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The bamboo grove sways with the wind outside the windows of the Red Lotus Pavilion. The sound of the leaves is the same gentle rustling that has accompanied Chu Wanning in his solitude since he came to Sisheng Peak—and yet, it is a strange thing to know that the world has moved on without Chu Wanning for five long years.

Much like Chu Wanning himself, his residence has not changed. No passage of time can be felt here, among the bamboo trees and the lotus flowers in the pond. All is as it has always been. But Xue Meng is a man now, a young, proud bamboo stalk climbing up towards the heavens. Shi Mingjing has grown into his looks as well, an ethereal beauty to rival the legendary loveliness of Xi Shi. And Mo Ran—

Mo Ran is not here. He has been travelling, Xue Meng tells Chu Wanning, and his travels often take him away from Sisheng Peak for days or even months at a time. Perhaps Chu Wanning should have expected this, considering their parting. It would stand to reason that Mo Ran would rather not be here upon Chu Wanning’s waking.

Still, his absence is a dull ache inside Chu Wanning’s chest. His other disciples have grown to be such fine young men. He wants to see the kind of man that Mo Ran has become over the five years Chu Wanning was gone. Xue Meng’s comments imply that Mo Ran has grown up in ways beyond Chu Wanning’s imagining. The common people call him Mo-zongshi now wherever he goes. He has their respect and their admiration. Where the Mo Ran of five years ago was a young sapling, bent by the wind in every which way, the Mo Ran that emerges from Xue Meng’s stories and Xue Zhengyong’s gossip is a sturdy tree in full bloom.

It is a bittersweet truth to know that his disciples have grown into themselves and found their respective paths in the world of cultivation—the very same world for which Chu Wanning had attempted to prepare them once upon a time—and he was not there to see it. For five long years, they refused to take other teachers and were left without the guidance they needed, yet still managed to grow up well.

“Ah, you’ll see, Yuheng, what a handsome lad Mo Ran has become,” Xue Zhengyong says on the second day after Chu Wanning awakens, as they take their morning tea in the Red Lotus Pavilion. “He’ll be breaking hearts in no time.”

Chu Wanning’s fingers grow tight around the teacup as he nods, his jaw painfully clenched, his lips pressed together into a thin line. He looks away under the pretense of taking a sip, but the remark awakens another hurt, hidden away deep inside and now rising again to the surface.

It is surprising that Mo Ran has not confessed to Shi Mingjing in those five years Chu Wanning was gone. He thought that surely, as soon as the world returned to relative normalcy, Mo Ran would make his feelings for Shi Mingjing known, and Chu Wanning would awaken to the news of their upcoming wedding. But it seems that, instead, Mo Ran remains unattached.

There are, of course, those who are very much interested in everything that Mo Ran has to offer, if the educational brochures brought to Chu Wanning by Xue Meng are any indication, but if Mo Ran has not yet acted upon his feelings, then perhaps he is just biding his time. With all the travelling he seems to be doing these days in the name of learning new techniques of cultivation and helping the common folk, perhaps he has been waiting until his life becomes a little more stable before confessing. It would stand to reason that Mo Ran wants to feel like he is worthy of Shi Mingjing and make a name for himself at the same time.

“You should think about marriage too, you know?” Xue Zhengyong says next, and Chu Wanning nearly inhales his tea. “You’re not getting any younger, Yuheng, and we’re both worried about you ending up all alone now that your disciples are out there in the world. How about we look for a good wife for you, eh? Look at the state of this place.” He makes a wide gesture with his hand, encompassing the clutter that Chu Wanning has attempted to clear away by pushing it into the corners of the room in anticipation of Xue Zhengyong’s visit. “You could really use the help.”

“No,” Chu Wanning says decisively. “I have no intention to marry.”

Xue Zhengyong raises his brows high enough that his entire forehead wrinkles. “But surely you want a cultivation partner?” he inquires, bafflement clear in his face. “Unless you take on more disciples, you’ll be awfully lonely here all by yourself, you know.”

Chu Wanning is used to loneliness. Silence has been a lifelong friend, and he does not need the distraction of another person in his space. He will be able to meditate more and work on his inventions without interruptions. The peace and quiet will be good for him, and there is never any shortage of incidents in the vicinity of Sisheng Peak that would require the presence of a cultivator, should he grow bored within the walls of the Red Lotus Pavilion. He does not need a cultivation partner, and he most definitely does not need a wife.

Still, Xue Zhengyong must fashion himself a matchmaker, because he keeps pressing the issue until Chu Wanning decides he has had enough politeness and throws him out.

“Don’t forget about the banquet this evening!” Xue Zhengyong adds from the other side of the front door. “You promised you’d come!”

It was Xue Zhengyong’s idea, to welcome Chu Wanning back to the world of the living. He sent word for Mo Ran, too, but Chu Wanning cannot be certain if Mo Ran will show. Perhaps he will—after all, he had five years for the passage of time to smooth out the edges of everything that happened in the Ghost Realm, even if for Chu Wanning those edges are still raw and jagged. But there is only so far as gratitude for saving one’s life can go, and now there are no more debts between them. A life saved for a life saved. Mo Ran cannot possibly think that he owes anything else to Chu Wanning now.

Despite everything, it is still a bitter pill to swallow that Mo Ran does not come. A strange feeling sloshes at the bottom of Chu Wanning’s stomach that has nothing to do with the pear blossom wine he is drinking; it is part-dread, part-anticipation, part-something else entirely. Xue Zhengyong’s eyes keep straying to the entrance to Mengpo Hall like he keeps expecting Mo Ran to appear all of a sudden, only to be severely disappointed every time.

