breathless—muggy noises, dumb noises, oh-so quiet noises—he sniffled and snuffed and laid utterly limp. Every now and then he would shiver. His shoulders shook, similar to how a dog would shake its body to get rid of water when it was damp. But Xie Lian stayed under the cover, eyes stinging, and breathed weakly.

He felt a gentle pressure on the center of his back, now, and he knew it was just San Lang.

Quietly, “I brought you some soy milk. There’s tieguanyin tea.” A pause. “And mantou, gege, it’s filled with char siu pork. They were made fresh for gege.”

If he tried to focus, really tried, he could smell some of the food. His stomach churned. He ate frequently in Paradise Manor, but there were always stretches of time where he would refuse repeatedly. San Lang never yelled, and there was never a moment where Xie Lian actually felt threatened. It wasn’t as if he was always laying here, limply, without any desire or thought beyond the occasional I wish I were dead. Sometimes, he would be able to engage in a conversation with San Lang. In the month that he had been here, he hadn’t been talkative in the ways he should have. Xie Lian was a very despondent and unpleasant person to be around these days. He might not be bitter or cruel, but being interrupted when he desperately wanted to sleep made him—meaner than normal. Desperation was a second-class sensation in his mind, only pushed aside by the domination of aches from seven centuries ago. Eh, even the aches from a few decades ago, really…

“I can’t eat them,” Xie Lian mumbled. “I can’t eat anything.”

“You can,” San Lang replied, quietly, “It’s okay. Just trying is enough.”

“It’s a waste,” Xie Lian mumbled. “I’ll throw up.”

“It’s not a waste,” San Lang replied, still quietly. He kept one hand on Xie Lian’s back. “Even if gege gets sick, it’s not a waste. They’re for you. Eat them, throw them up—whatever gege wants to do, as long as he tries.”

In moments like these, where Xie Lian was overtaken by a deep sense of sorrow or wrongness—or upset agitation—he never knew if he was truly aware of what occurred around him, or if everything had blended together in his mental unawareness. It didn’t seem like San Lang had left the room to retrieve any of the previously mentioned items, but there was simply no way anyone else had entered the room, either. San Lang was the only one to attend to him. Xie Lian had only ever seen other servants in brief passing—weeks back, really, when he actually managed to walk the hallway with San Lang at his side.

Xie Lian sniffled. It felt very melodramatic, very worthless. He felt as if someone had gutted him and replaced all his tender pieces with rocks and jagged crystals.

“Did you use a clone?” He asked, barely curious—he didn’t know, he didn’t, he didn’t.

There was a small pause, “En, gege.”

Xie Lian hiccuped next, face still smothered in a pillow. “San Lang,” he said, but couldn’t form any other words beyond it. So much energy, said the sickness. It’s such a waste when used for me. San Lang, use it for someone or something else.

San Lang traced along his spine through the blanket and layer of robes that Xie Lian was wearing. He spoke very softly, still leaning into Xie Lian’s space. He always felt cold. “Could you try to eat even just one bite?”

“One bite,” Xie Lian echoed.

“Yes,” San Lang murmured. “Just one. It’s okay to try. If nothing sounds good, I’ll get you something else. Anything, gege.”

Xie Lian’s eyes nearly overflowed again. He wanted to drink the tea his mother used to make for him when he was little. He wanted to eat soup dumplings and rock candies. He wanted to share tea with his Guoshi, even if it included a long lecture that Xie Lian would have otherwise been unwilling to hear. He wanted to eat soft rice and sweet congee and egg custard and fresh goat milk and his mother’s terribly-cooked stew. He wanted to taste jujubes from Xianle’s Royal Gardens again. He wanted to pick cherries with Feng Xin and Mu Qing—part of the reason those cherries were so good was because he shared it with them, because—they tasted so sweet. He wanted to feel the sunlight on his face when he shared slices of oranges with people he would never ever see again. He wanted to eat water chestnuts with his feet in a gentle stream. He wanted to wake up and see everything in its rightful place and eat chicken, duck, beef, pork, quail, rabbit, anything, anything, anything. He wanted to lick the salt from the spoon. He wanted to swallow the sugar lumps without wincing. He wanted to drink an entire jar of vinegar and throw it up. He wanted to drink whatever wine that this manor had in stock and drink the entire cellar into oblivion until he could throw up, and up, and up, and up—until everything in his stomach was gone, until he was empty and hollow and even the emotional stones had left him behind. He wanted to starve. He wanted to curl up in a ball on the forest floor and become one with the mushrooms and the moss and do nothing forever. He wanted to lick persimmon juices off his fingers and laugh at dumb jokes. He wanted to go hungry forever and then be nothing more than a ball of dust in someone’s attic. He wanted nothing at all. He wanted everything that could be made in under an hour. He wanted to go run in an orchard without shoes and steal fruit from the trees and eat it as he fled.

He wanted, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted…

But Xie Lian couldn’t have any of that. In his head, it was perfect. In his head, the images and ideas collided. He wanted it very badly. It was perfect. It was homely. It was what he longed for. He couldn’t dream about it, couldn’t place the tang or sweetness, but he ached and growled and grew sad over the slightest things.

“Nn,” said Xie Lian. He shivered again, and pulled at the blanket, and tried to avoid any other conversation.

“If gege can eat something,” San Lang coaxed, hesitant, “This one will play a song of your choosing on the guqin or pipa. Just one bite, or one sip. And then I’ll play.”

Bribery, if you will. Because San Lang was not above it. Xie Lian didn’t mind. Xie Lian didn’t mind. His stomach was empty but heavy. When San Lang offered these things, he felt his face flush and his mind melt. Sometimes happily—an ounce of joy—something that grew at the musical notes that would enter his head. Sometimes sadly, because music reminded him of home, and he had none. But, the thing was…

Xie Lian breathed out, defeatedly and sadly. “You’d do that anyway.”

“En,” said San Lang, who knew that he very much would. “Gege.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian repeated, weakly. He was so tired. He just wanted to sleep. He was face-down on the bed, hiding under the covers. He had managed to tug the blanket back over his neck, closer to his head—like before—but San Lang was still very carefully cupping his nape and smoothing his thumb over parts of Xie Lian’s hair.

The youth’s other hand traced patterns idly on Xie Lian’s back. “Gege.”

The god’s eyes were still stinging. “It’s…”

Worthless and exhausting. Stupid. Utterly pathetic. Boring. Unpleasant. Revolting. Repetitive. Awful. Mean. Tiring. So tiring. Xie Lian could think of a hundred words to describe the effort needed to do these things; breathing, eating, being, talking, thinking, living, existing. These things took so much work. Xie Lian had wandered for centuries and suffered in most of that timespan. Suffering was a strong word, too strong—and his hands shook when he held the weight—but he couldn’t lie so easily. It was painful and detrimental and oftentimes fatal. Death found him in any and every situation and Xie Lian let it take its toll. And then, abruptly, Xie Lian stumbled his way into Ghost City. He cheated fate, really, and ended up here. He wanted to sleep for eternity. If he could just sleep until his head was clear, until the depressive air that was stuck in his chest left, then it would be fine.

Instead, San Lang was insistent on trying to mend Xie Lian the… mortal way, perhaps.

Mortals didn’t have an eternity to sleep. There was no such thing. Mortals had to try to face the day as soon as they could, no matter how unhappy they were. They had to eat. They had to drink. They had to sit where the sun could kiss them.

So, instead, the youth had taken to speaking to him and playing music and bringing him food and telling stories and cleaning the clothes—or at least retrieving new ones—and combing Xie Lian’s hair and rubbing his shoulder and gently petting his head and spending time here in this room and never saying anything negative about Xie Lian’s defeatist and childish attitude. Not one bad word was uttered when Xie Lian inevitably cried from frustration or heartache—or nothing at all. San Lang took it in stride.

Xie Lian’s eyes continued to water rather pathetically.

San Lang continued to carefully pet at his hair, which was not as tangled as it could have been. “Gege,” he said, and Xie Lian’s chest hurt.

With a burst of energy, raw and wholly temporary, he forced himself to sit. San Lang’s hand dropped from Xie Lian’s head, but the hand on the god’s back only shifted to put gentle pressure on his shoulder instead.

Xie Lian breathed harshly, wetly, and forced himself to look at the youth.

San Lang was staring at him, both eyes wide. An amber color was clear as day as the irises, even with the dimness of the room. His black hair was in a pony tail, like always. He was wearing red robes and a white tunic underneath. He blinked, adjusting to Xie Lian sitting—to the face the god wore—to the way part of Xie Lian’s robes had fallen from his other shoulder to begin draping unceremoniously, bare skin being shown. Ruoye had been hiding on Xie Lian’s wrist for ages, moving at night and trying to comfort its master to no avail. In the coffin, Xie Lian had begged it to suffocate him more often than he had ever asked for anything else. If San Lang noticed the silk demon—he must have, at least once—he never said anything outright. But now, the youth’s eyes traced over the bare skin of Xie Lian’s shoulder, part of his collar bone, and then the dark band that was etched into Xie Lian’s neck. Something sharpened on his expression before going soft.

Xie Lian’s shoulders hiked up, and he looked away—looked back—then looked around the room. He squinted. From the darkness of a pillow and a blanket, to even this dark room, was still a change in light. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks. Wetness and shame clung to him, and he was grateful that San Lang never outwardly mocked him, if at all. He cleared his throat and pulled his robes up, hands trembling. He couldn’t—fix—the cursed shackle. He tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore how it choked and choked and choked and choked.

“Where’s…” Xie Lian mumbled, very shakily.

“Here,” San Lang replied, finally letting go of Xie Lian’s arm and shoulder to lean to the left—suddenly exposing a tray of food and beverages. “Take your pick, gege.”

The god’s eyes stung.

He stared at the food. Despite being hungry, he wasn’t… hungry in the eating sense. To chew. There was a difference between desire and need. Between weighing his options as he drowned or died of heatstroke. He looked at the mantou and congee and sweet custard and tofu and tea—oh, familiar—dark tea, white tea—then the…. His mouth watered, like his eyes, but he couldn’t pick anything. He slowly looked away and shook his head.

San Lang exhaled. “It’s okay,” he replied, attempting to reassure. “Gege can have anything. He can just nibble a piece off of each item, or lick the rim of the cup, or simply hold it in his hands until he wants to try it. It’s okay.”