It is no matter. Xue Meng and Shi Mingjing shower Chu Wanning with attention and gifts, and Xue Zhengyong keeps plying him with his favorite wine, and that must be enough. It is a much warmer welcome than Chu Wanning had expected in the first place. Even the other Elders, as much as they dislike him, remain civil throughout the entire evening, as if Xue Zhengyong forced everyone to be on their best behavior.

Now that he is among other people, Chu Wanning understands that he has been fooling himself. It was easier to pretend that Mo Ran was still within an arm’s reach in the solitude of his own home. It was easier to pretend that perhaps Chu Wanning would not miss him as much, before he understood that the spot Mo Ran has left behind would always remain a glaringly painful absence. He finds himself looking for Mo Ran, too, before he remembers that he is not here—finds himself craning his neck to search for the familiar ponytail among the crowd of people, straining his ears to hear the familiar voice.

“Don’t worry, Yuheng, he’ll show up soon,” Xue Zhengyong says, leaning into Chu Wanning’s shoulder to be heard over the din of conversation.

The tips of Chu Wanning’s ears burn. He did not mean to be so transparent, so blatantly obvious about his longing, and the wine in his cup turns to vinegar all of a sudden.

“He probably got delayed somewhere on the way,” Xue Zhengyong continues, seemingly oblivious to Chu Wanning’s inner turmoil. “But he’ll be here. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Chu Wanning cannot help but wonder if Mo Ran has ever told anyone about what happened in the Ghost Realm. He supposes not—after all, who would want to admit that they were forced to bed Chu Wanning to escape? It is hardly a conquest worthy bragging about. It was never a conquest at all, because Chu Wanning had already given himself away.

In a sense, Xue Zhengyong ends up being right. Chu Wanning watches the fireworks form a sentence across the sky, a sharp stab of pain flashing across his chest. It is a welcome from Mo Ran, but the man himself is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps that is for the best.

Chu Wanning returns from Miaoyin Springs reeling. The encounter with Mo Ran, whom he did not recognize at first and who should not have been there at all, has left him unmoored, unbalanced, and shamefully aroused. His face burns when he thinks about all the ways he embarrassed himself earlier at the springs, the way his body reacted instinctively, as if it knew who the stranger with the toned, golden body was even before Chu Wanning realized.

In the end, he ran, with little in the way of clothing and even less dignity, before Mo Ran could say anything. The startled expression in his eyes was enough for Chu Wanning to know to stay away.

He barely has the time to put on some proper clothes—realizing with horror that the underrobe he is wearing does not belong to him and therefore must be Mo Ran’s—before someone knocks on the door. “Shizun,” sounds Mo Ran’s voice, deeper than Chu Wanning remembers. “Shizun, please, let me in.”

He never used to knock before. When he was still Chu Wanning’s disciple, Mo Ran would just barge in and have to be reminded of the proper etiquette, but it never stuck either way. Now he knocks, and waits for Chu Wanning to let him in.

Chu Wanning’s heart must be bruised by now with the force of its own beating. It rattles against his ribs, climbs all the way up to his throat and thunders in his ears.

He wants to pretend that he is asleep, but there is still light in the windows, and Mo Ran is not so easily fooled.

“Shizun,” Mo Ran says once more, and his voice sounds closer, like he is leaning against the door with his mouth next to the frame. “Please. I just want to see you.”

Chu Wanning closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his lips to keep the gasp in. Perhaps Mo Ran is not so unable to forgive Chu Wanning, then. Perhaps he does not want Chu Wanning to stay away from him. Five years is a long time to let go of one night. And Mo Ran—this grown up, fully matured Mo Ran—is a good, kind person. If anyone could forgive Chu Wanning for what he put him through, it would be Mo Ran.

And so, because Mo Ran is a good, kind person, and Chu Wanning is so weak and so shameless, he opens the door.

“Shizun, why did you run?” Mo Ran asks as soon as he steps through the threshold of the Red Lotus Pavilion. He is not wearing an inner layer, and his collarbones peek out from under his loose collar. In his hands, he carries a bundle of white silk—Chu Wanning’s own underrobe, the one he left behind. “I wanted to talk to you. I just didn’t recognize you at first.”

“What, have I changed beyond all recognition?” Chu Wanning scoffs to hide the fondness in his heart.

He knows he looks the same—dour and angular, and cold. Ugly. The same dull eyes look back at him in the bronze mirror. The same face settles into a faint grimace. But Mo Ran—Mo Ran has grown into his looks in ways even Shi Mingjing could envy. His frame has filled out, his shoulders broadened. Lean muscle shifts under his skin every time he moves in a way that makes Chu Wanning’s throat go dry. His face looks youthful yet mature, with high cheekbones and bright eyes, and soft, red lips that look perfect to kiss.

The worst thing about all this is that Chu Wanning knows exactly how those lips would feel against his own, and yet the rest of Mo Ran’s physique is so different now that if he were to push Chu Wanning down onto the bed and climb on top of him, his body, pressed against Chu Wanning’s, would feel entirely foreign. This Mo Ran, Chu Wanning realizes, is two parts familiar and three parts a stranger, and Chu Wanning wants to know all of him again, body and mind.

He shudders, mortified at his own shamelessness—mortified at his body, which stirs in response to his lewd thoughts.

The revelations that follow leave Chu Wanning even more unsettled in his own skin. Five years is a long time to forgive, but five years is also a long time to turn past events over in one’s mind a thousandfold. So Mo Ran knows now—Mo Ran knows that it was Chu Wanning who saved him at the bottom of Jincheng Lake, and he knows that it was Chu Wanning who pressed his lips to Mo Ran’s back then in a pale imitation of a kiss. He knows about the wontons and the three thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine steps, and there is nothing else that Chu Wanning can keep hidden from him except this:

He loves Mo Ran.

So he will keep that one truth close to his heart, nourishing it like a seed, hidden away in nearly barren soil as it awaits sprouting, and allow it to put down roots. But even though many things have changed, one thing remains the same. Mo Ran can never know.

“Shizun,” Mo Ran says next, and for the first time since he crossed the threshold, he avoids Chu Wanning’s gaze. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. The things that happened in the Ghost Realm. I—”

“I don’t remember anything,” Chu Wanning lies and watches Mo Ran go very, very still where he kneels on the other side of the low table. “Only that you came to find me. But how we got out—I don’t remember.”

Chu Wanning is not a particularly good liar, but Mo Ran must believe him, because he only says, “Oh,” and goes back to playing with his teacup.

“Your—your clothes,” Chu Wanning says, wishing fervently to move on from the topic before he betrays himself. “I took them by accident. I’ll have them washed and returned to you as soon as possible.”

He must sound so stilted, so awkward, but it is better than rending open his barely closed wounds. If Mo Ran believes that Chu Wanning remembers nothing of their time in the Ghost Realm, perhaps it will be easier for both of them to move on. And, after all, there is no way for him to prove that Chu Wanning has not drunk of the five-flavored tea before his consciousness returned to his body. What Huaizui attempted already went against nature. Another strange circumstance should not arouse suspicion.

“Right, right.” Mo Ran laughs, the sound deeper and fuller than Chu Wanning remembers. “I didn’t wear yours, Shizun, so I just brought them in. I’ll leave them in your bedroom.”

“No!” Chu Wanning’s heart leaps into his throat. “There is no need, just leave them here.”

He cannot have Mo Ran’s scent invading the space of his bedroom if he is to push his feelings deep down enough that they will never see the light. And right now, Mo Ran’s scent is everywhere—seemingly the same and yet carrying with itself a deeper, richer note beneath. Every time Mo Ran moves, that scent permeates the spaces of Chu Wanning’s home like it belongs here. That is a dangerous thought to entertain.

“Ah, all right.” Mo Ran gives him a warm smile, and if Chu Wanning deludes himself enough, it almost looks like one of the smiles he always used to direct at Shi Mingjing. “I only noticed too late because you ran off so suddenly.”

Chu Wanning looks to the side, pressing his lips together. “I was cold,” he says, and instantly wants to slap himself. They were in a hot spring. What nonsense is he speaking!

But Mo Ran doesn’t laugh at the flimsy excuse. Instead, he says, “Shizun should have said. I would have helped keep him warm.”

The tips of Chu Wanning’s ears burn, and he is glad that with his hair down, and still damp from the bath, Mo Ran will be unable to see it. Mo Ran means nothing by it, of course.

“And it looked like it was going to rain,” Chu Wanning adds nonsensically.

Yet another smile. “Shizun shouldn’t worry,” Mo Ran says to that. “My barriers have improved greatly, thanks to Shizun’s instruction. Now Shizun will never get drenched by the rain, for as long as I can remain at his side.”

Chu Wanning just stares for a moment before he remembers to breathe. Mo Ran cannot keep saying things like that and expecting his heart to remain intact. It is already a fragile thing, ready to shatter like a sugar painting poured too thin.

“Nonsense,” he says. “As if I couldn’t put a barrier over myself.”

“Of course not.” Mo Ran is once again staring right at him. “But you wouldn’t have to.”

Once Mo Ran is gone, having been convinced that Chu Wanning’s body still needs more rest than usual while he recovers, the interiors of the Red Lotus Pavilion seem at once too big for just one person. The room feels empty now that there is no one sitting on the opposite side of the table, and Chu Wanning cannot shake the feeling that his bed will feel similarly too large.

Mo Ran was reluctant to go at first, offering to stay and help Chu Wanning comb his hair, but it was impossible for Chu Wanning to accept that offer. Mo Ran is still his disciple, and, in a sense, he will always remain Chu Wanning’s disciple, but his days of service are over. Mo Ran used to help around as was expected of him, but Mo-zongshi is neither an errand boy nor a personal attendant. Chu Wanning would do well to remember that.

It is only later, once Chu Wanning prepares for bed, that he allows himself a moment of weakness. Shamelessly, he disrobes once more and puts on Mo Ran’s underrobe, wrapping it tightly around his body. He does not understand how he could have mistaken it for his own clothes back at Miaoyin Springs. It is far too loose on him in the shoulders, and it drags across the floor. It is too big at the waist, and the sleeves fall past his fingertips. But there is still some of the familiar, earthy scent that accompanies Mo Ran wherever he goes clinging to the fabric, and Chu Wanning is a weak, pathetic man. When he sits down in front of the mirror to comb his hair, it almost feels like Mo Ran is draping himself across Chu Wanning’s shoulders, observing the evening ritual.

Ordinarily, Chu Wanning avoids staring into the mirror for too long. What would be the point, beyond a reminder of his own deficiency? But tonight, he studies his face—the pointed, cold lines that shape his mouth and his nose, his brows and his cheekbones. There is nothing of the delicate features that Mo Ran favors, no soft, plush mouth for him to kiss. Chu Wanning is on the outside just as he is on the inside: sharp and unyielding. He does not need to stare into his reflection to recognize that.

His hair tangles as he drags the comb down the length of it, and Chu Wanning cannot help but wonder what it would be like to have Mo Ran here, helping him with the task. Would he be quick and perfunctory, thinking that it was his duty to help his ailing shizun but not willing to remain too long, or would he take his time to be gentle? Shi Mingjing’s hair is so shiny and beautiful—has Mo Ran ever offered to brush it for him? Has Mo Ran been gentle then, too?