“You eat,” said Xie Lian, quietly. “I’m…”

“It’s gege’s food,” San Lang answered, not unkindly. He folded his hands into his lap and waited, though, and Xie Lian kept his eyes on the floor and then the blanket that was still covering his lap.

“I can’t eat it all,” the god repeated, like earlier—before he cried and cried and cried. “I can’t eat anything, it’s… you should eat. I’ll try. I’ll think.” Hunger rocked back and forth in his body. It was familiar as much as it was foreign. Hunger. He cleared his throat again, raspy. “Thank you for… ah, staying while I…”

“No worries,” said San Lang.

And he made a decision to unfold his hands and take a mantou off the tray, extending it and placing it into Xie Lian’s hands without waiting for further instruction.

Xie Lian frowned but held onto it. “You too,” he mumbled.

San Lang sighed, like he was being put out or something. But his lips curled—ah, it was a teasing kind of smile, gentle despite the lingering strain. “Of course, gege,” he said. He plucked a mantou off the tray as well. “Does gege want me to tell a story while he eats?”

“How will you eat if you’re talking?” Xie Lian mumbled.

“Eh, gege,” said San Lang. “Between bites. Like you.”

“Hm,” said Xie Lian, who was too tired to argue any further. He held onto his mantou and stared rather blankly at the floor. He brushed his feet over the soft carpet, just once, and thought about how wonderful such a small thing was. One of these days, he would crawl onto the ground and hide along the soft furs that made up the floor—hide halfway under the bed—be nothing more than another rug.

San Lang waited for a little while, letting the gentle quiet simmer.

Xie Lian’s skin crawled, but after several minutes of the silence, he lifted the bun closer to his face. He should be hungry.

The body was, yes, but Xie Lian didn’t care if he ate or not. He was tired. This was something he fought often, even before being brought here so generously. The hunger and the ache and the exhaustion and the anger and the bursts of unreadiness that made him unreasonably mean at times, to himself and even others. Mean was childish. To say he was tired after doing absolutely nothing was also childish. He said it anyway, confided in the half-frowning face in his memories. Curling under a porch, or along a hay stack.

The youth in red hummed a little, though. It broke through the passivity of the silence. Xie Lian’s stomach curled, and he barely moved. He lifted the bun to his lips and forced himself to bite—forced, forced, forced. There was nothing bursting. Nothing—steam, maybe—and his body shuddered, and memory told him there should be flavor, but he didn’t know why there was nothing. A grey field. Nothing but ash, so much ash—grime streaking down his face and black plumes of air clouding his vision and lungs. Memory said he should feel. He chewed, perhaps a bit aggressively, and that act alone felt like he was going to pass out. His chewing got weaker and weaker, and he held onto the bun until his hands no longer possessed any strength. He didn’t let the mantou fall, not this time, but the dough and filling in his mouth didn’t bring him any relief. He chewed quietly, working the bite over in his mouth repeatedly.

San Lang blinked at the sight, and then took a bite of his own mantou. He chewed quietly too. From the corner of Xie Lian’s vision, it was obvious the youth was still watching Xie Lian.

“It’s good,” Xie Lian mumbled, trying to taste—he couldn’t, he really couldn’t—but the words escaped him anyway as his eyes prickled. “It’s good.”

“I think so, too,” San Lang said. He was watching Xie Lian chew the same mouthful over and over. The youth commented casually, “Would gege like any weiyu?”

Xie Lian didn’t answer.

San Lang set his mantou down on a part of the tray that wasn’t busy with other items and cups. He reached for a small dish and plucked chopsticks as well. “Here,” he motioned, and Xie Lian slowly turned his head to watch—the youth was actually dragging himself closer by the smallest margin to offer broiled taro to Xie Lian. The god continued chewing the mantou, still unable to taste anything besides his own spit. He stared at the tiny bowl of broiled taro pieces and the chopsticks in San Lang’s hands and thought, with frightening clarity, I’d rather die.

But, because he often felt like that, he just kept chewing and pushing the pieces of mantou and braised pork around in his mouth. Then, after staring for longer than proper—San Lang made no move to do anything else—Xie Lian shook his head carefully.

“Just one,” San Lang bargained.

Xie Lian watched him, wary, and tired, and then suddenly very cold. His shoulders shivered—an unintentional thing, rapidly shaking—and he cupped the mantou in his hands and tried not to feel any worse. It was very troublesome. Some moments were clearer than others. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this, he was sure.

Through the paste in his mouth, he mumbled, “This is the one.”

“One more,” San Lang corrected himself, shamelessly.

He still held onto the dish. He smiled the longer Xie Lian stared at him, rather soft and rather easy. Xie Lian had to wonder what this youth had done to be stuck dealing with someone as miserable as Xie Lian all month long. “It’s,” he mumbled. “Uhm.”

The mouthful wasn’t even… a lot.

He wasn’t hungry. It was barely even a nibble, really—and he stared at the mantou in his hands and knew, truly knew, that this wouldn’t help him at all. He might as well just throw up. Failing this whole meal sequence. He tried, he gave up. San Lang wouldn’t yell. Probably. But Xie Lian didn’t know how long he would have a soft bed, or no responsibilities. He wanted to exhaust himself properly. He wanted a lot of things that he otherwise couldn’t have.

It wouldn’t be reasonable to simply sit here and—and—not try at all.

“I’ll feed it to you,” San Lang said, after analyzing Xie Lian’s weakened state of mind. “You don’t have to do anything else. I’ll just give gege a piece, and he can try it. I’ll split the piece, too,” and then with the chopsticks, he clicked them apart cleanly and then pressed one of the taro slices down—curved the utensils across the flesh of the vegetable so he could take a piece from that already small part. San Lang tilted the bowl, showing Xie Lian further. “Just this piece,” he said. “That’s all, okay, unless gege wants more. Okay?”

“No,” Xie Lian said, ice water being poured over him. “You…”

“Gege can do it himself,” San Lang offered, next. “It doesn’t have to be from me.”

“I’m not hungry,” Xie Lian said, shaking his head slowly. He wouldn’t even be able to eat this mantou. He wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted San Lang to, maybe, sing the songs or lullabies he mentioned before—anything at all. Anything. Because Xie Lian had taken one bite, so why should he take another?

“Gege’s body is flesh,” San Lang countered, reasonably and without a lick of judgement. His voice was sharper, though. Resistant. “It can’t heal like this.”

Ah.

The god swallowed the overchewed paste of the mantou. It was char siu pork. It was good. It was good. It was worth something. It wet down his throat harshly, scraping and scraping. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t.

Xie Lian’s eyes watered, and he calmly—before losing himself to more tears—closed his eyes and took a breath. Composure. Knowing. Placing himself into the shoes of someone else. This was a lot of effort to help one banished god, didn’t San Lang deserve more effort? He was being drawn away from his other duties, having to tend to Xie Lian’s unsightliness like this. He held the air in his lungs for a long moment. Thinking and understanding and being and trying, trying so hard, trying even with the rain pouring down, trying even when his mouth was frozen shut with frost—blue—when he couldn’t move or be or do or anything, anything, anything.

But he took a breath, and let it go, and then weakly mumbled. “I know.”

“Gege,” San Lang replied, not as quietly but without any heat. It seemed very—refiective.

Maybe San Lang knew more than Xie Lian gave him credit for. Maybe San Lang wasn’t going through these motions blind, or with limited orders. Maybe he knew about these fits, these moments. The deep and unrestrained pain that settled in heavily along Xie Lian’s skull and brain and mind.

“Where’s the taro from?” Xie Lian asked, meekly.

There was barely a pause before San Lang began to speak, “Did I ever tell you about the gardens? Paradise Manor has several.” San Lang had told him about the gardens, many times in fact. “There are both flowers and fountains—one even possesses a pond with fish. In the Ghost Realm, there aren’t a lot of things that will grow willingly in the soil, but there is a small vegetable garden on the west side of the manor.” San Lang was very dutiful in explaining, and carefully shifted the taro so Xie Lian could look at it more closely. His voice remained even and steady, “If gege ever wants to dig his hands into the dirt, or even tear up the taro patch because it’s not good enough, then this one would be glad to show him.”

Xie Lian stared at the single piece of taro that had been cut off for him. He held this barely eaten mantou, and then blinked the wetness from his eyes again. He was so prone to crying, it really made for a terrible display of generosity. “Ah,” he mumbled. “San Lang must take good care of it.”

“Maybe,” San Lang said, neutrally.

“My hands,” Xie Lian tried, and failed. Blurted, really. He blinked again. He wished he could melt into the bedding, or into the soft robes he was wearing. “I’m… cold.”

“I’ll get you another layer in one moment, gege,” the youth said, kindly. He instead reached over from behind where they were sitting at the edge of the bed, and dragged the edge of the blanket back over Xie Lian’s backside. The blanket was then draped around his shoulders, enough to supply him with more coverage. “Just for now,” San Lang clarified, to fill the silence. He explained himself and his actions often for Xie Lian—likely used to Xie Lian’s waiting silence.

He glanced at Xie Lian, then the dish, then Xie Lian again. “Would gege like me to…”

“It’s too much,” Xie Lian denied, immediately.

“Not really,” San Lang replied. “Not at all, gege. Believe me.”

“It’s too much,” Xie Lian repeated, and he could barely even look in San Lang’s direction. “I know how to use chopsticks.” His voice was shaky. “I don’t need to be fed like a child.”

His heart hurt. His head hurt. He wished he had been firmer in his denial of the taro, wished he said no over and over again until his tantrum had been taken as a serious answer. Really, this entire situation shouldn’t have ever happened. The fact that it was real—proven many times over by now—was enough to make Xie Lian feel sick with envy for every version of himself that had once thought he wouldn’t need to suffer before being given some form of kindness. If Hua Cheng had found him later, maybe Xie Lian wouldn’t have been a sad wreck. But, if Hua Cheng had found him later, Xie Lian might have been a corpse in the mud somewhere, or a supposed corpse in a Ghost City butcher shop.

Which, all things considered, wouldn’t go over well for the citizens of Ghost City, if, well….

“It’s not too much,” San Lang rejected, outright. “Of course gege knows how to use chopsticks, and of course gege isn’t a child. This San Lang knows. It’s not a matter of being young or ignorant, gege, it’s just a matter of care.” San Lang’s voice remained unyielding. “If eating is difficult, and working the chopsticks leaves too much room to be uneasy, then it’s not a terribly hard thing for me to give you the taro piece, or hold the cup, or sit next to you like this while you chew. None of that is too much for me. I’m the one offering.”