In the end, he deems the job done well enough and snuffs out the candle, ready to turn in for the night. He climbs into bed still dressed in Mo Ran’s underrobe, looking over his shoulder like he is a thief stealing crumbs of affection that do not even belong to him. It is all too easy to imagine Mo Ran returning here and barging in without knocking, just the way he used to, only to find Chu Wanning wearing his clothes again for no reason. It is equally easy to imagine the look of confusion turning to disgust on his face. Forgiving what needed to be done for the sake of survival is one thing, but letting go of such a shameless indulgence would be another.

Worse yet, as Chu Wanning continues to think of Mo Ran in the darkness of his bedroom, recalling against his better judgment his honey-golden skin and the breadth of his shoulders, the definition of his abdomen and the chiseled angles of his handsome face, Chu Wanning’s body begins to stir. He attempts meditation, waiting for the urge to pass, but for the first time in his life, he finds it ineffective. His body is now a traitor, acting of its own accord, and Chu Wanning remains only a silent witness from behind his eyes.

He closes his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep, but the insistent pressure in his abdomen does not let him forget itself.

Stop. Stop it, he thinks desperately, balling his hands into fists. In an attempt at staving off his arousal, he shifts to lie on his stomach, hoping that the pressure will calm his body down. Instead, that only makes it worse.

What kind of a cultivator is he, Chu Wanning thinks, furious, if he cannot even control his own body? How pathetic he has become, reduced to pure, animalistic lust by the mere recollection of Mo Ran’s features, the memory of his scent.

Eventually, though, it becomes apparent that even Chu Wanning cannot hold off forever. With his ears hot, his face burning with shame, he reaches beneath the quilt and takes himself in hand. It is a clumsy, awkward attempt at pleasure that leaves him more frustrated than satisfied. Chu Wanning screws his eyes shut and bites his lower lip until it bleeds, trying to keep the sounds in, but even when he lets himself remember how good Mo Ran’s hands felt on his body, how hot and big his cock felt inside Chu Wanning, it takes him a long time to reach climax. When he finally spills into his own hand, splashing some onto the bedding as well as his robes, it is with a quiet gasp and an overwhelming feeling of defeat.

There is nothing of the pleasure that made his body jolt as if struck by lightning, his toes curling, mouth opening around a moan when he was with Mo Ran. Instead, Chu Wanning feels sore and dissatisfied, like whatever pathetic semblance of pleasure he is able to wring out of his body is not enough to satiate his need.

The full realization of the state he is in is a slow process, a dawning terror once he remembers that he is still wearing Mo Ran’s robes, now stained with Chu Wanning’s seed.

Horrified at himself, he scrambles out of bed, tearing Mo Ran’s underrobe off his shoulders, and runs to the washroom. There is a small wooden pail there that Chu Wanning fills daily at the pond, and he kneels in front of it, submerging the soiled underrobe in the cold water and scrubbing until his hands are raw.

It must be enough. Chu Wanning has little experience when it comes to clothes washing, and he will send the robe with some of his other garments to the washers in the morning, but he could never risk being found out in this way. The venerable Yuheng Elder, the foremost ascetic of the Sisheng Peak sect, bringing in soiled robes like a boy of fifteen, barely able to control his own body. Worse yet—robes that do not belong to him, but rather to one of his disciples.

Furious with himself, he wrings the cloth out as much as he is able and sets it over the edge of the now empty pail to dry.

What a stupid, stupid thing to do. What would even possess him to act so counter to his nature and learning? But perhaps that is, in fact, the truth of Chu Wanning’s nature: that he is shameless, obscene and wanton, while his attempts at self-regulation are only meant to conceal that. Perhaps this is just further proof of that.

At night, Chu Wanning dreams. Night after night, he dreams of a different Mo Ran, his face so much paler, his eyes so much more sunken in, leaning over a naked Chu Wanning and whispering filth into his ear as he fucks him, hard and unrelenting, until pleasure and pain blur together, impossible to disentangle.

Chu Wanning awakens from those dreams hard and aching, but he does not repeat the mistake of taking himself into his hand and only lies there, breathing heavily, as he waits for his body to calm down.

Whatever dark recesses of Chu Wanning’s mind those dreams come from, he cannot deny the sickening thrill that runs down his spine at the thought of being possessed like this, of being wanted like this—with a singular passion that borders on obsession.

It is, of course, only a dream. There is no one in this world who could want Chu Wanning like this.

Under the sun of Yuliang village, Mo Ran’s black robe clings to his back and chest with sweat. The smell of late autumn carries in the air, brought by the wind from the east, but the sun still shines, warm and bright. Chu Wanning watches, entranced, as Mo Ran returns with a basket full of golden ears of rice and wipes his face, then reaches for a cup of water and drinks. Some of it spills, running down his chin and his neck, to finally disappear in the open collar of his clothes.

“Do you want some, Shizun?” he says, extending a hand that holds the cup, now refilled, in Chu Wanning’s direction. “It’s really hot today.”

Chu Wanning clears his throat, infinitely parched all of a sudden. He takes the cup and drinks, but the water brings him little comfort, his mind too preoccupied with recalling the precise shape of Mo Ran’s mouth as his lips closed around the rim of the cup.

“Do you want more?” Mo Ran asks when Chu Wanning hands him the cup back, but Chu Wanning only shakes his head.

He needs to crane his neck a little to look at Mo Ran now, a fact which unnerves him and thrills him at the same time. It is a steady reminder of the five years Chu Wanning missed—the five years during which Mo Ran transformed from a boy into a man—but he likes the way Mo Ran towers over him now. Chu Wanning is not a small man by any measure—he might be lithe, his muscle lean and wiry, but he stands tall like a reed at the riverbank, and yet he still feels dwarfed by Mo Ran’s height.

They have been here for the past several days, helping with the harvest, although Chu Wanning has turned out, predictably enough, to be a man with little aptitude for farming. He still cannot help but wonder why Xue Zhengyong thought he was the one to send here along with Mo Ran—he must have known already that Chu Wanning had never worked the fields, and he would be more than useless. Now, Chu Wanning spends some of his time in the fields, making a fool of himself, and the rest of it sitting in the shadow of a tree that grows at the edge of the paddy, watching Mo Ran work.

The common folk hardly know what to make him, it seems. Some of them must be intimidated, judging by the way they give Chu Wanning a wide berth and always bow respectfully whenever their paths cross. Others are almost overly familiar, addressing Chu Wanning casually and never holding their tongues in his presence. All of them think it is very funny how unskilled Chu Wanning is at working the fields.

He is still drinking from his mug of warm water, entranced by the way the sun plays across Mo Ran’s bare back as he works, when a voice sounds close beside him, calling Mo Ran over.

“Mo-xianjun, Mo-xianjun!” Ling-er waves, then blushes as soon as Mo Ran turns around.

His eyes slide off the girl to rest on Chu Wanning, who cannot avert his gaze soon enough to avoid being caught staring. What an embarrassment, he thinks, to be caught ogling his own disciple like an old man long past his prime staring at a young maiden in the market.

Wiping the sweat off his brow, Mo Ran makes his way through the rice paddy to where the two of them are, and takes the cup of chrysanthemum tea that Ling-er seems to have brewed just for him.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile.

“Mo-xianjun, I can’t believe how quick you are!” Ling-er says, playing with the end of her braid. “You’d think you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

Mo Ran laughs, and Chu Wanning’s insides churn.

“Well,” Mo Ran says, “if you think about it, there’s really not that much of a difference. You need to know the correct technique to harvest rice and to fight ghosts and demons. Once you learn the basics well, it becomes a lot easier to get good at it.”

Ling-er laughs as well, covering her mouth with her hand. “Mo-xianjun is so wise, too! Of course it makes sense, when you look at it like that. Ah, but, Mo-xianjun, did you enjoy the tea? I can always get more, if Mo-xianjun gets thirsty.”

Setting his mug on the ground, Chu Wanning rises to his feet. He can hardly tell which direction he is going, except: away. There is only so much of the blatant flirting in his presence that he can take. He understands that neither the girl nor Mo Ran are doing it on purpose, because neither of them can know what is in Chu Wanning’s heart, but it is difficult to bear all the same.

His eyes sting, his throat tight as Chu Wanning walks with no destination in mind but a lot of purpose. Petty jealousy is unbecoming, but this is precisely what Chu Wanning is. Petty. Jealous. There is no use pretending otherwise. It crawls up his throat and into his mouth, bitter and sour like bile—the same kind of blinding, white-hot burn deep in his stomach that he felt in Rong Jiu’s presence.

Mo Ran is so handsome, only a fool would fail to notice that. It is understandable, then, that there are other people who take note of his good looks and his kind disposition and find themselves similarly entranced. That is not new. Mo Ran used to turn heads even as a teenager, but now, he is impossible to look away from—to look past and disregard. The looks Mo Ran receives from people in the street are so much different than those Chu Wanning notices directed his way. When people look at Mo Ran, they see the best that the cultivation world has to offer: beauty and kindness, and strength. When they look at Chu Wanning, they only see the cold, severe mask.

He can help people, but he cannot talk to them without scaring them away. Mo Ran, though—Mo Ran is good at both. It is no wonder that people turn their faces towards him like they are flowers and Mo Ran is the sun. Chu Wanning, meanwhile, always remains in shadows.

Things have been strange between them ever since they came here. It is as if the proximity they have been forced into has once again upset the fragile equilibrium that has existed between them ever since Mo Ran descended into the Ghost Realm to find Chu Wanning. The worst part of it, though, is that Mo Ran keeps doing things that would not feel out of place for one’s lover, then withdraws once he realizes the impression he must give. He will massage Chu Wanning’s feet after a day spent in the rice paddies, then avoid Chu Wanning for the rest of the evening. He will share his meal with Chu Wanning at breakfast only to run to the other end of the field to harvest rice at least until midday.

It is a lot more difficult to read him, too, as if the last five years made such a significant difference that Chu Wanning can no longer understand Mo Ran as well as he used to. That, too, stings like a nettle rash each time.

Chu Wanning walks until he reaches the edge of a small bamboo grove that grows in the vicinity of the village, just to the north. It should be easier to think here, away from everyone else.

“—zun! Shizun!” Mo Ran’s voice sounds behind him, and when Chu Wanning looks over his shoulder, he sees that Mo Ran is walking briskly in his direction. For a short, panic-filled moment, Chu Wanning considers running.

“Did you need me for something?” Chu Wanning asks, turning on his heel to fully face Mo Ran. He hopes that his face betrays none of the fluster that turns the tips of his ears red.

“Why did you wander off all on your own like that?” Mo Ran asks, and it sounds almost like he is chiding Chu Wanning, of all people. “The midday meal will be served soon.”

“I’m not hungry.” It is not even a lie. His stomach is too upset for him to want to eat right now. “But you should go. I’m sure Ling-er will be waiting with a bowl of food for you. Eat while it’s still hot.”

Mo Ran is quiet for a moment, his eyebrows drawn together in a small frown. “Shizun, are you… Are you upset?”

Chu Wanning’s heart beats out a furious rhythm in his ears. “What nonsense is this? Why would I be upset?” he says more harshly than he intends. “I just don’t want to eat right now. Can you go now, or are you worried I won’t be able to find my way back on my own?”

He regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth, but there is no way to stuff them back in. There are many emotions that flicker across Mo Ran’s face, too brief to identify, before he settles on confusion. He stares at Chu Wanning like he is trying to understand what brought on this particular outburst. He would laugh if he ever found out.

“Shizun, are you sure you’re feeling well?” he asks, refusing to let the subject drop. “Maybe I should stay here with you, or bring you something to drink? Some chrysanthemum tea? I’m sure Ling-er would make some more if I asked her.”

Of course she would, Chu Wanning thinks bitterly. She would give Mo Ran so much more, if only he asked.

“No need.” Chu Wanning crosses his arms across his chest. “Didn’t I tell you to go eat your food already, Mo Weiyu? So what are you still doing here? Go!”

Reluctantly, Mo Ran leaves. Once he is a good distance away, he looks over his shoulder again, as if wanting to see if Chu Wanning really has no intention of following. But, in truth, that is for the best. Mo Ran has always thrived among people, and the villagers here love him. He does not need Chu Wanning’s severe face to weigh him down.

Some nights, Chu Wanning lies in bed and wonders what things would be like if he had not hidden the truth from Mo Ran. Perhaps, if he had admitted that he still remembered everything that transpired in the Ghost Realm, Chu Wanning would have a clearer answer as to where he stands with Mo Ran. As it is, that is difficult to gauge.

Mo Ran treats him well—he is more attentive than ever before, always pushing the choicest bits of food onto Chu Wanning’s plate at mealtime and offering assistance after a day of hard work. Yet, there are still moments when he hesitates, then retreats into himself. Mo Ran will reach out, then snatch his hand away. He will open his mouth, then close it like he has thought better of it. It did not use to be this way. Chu Wanning cannot help but wonder if it was growing up that put this unsettling hesitation into Mo Ran’s mind where there had been none, or if it was something altogether different. Something that is solely Chu Wanning’s fault.

The days at the village flow slowly into one another, stretching out like dragon’s beard candy until the time comes to celebrate the coming of the New Year. Chu Wanning participates in the preparations while Mo Ran hand-feeds him roasted candy that melts on the tongue and leaves him with a pleasant, warm sensation in his stomach. His cheeks burn at the intimacy of this gesture, the brush of Mo Ran’s fingers against Chu Wanning’s mouth, a faint echo of the memory that lives in the deepest recesses of Chu Wanning’s traitorous mind.

He barely understands the paths that Mo Ran’s own mind travels these days, but when he closes his eyes at night, he can pretend that Mo Ran’s efforts are those of courting instead of simple courtesy. The delusion, too dangerous to entertain in earnest, is a silly, childish thing, of course—but Chu Wanning’s body strains for Mo Ran’s touch, too starved of it to consider self-preservation. So when Mo Ran presses another half-melted candy into Chu Wanning’s mouth, Chu Wanning lets him, closing his lips around the pad of his thumb for as brief a moment as he will allow himself.

Eventually, though, once the preparations are complete and the villagers begin to gather to commence the celebration, Chu Wanning slips out from among the crowd and returns to his lodgings. His presence surely does not matter enough that he would be missed—not when there is so much food and entertainment to be had. Slowly, he walks back to the house he shares with Mo Ran and directs his steps straight into the kitchen.

It has been a few days since he could properly wash himself without the threat of Mo Ran walking in on him, so Chu Wanning quickly undresses and walks over to where the bigger pail stands by the wall, filled by Mo Ran with water from the well just this morning. The water inside is cold, but Chu Wanning has bathed in the Red Lotus Pond enough times to be able to withstand the chill. He does not like the sensation, but he would rather not be caught naked if anyone did decide to look for him after all, and so expeditiousness is in order.

He quickly lathers himself up with his ever-dwindling bar of soapberry soap, shivering in the cool air all the while. His teeth begin to chatter a little when he starts rinsing the soap off his body, drawing the cold water with his cupped palms to splash over the suds. Eventually, though, Chu Wanning decides that he has had enough of that—the method too slow and inefficient—and draws from the bigger pail with a smaller wooden bucket to pour it over himself. It will be a shock to his body, but then it will be over, and he will be able to dress himself again. He raises his arms above his head and pours the water, letting it cascade over his hair, his back, and down the rest of his body. His entire body breaks out in gooseflesh, chilled to the bone.

It is in that moment that he hears a gasp in the entrance. He freezes, and when he looks over his shoulder, horrified, he finds Mo Ran in the doorway, standing completely still with a shocked expression on his face.

“Shizun—” Mo Ran says, his voice weak, and takes an aborted step in Chu Wanning’s direction.

Chu Wanning feels like he is going to be sick—bile rising in his throat and his stomach churning. He needs to cover himself, he thinks frantically, but his clothes are on the other side of the room. Still, he cannot stand for Mo Ran to look at him a moment longer, like Chu Wanning’s naked body is a stark, unwanted reminder of what happened in the Ghost Realm.

“Get out!” Chu Wanning hisses, and at the same time the voice of Ling-er sounds behind them as she opens the door.

The next moment, Mo Ran is next to him, shielding Chu Wanning from view.

This is the closest they have been to each other since that day in the Ghost Realm. Chu Wanning can feel the heat radiating from Mo Ran’s body. He can smell Mo Ran’s scent that invades the air around them, and at last his traitorous body begins to stir.

Chu Wanning shakes, and he cannot tell how much of that is the cold. His heart thunders in his chest.

Later, when he is left alone at last, still shivering in the cool evening air, he reaches down to take himself in hand and wrings a quick, unsatisfying climax out of his body. Then he stands there, with his forehead pressed against the wall, and tries to breathe. When he draws air, his lungs hurt, and there is a sob lodged somewhere in his throat, but he swallows it—swallows it down until there is nothing left, just the sounds of revelry coming from outside and his own ragged breathing.