He didn’t waver. Xie Lian used to be like that—young and hopeful and firm, he didn’t twist his words like a knife or split his tongue with the barbed thorn of a plant he shouldn’t eat. He used to be so picky. He used to be nothing but good. He used to please so many.

Now, he couldn’t please himself.

Now, he couldn't even—not for a second—please San Lang.

Xie Lian stared at the mantou in his hands. “San Lang,” and he should try harder. He should. “I…” But he really… everything, in a sense, was dull. The room was lovely. Objectively, this was a great blessing. To be given shelter, clothes, food, and company—freely—or without an immediate exchange of power or service. This didn’t feel like servitude. Xie Lian wasn’t sick like a mortal might be. When someone was coddled like this, you would expect them to be in some kind of turbulent state.

Grieving or mourning.

Xie Lian was… mourning, maybe, but certainly not traditionally or after the events had occurred. He was very late to this sadness.

Entire stretches of time passed without a wink of heartache, and then the next month he would become wholly inconsolable. He would lay beneath large oak trees and listen to crickets and cicadas and do nothing. He would become so overcome with a sense of wrongness that he would throw up after eating, and then simply forgo eating entirely as to avoid any other strange fits. It was cumbersome. It was heavy. But it was normal for him, and even on the occasion a mortal had taken him in and seen him in such a state, they hadn’t quite understood how to make him rise with the sun and continue with his days.

Once, an old lady who lived alone outside her village had made him soup over and over again—even when Xie Lian had gone completely stiff and stopped eating entirely. He remembered her saying something about grief freezing someone into a glacier, and had draped him in a warm blanket, and had set the bowl down loudly in front of him. She had demanded he eat, lest he force her to bury his body. He hadn’t cried, but he had stared at her and apologized—reached for the bowl, ate his fill, and then left some days afterwards. The old woman might have died shortly after, with how frail she was herself. But she had packed him fermented bamboo shoots. He remembered the way she squeezed his hands, and told him not to stop eating even when sad. Sadness will kill you. Sadness will eat you. Something about consuming it back, or at least ensuring he wouldn’t freeze over with whatever was haunting him. But, that entire exchange had occurred several decades ago—back before these episodes had become so exhaustive and consistent.

Something curled uncomfortably in his stomach. It wiggled like a maggot. Shame curled around his throat, too, and he wished Ruoye would grow its spine back and strangle him the same way it did back when he was in the coffin—asking it to give him mercy, if only for one moment—but since entering the Ghost Realm, Ruoye had become needlessly docile at his wrist.

“San Lang,” Xie Lian struggled, and a rare offshoot of fury struck him. That was what it was! He was furious at himself, so angry and so sad. A deep ravine that had been placed over his heart.

“En,” San Lang said.

Without waiting further, the youth plucked the tiny little piece of taro out of the dish and held it out with the chopsticks. Xie Lian blinked. His mounting fury morphed back into shame and shock. The god stared at that tiny piece being offered to him for several seconds. San Lang didn’t say anything else, either—he let the silence live! That tiny sliver of root vegatable… looked so daunting.

Xie Lian, face suddenly burning similarly to his eyes, leaned to the chopsticks and swallowed that tiny piece before pulling away completely. He worked the taro over his tongue a few times, trying not to—to—to—worsen, really.

A blink, and San Lang lowered the chopsticks.

Xie Lian didn’t say anything. Despite how small the piece was, it was already bad enough he had seemingly lost so many manners in just a month. Or, maybe longer—being alone and like this had surely dulled all sense of responsibility and courtesy. Chewing with his mouth open wasn’t proper. Speaking with his mouth full—no matter how tiny the taro was—would be improper, too. He had already done it. And he had already cried so loudly, so frustratingly. Xie Lian was rather—he couldn’t quite—ah… it was like that, still. He had such thick skin, but he had grown into a tiny ball of human moss. He bounced along the bottom of a water jar and stayed there, listless, where his ashamed mind could grow teeth and peck at the rest of him.

“Is it good?” San Lang asked, eyeing him.

There was a certain kind of look on the youth’s face—a certain kind that felt too—there wasn’t even a word to describe it, or capture it as poetry. Xie Lian’s heart shriveled up. He nodded furiously. “The taro is fine,” Xie Lian hiccuped, the vegetable tasting of nothing. “Tell me more about the gardens.”

“Does gege want another robe first?” San Lang asked.

“No,” Xie Lian hiccuped again, “No need. Please just tell me about the gardens.”

San Lang glanced at Xie Lian’s shaky hands, and then his blistering eyes again—and launched into more details regarding the gardens of Paradise Manor. He was quite knowledgeable. He spoke of the soil density, the way cucumbers refused to grow, the fact that even the lord of the manor would tend to parts of them—and still return without a single sprouting—and explained in vivid detail what kinds of flowers grew in the main area. White lotuses had their own pond, apparently, and were tended to very frequently to ensure they took to the Ghost Realm’s climate. There were cherry trees! Though, San Lang shyly warned him that the cherries were not quite like the ones found in the Mortal Realm.

“Not to say they’re bad,” San Lang clarified. “But some taste a bit more like, ah, something that’ll surprise you…”

A very vague and particularly ominous hint to be wary of the Ghost Realm’s fruit and vegetable cultivation tastes! It made Xie Lian feel easy, only a little, and he swallowed the taro firmly after hearing about it. It stuck in his throat completely, but it—he was used to such a thing, you see—so even as his throat worked itself into a strain as the sludge went down, he didn’t waver too terribly. San Lang eyed him, but didn’t comment. He continued explaining the gardens with a rather unprecedented passion…

“Is San Lang interested in gardening?” Xie Lian asked weakly after listening, “You know so much…”

“This San Lang tries to know a wide variety of things,” San Lang responded, humbly and almost dismissively, “And, because I’m here at the manor, I need to keep an adequate record of everything happening anyway. So, sharing this kind of information isn’t any issue at all. It’s not a hobby of mine as much as knowledge is.”

He smiled, sharp and witty, and when Xie Lian nodded in understanding—someone like San Lang would have to know many things, wouldn’t he?—the youth continued to explain. Peonies, lotuses, cherry trees, plum trees, and white orchids that had evidently taken two hundred years to cultivate! The list of flowers that Paradise Manor kept on hand continued to grow. Xie Lian tried to commit it to memory. There was bamboo, too, though most of the stalks grew as black as night and seemed to grow without any luck in being cut back. An entire section of the garden had been warded off due to how persistent that resentful bamboo had become!

“It just won’t leave,” San Lang bemoaned, as Xie Lian tried to get rid of the nausea building in his belly. “It’s been there an eternity, gege, and no matter how many times we raze the garden, they come back.”

“Bamboo is notorious for that,” Xie Lian hiccuped.

“Indeed,” San Lang sighed. “This variety is increasingly proving to be terrible, though…”

“Unlimited bamboo shoots,” Xie Lian suggested, weakly. “I’m sure there’s a way to make it worthwhile.”

“Ah, gege is so smart,” San Lang replied, and smiled at him again.

Xie Lian saw it—his lips curled, too—then he grimaced and looked back at the mantou. His shoulders hiked up to his ears again, and he shook his head. Some of his hair cascaded down one side, hiding part of his neck. “What else?” He asked. “I… San Lang said there were even more flowers, right? What others?”

The youth sat there for a moment, humming in contemplation. His smile remained carefree. After a second, he snapped his fingers together. “Gege might not believe it,” San Lang hedged, “But the lord of the manor is very fond of a particular flower that is no longer found in the Mortal Realm.” At the very vague mention, Xie Lian paused. San Lang watched him, smiling, and tilted his head. “Would gege like to guess what it is?”

“Eh,” Xie Lian’s face contorted, and he shrugged. “There are a lot of flowers that can’t be found in the Mortal Realm any more. Not everything can stay after centuries…”

“Mm,” said San Lang, who watched him attentively. “But?”

“Ah,” echoed Xie Lian, who felt a bit—maybe tricked, at the sudden back-and-forth conversation! He was meant to listen and only comment every now and then. Not… became a full conversationalist. Even if it was the polite thing to do. His stomach twisted, and he looked at the mantou in his hands again—he should have busied himself into trying to finish it, or at least eat half. Instead, he became wrapped up in San Lang’s extensive garden knowledge. “You said there are a lot of white flowers already,” Xie Lian mumbled. “Is it another, like that?”

“Yes, gege,” San Lang said, seemingly equal parts delighted and solemn. “That’s right.”

At the confirmation, Xie Lian’s first thought was it might be a flower yao, which was rather shameful given the circumstances. His face flushed, and he batted the idea away. It likely wasn’t anything so… so… convoluted… Xie Lian wasn’t sure what it could be. He wasn’t nearly as knowledgeable regarding flower names, let alone each species that might have vanished from the confines of the Mortal Realm.

“I really don’t know,” Xie Lian confessed. “I suppose it could just be a white flower, couldn’t it?”

San Lang laughed, “Gege outwitted me! Yes, it’s a white flower.” Which, again, couldn’t really be considered a good guess… But San Lang had no other complaints. He was still smiling.

Xie Lian took the bait hesitantly, “What is it?”

“It’s a trick question, gege,” San Lang replied, which made Xie Lian feel rather bashful after all! He stared at San Lang, perhaps too flush with the surprise, and San Lang laughed a little more. “This flower doesn’t have a particular name amongst mortals, so gege wouldn’t have been able to properly win the guess.”

At Xie Lian’s expression, the youth snickered a little more—sounding soft, very delighted. At least someone was happy, right? Xie Lian sighed a bit, whistling through his teeth. “San Lang tricked me, I see, I see…”

“Gege, gege,” San Lang laughed. “This flower is very precious to the lord of the manor, but even he won’t name it.”

“Does it really not grow in the Mortal Realm anymore?” Xie Lian mumbled.

“It doesn’t, but it could grow there again,” San Lang explained. “It’s a very tenacious flower, after all. It survives many harsh conditions. But, several hundred years ago, mortals began burning its fields and refusing to replant the seeds of this flower. They were very angry at what it represented, so they began purposely avoiding caring for it, and even seeking it out in the wild to destroy it.”

“How unfortunate,” Xie Lian said.