Mo Ran begins to avoid him after that. He no longer accompanies Chu Wanning at breakfast and maintains a polite distance at other times. He does not tease Chu Wanning and does not bring him tea and snacks the way he used to. If the people of Yuliang village notice that something has shifted between them, they say nothing. Still, Chu Wanning sees the curious stares as the two eat their supper at opposite ends of the table, trading as few words as possible.

It should not come as unexpected, Chu Wanning thinks. Mo Ran might have forgiven him for what happened in the Ghost Realm in the name of bringing Chu Wanning back to life, but Chu Wanning knows what he looks like. Before that evening, it seemed like they were slowly reaching a new equilibrium, reestablishing boundaries that had been razed to the ground in the Fourth Ghost King’s palace. Now, Mo Ran can barely look Chu Wanning in the eyes.

Not for the first time, Chu Wanning curses Xue Zhengyong for sending him here along with Mo Ran. His talents would be better utilized elsewhere, and if Mo Ran wanted to flex his muscles in front of someone while half-naked and play at an idyllic romance, surely Shi Mingjing would have been a far more fitting choice. Mo Ran could court him openly here, away from prying eyes of the Sisheng Peak disciples, and away from Chu Wanning’s sight.

As the uneasiness between them persists, Chu Wanning loses what was left of his appetite. He eats little and rarely, waiting until the world begins to spin and blur in front of his eyes before forcing himself to pick at his meal.

“Does xianjun not like the cooking?” the village chief asks one day, a look of concern in his eyes. “Is there still too much spice? We tried to make everything to xianjun’s liking, but if there’s still something wrong with it—”

Chu Wanning shakes his head. “The food is fine,” he says. “I’m just not hungry right now.”

From the other end of the table, Mo Ran gives him a curious look, but he says nothing.

“What do you like, then?” Ling-er asks, still in tears, and Chu Wanning freezes.

Mo Ran says nothing, but his gaze flickers to rest on Chu Wanning for a fraction of a moment before he turns away. Breath catches in Chu Wanning’s chest, his entire body rigid with tension. His heart beats out a frantic rhythm in his throat.

“Forgive me,” Mo Ran says at last, looking at no one, gaze suspended halfway between Ling-er and Chu Wanning. Then he turns around and leaves, disappearing into the night.

Left alone, Ling-er wipes furiously at her face, her breathing shaky and shallow. Chu Wanning pities the girl as much as he understands her. All she has ever wanted was to leave this place for a better life, and catching the attention of a person such as Mo Ran—a famed cultivator from a large sect—must have seemed like a blessing. To be so plainly rejected must hurt, for more reasons than one. Chu Wanning might have resented her advances in a fit of petty jealousy, but he knows what it is like to want to leave a place so desperately that one would do everything to set oneself free. He cannot begrudge her that.

You’re not my type at all, Mo Ran said, and of course—of course the girl could never stand a chance, as pretty as she is. Chu Wanning knows well what Mo Ran likes, and neither he nor the girl are even remotely close to Mo Ran’s preferred type.

It is quiet for a moment, until Ling-er turns around as well and runs in the opposite direction to try to mend her broken heart. The crackling of the bonfire is the only sound that disturbs the silence before the din of conversation gradually picks up again.

What do you like? Chu Wanning turns the question over in his head. What would Mo Ran have said, if he had decided to say anything at all to that? Would he have said that he liked peach blossom eyes and delicate features, and a full, pink mouth?

I understand, he wants to say to the girl. I understand what it is like to want him and know you cannot have him.

But he would betray too much of himself, and so Chu Wanning must remain silent.

It takes a long time for Mo Ran to return. The villagers have moved on to playing games that Chu Wanning only observes from the outside, and Mo Ran joins them in their circle, sparing a glance and a strained smile in Chu Wanning’s direction, but he does not address him beyond that.

The game is crude, the questions vulgar and invasive, but the people playing seem to be enjoying themselves. Eventually, even Chu Wanning decides to participate, freeing up the man who has until now played the drum, so that he can join the circle. This way, Chu Wanning does not have to limit himself to only observing, but he is in no danger of having one of such questions directed at himself. It is a good distraction from the persistent thoughts that keep churning in his head, disturbing his peace.

It is a good distraction, until the drum stops just as the wreath finds its way into Mo Ran’s hands, and Chu Wanning locks eyes with him above the crackling fire for the first time in days. Mo Ran’s eyes are dark, inscrutable, and he looks at Chu Wanning for a long, long time before he breaks the eye contact at last.

With his heart in his throat, Chu Wanning listens to him give his answer. His stomach turns into a tight knot when Mo Ran talks of his mother, and the weight of resigned yearning settles itself on his shoulders when Mo Ran mentions Shi Mingjing. But then Chu Wanning hears his own name, and for a moment, his heart stops.

He understands what Mo Ran is saying. He is grateful to Chu Wanning for his instruction, and he is grateful for saving his life. That is all it is—that is all it can be, but Chu Wanning’s traitorous heart starts beating again, rattling against his ribs like a spooked bird in a cage.

“Shizun, I like you,” Mo Ran says, earnest, and Chu Wanning’s eyes sting. “Please, pay attention to me.”

It is too much—Chu Wanning knows that Mo Ran does not mean it, that this is merely what he has always said to Chu Wanning, and he is only repeating an old phrase, like a joke that only the two of them would find funny. But the only thing Chu Wanning can see is Mo Ran’s face—younger, and far more stricken—as he pleads, Just look at me, Shizun, all right? There’s no one else in this room. It’s just you and me. So don’t look away and pay attention to me.