It didn’t sound like San Lang was passionately exhaling a flower, though. The god’s chest was tight. As if someone had placed a lot of pressure on his sternum, unrelenting. Xie Lian tried not to read into these conversations—he couldn’t handle biting his own tongue so often—but San Lang had grown increasingly bold throughout today’s discussion. Even now. The youth held himself easily, his posture carefree compared to Xie Lian’s—who was unceremonious in every way. Xie Lian glanced at San Lang’s uneaten mantou. The youth hadn’t eaten any more of it, similar to Xie Lian. The god looked back to San Lang, waiting.

“Yes,” San Lang nodded. “It’s a small white flower with five petals, sometimes more. It’s commonly mistaken for a cape jasmine, with their similar traits and appearances.”

“Those grow south, don’t they?” Xie Lian mused. He had come across them before, but only a handful of times. He tilted his head further down. “But, I’m assuming the flower in the gardens doesn’t come from there.”

“Right, gege,” San Lang agreed. “The flower that Hua Chengzhu cherishes so much didn’t come from the south, but from the West Plains.”

Xie Lian blinked—stomach and heart dropping in unison. He looked back up, shoulders stiff. He frowned. Very—he froze up, felt jittery. Was it really a conversation about a flower? There was surely a garden of these rumored buds in Paradise Manor, yes, that wasn’t something Xie Lian doubted. But how could San Lang speak so freely about this? How could he unveil something as—as—double-sided as this?

“It really doesn’t have a name?” Xie Lian asked, voice cracking.

At the sound, San Lang blinked—eyes trained in on him. Though, maybe they never left. The youth truly was attentive. “Is it surprising?” He settled on, sounding neutral. “Did gege think of one?”

“No,” the god croaked. “I was just…”

Memories collided in his head. He didn’t want to say he knew the flower that San Lang was speaking of. He didn’t want to say that, even now, centuries after the fall of Xianle, Xie Lian recalled the blossoming buds of white that littered so many hillsides in his once nation. That those flowers—they had been everywhere. He recalled their shape, their sweet scent, and their ability to grow even without water. He recalled the way people would pick them, even from outside his own temples, and offer them to him—sometimes people would have nothing else—and sometimes, Xie Lian had dreamed of them in the aftermath, when he had been cold and hateful. He recalled a ghost placing a single flower on a statue’s hand, an offering, even after godhood had been stripped from him and he had been a furious and angry man.

Xie Lian’s heart thundered, and fear swept him up and down—combed its hands through his hair—ah, how could he even say I know that flower, it used to be mine, it used to be me when the very words would sound like a confession of the worst kind?

Was this all really some strange and blessed happenstance, just a coincidence?

San Lang watched him, and then his smile turned soft. Outstandingly calm once more. “Gege,” he offered, “Why don’t we eat outside? I can show you the flowers, and maybe you can think of a name for them.”

And it was even ludicrous to suggest such a thing!

Xie Lian felt his heart fly from his chest, separate from the abyss his body was in!

He winced, and shuddered, and then closed his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he whispered. “I don’t… know if I can face it.”

“Gege ate two bites,” San Lang replied, purposely moving around the claim of facing. “That’s good. Instead, we could just go out there. I can get gege his shoes and an instrument. I’ll play something while you look.”

“Hua Chengzu shouldn’t have to play for a sorry guest like me,” Xie Lian blurted, finally.

His heart was in his throat.

He wished, then, he could eat himself into oblivion. Take parts and pieces of his existence and turn into a gooey puddle. Melt into the sheets once more, not in a salacious way—but to be struck by such a terribly suffocating heat. Shame already burned him, but this was too much. This was too indulgent. A city lord could do as they pleased, but did San Lang really want to play music or sing a song just for Xie Lian? When he was already such miserable company? How could anyone truly want to do such a thing!

San Lang stared at him.

Xie Lian felt a sliver of relief for himself, having managed to hold his tears and frustration at bay.

“It’s a lot,” Xie Lian blurted, next. “And not something that—that, well, I—something that, you…” His throat bobbed. He stared at San Lang, feeling a bit wild. The youth was watching him with a new kind of intensity, having unraveled as soon as the title Hua Chengzhu slipped from the god’s lips. Xie Lian stumbled through an explanation that was too sore to mean anything. “Someone like you,” he said, weakly. “Should be doing, for someone like me, ah…”

Hua Cheng, the lord of the manor and Ghost City in everything’s entirety, continued to stare at him before asking pointedly, “Gege knew?”

“Not entirely!” Xie Lian cried. And his shoulders hunched at the admission. “It’s only—well, I…”

The guessing game of a flower, the knowledge of everything else, the kindness, the obvious power, the… it was everything. It was everything.

“Gege knew,” Hua Cheng repeated, as an answer.

Xie Lian shook his head despondently, eyes stinging once more. Renewed fervor. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s really… you’re, San Lang—ah, Hua Chengzhu, it’s not that I knew, it’s only that I… suspected. And thought…” But with each word out of his mouth, he felt like sinking further into a hole he had dug for himself. “This one really hadn’t meant to break the…”

Game? Time spent pretending? The act of a ghost king? What could Xie Lian possibly mean to explain!

But the youth next to him on the bed just blinked once, tilting his head, and his face went through a few stages—neutrality and intensity and then something very solemn, settling in on a smooth smile and a simple sigh. “It’s fine,” he said casually. “It’s only natural that gege would find out and continue to play along. What gave me away?”

“The,” said Xie Lian, blank-minded, and then he shook his head. “I…”

“I prefer San Lang,” Hua Cheng said, easily. “As long as gege is still okay with this arrangement, then San Lang is what gege can call me.” He eyed Xie Lian carefully, setting the small bowl of taro and chopsticks aside. “If not, then this one can leave and ensure another attendant continues tending to gege’s needs and wants.”

“Of course I’m not opposed,” Xie Lian mumbled, feeling a twinge of pain at the suggestion. His face scrunched, and he shook it again.

He wished he could shake himself so hard he simply flew apart in numerous directions, all over the Ghost Realm, so no one ever put him back together again! His shame really was too much! This long-drawn-out ache of sadness and loneliness couldn’t even be cured by Hua Cheng, the ruler of Ghost City—the notorious Crimson Rain Sought Flower. Such a title hadn’t weighed heavily on Xie Lian’s mind until he had been brought to the manor, and San Lang mentioned it off handedly when conversing to the human equivalent of a brick wall. (Xie Lian, it had been Xie Lian.)

Hua Cheng was quiet for a little longer before humming. “In any case, it’s not trouble. Gege isn’t a sorry guest, so of course I want to play a song or seven for him.”

Too much!

“Or seven?” Xie Lian croaked.

“Or seven,” Hua Cheng insisted. “If playing anything can bring gege a little closer to a state of normalcy, it’s worth every second.”

Xie Lian stared weakly at his hands, and the now cold mantou he hadn’t finished. He should finish it. He should. But his stomach was churning, like his mind, and he felt shame and relief and sorrow. It balanced out—trembling and termoring—but he knew it wouldn’t ever steady. It wouldn’t ever go away, or vanish. Maybe—ah—if he fell victim to a spell that wiped memories, maybe he wouldn’t be plagued by this kind of feeling. He wouldn’t remember why he felt this way, and so the problem would be solved. Temporarily, at least. And yet, the idea of seeking out a magical amnesia, especially with someone like Hua Cheng here, he had a suspicion that the ghost simply wouldn’t allow it to happen.

Nausea curled once in his belly.

He forced himself to take another bite of the steamed bun. Once he had, he pushed forwards—struggling—but wolfed down the rest of it in less time than it took him to do so much as originally lick the soft dough. He chewed and swallowed quickly, trying to get past the taste of, well it didn’t have an exact taste, more so the idea… Xie Lian shuddered.

His mouth was wet with his own spit and persistent sickness. While his prolonged sadness made him lose his appetite, it wasn’t a physical illness that made him so out of it.

Hua Cheng blinked once at him. Then, seemingly abruptly, the ghost put his hand on Xie Lian’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Good, gege,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to eat anything else, it’s okay.” There was a pause, and Xie Lian stared at the floor and stared at his shaky hands and stared at the soft carpet and stared at the nice robes he had been given. Hua Cheng didn’t let go of his shoulder.

Xie Lian felt—spoiled, and destined for a grave, and out of his depth, and much too tired. “San Lang,” he mumbled. “What do you gain from taking care of me?”

Quieter, when the silence went on…

His head throbbed. “When did I meet a character like you?”

Because he showed up in Ghost City on a whim. An accident. He passed out in an alleyway because he had been so exhausted and prone to heartache. He had woken to—San Lang, to Hua Cheng in a different skin, pretending to be one person. He had been taken in. Hearing the name Paradise Manor for the first time had made him think of a brothel—it made him laugh wetly, because he would have—killed himself or fled—but in fact, no, it had been such a wonderful thing to be led here and cared for. What good was Xie Lian? He had no wealth. He had no temples. Whatever Hua Cheng knew him from, or in the past, or how—how, how, how, how, how—felt utterly hollow and mysterious. He wasn’t a worthwhile investment. Even an average mortal could prove more useful than he could. Xie Lian had given up and fallen into an emotional chasm, and he hadn’t ever planned on crawling out. There had been lapses—stretches of time where it didn’t hurt so severely, but after the time in the coffin his grief and inability to cope became immeasurable. Ghost City hadn’t even batted an eye at him when he stumbled in, following a crowd and being just as lost as a little ghost fire. What could Hua Cheng, a calamity that put terror into the hearts of both mortals and immortals, ever gain from tending to an old and banished god? Xie Lian, even if given a good answer, would fear the aftermath. He really didn’t deserve this kind of treatment, not after everything. Not after—

“Hmm,” said Hua Cheng, who at least pretended to think about his answer. “Gege, wouldn’t you agree that seeing a flower bloom to its fullest is one of the most rewarding things?”

How could anyone possibly speak like that!

Xie Lian’s heart, despite weighing so heavily—an eternity spent grieving even when he didn’t have a concrete reason—skipped inside his chest. His face was red, no longer with shame. He stared at Hua Cheng rather than his own weak hands, and gawked for a moment. Hua Cheng snickered at his expression, entertained—coaxing, willing the conversation to continue.

The surprise outweighed his ability to feel sadness, covering up his aches just long enough for him to blurt, “You’re so insincere!”