Unable to take it any longer, Chu Wanning sets the drum on the ground, then takes off without a word. His throat is painfully clenched, his eyes prickling with tears. His hands are shaking when he unlatches the door to their lodgings, closing it behind him before he allows himself to lean against the wall and cry. He remains silent and still, letting his tears fall as he finally shatters, five years overdue.

He did not think it would be kindness that would render him so fragile. He did not think that he would break at all.

His reprieve, however, turns out to be only momentary, because soon there is the sound of approaching footsteps, and then a knock on the door. “Shizun?” Mo Ran’s voice sounds from the other side. “Shizun, are you there? I’m coming in.”

Chu Wanning hurries away from the door, wiping the tears from his face, but he only gets as far as the door to his room before Mo Ran enters. It is dark inside, save for the moonlight that paints shivering pictures on the floor.

“Shizun, have I done something wrong?” Mo Ran asks, sounding so much younger in that moment, so much like his old self that Chu Wanning used to know so well. “Shizun, please, tell me what upset you so much. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

Chu Wanning keeps his back to him, the column of his spine straight and his shoulder blades pulled back. He cannot face Mo Ran right now. It is always easy to tell when Chu Wanning has been crying, because his face turns red and splotchy, even more unsightly than usual.

“Shizun,” Mo Ran repeats. “Please. Just look at me. Just—”

“Have you no shame, Mo Weiyu?” Chu Wanning hisses, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. His voice rises with every word. “Who taught you to go around saying things you don’t even mean? How shameless do you have to be? How has your tongue not turned black yet with all the lying?”

“What? Shizun, I—” There is the sound of feet shuffling along the floor, and then Mo Ran touches the sides of Chu Wanning’s arms to turn him around. “When did I lie? I don’t understand what you’re—” A pause, a sharp intake of air. “Shizun, have you been crying?”

Chu Wanning pushes Mo Ran’s hands off himself and takes a step back. His entire neck is stiff, his shoulders a line of tension.

“And that poor girl, too!” Chu Wanning barrels on, incapable of stopping now, because it is so much easier to spit venom than it is to make himself vulnerable. “Have you no shame, leading her on like that just to reject her, when you’re in love with Shi Mingjing?!”

The silence that follows rings in his ears. Mo Ran’s eyes are wide and shocked, just like that day in the Ghost Realm, when he looked at Chu Wanning with dawning horror hidden at the bottoms of his pupils, having finally understood what was being required of him.

Chu Wanning clenches his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. His fingernails cut white crescents into the meat of his palm. He is in that moment a guqin string, pulled so tight it will snap at the lightest pressure.

“What?” Mo Ran says at last, so quietly sad that Chu Wanning’s heart hurts. “But I don’t—I don’t love Shi Mei. Not like that.”

“You can stop lying now,” Chu Wanning says. The tightness in his chest threatens to suffocate him. “You don’t need to pretend with me. I won’t tell him until you are ready to do it yourself, if that’s what you are worried about.”

Saying these words is rending his heart apart, but it is the right thing to do. Once they return, Mo Ran should start courting Shi Mingjing in earnest, while they are both still young. There is no reason for them to wait anymore. Mo Ran is a fine man, and Shi Mingjing is a beauty to rival the most beautiful of women. They will make a good pair.

“Shizun…” Mo Ran takes half a step closer, stopping when Chu Wanning takes another step back. “Shizun, please, don’t misunderstand. I was fond of Shi Mei when I was younger, but he is not the one I love.”

Chu Wanning closes his eyes, his thin lips pressed together. There are more tears slipping down his cheeks—and how pitiful, how pathetic of him to fall apart like this in front of Mo Ran. He must be so obvious, so utterly transparent in his longing, and he cannot fathom why Mo Ran is not running.

How embarrassing, Chu Wanning thinks furiously, attempting to wrestle his unruly body under control, but it is as if a dam has broken somewhere deep inside him, and now he can only watch as the rushing water spills without end, with no way to stop it.

“Shizun, aren’t you going to ask who that is? The one I love?” Mo Ran’s voice is like the crack of a discipline whip across the naked back. It tears Chu Wanning open and makes him bleed.

Chu Wanning swallows, then opens his eyes. The world before him remains blurry. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

“Because it’s you,” Mo Ran says, and Chu Wanning recoils. “It’s you, and I—”

“Stop,” Chu Wanning commands. His entire body is shaking with shame and rage. “Mo Weiyu, I didn’t know you could be so cruel.”

Mo Ran’s face falls. The next moment, he gets to his knees in front of Chu Wanning, and that, too, is a familiar echo of a memory. “I know I’m not worthy of you,” he says, sounding completely wrecked, his voice heavy with tears, “and if that’s what you want, I will never speak of it again. Or I will leave Sisheng Peak, if you don’t ever want to see me again. But it has always been you. You don’t remember, but when we were in the Ghost Realm—”

“I remember,” Chu Wanning interrupts, watching the shock spill across Mo Ran’s features. “I lied earlier.”

“Lied?”

“To make it easier for you.”

Mo Ran shakes his head. “Easier for me?” he echoes. “To do what?”

“To forget about it, what else?” Chu Wanning bristles. “Or did you want to keep remembering what you had to do? Is it not enough that you had to endure it once?”

“Endure it?” It seems like Mo Ran has lost the ability to do anything but repeat Chu Wanning’s words back at him. “Shizun, that’s not—I felt so guilty.” The words spill out of Mo Ran’s mouth in a rush, like he is tripping over them in his haste to let Chu Wanning know. “I felt so guilty, because it was everything I ever wanted, but you hated it. You hate it when people touch you, and you must have hated me, too. I just wanted to be a good person, someone you’d be proud of, and—what difference did it really make, if I only hurt you in the end? What was it worth, trying so hard to just be good, if I couldn’t even protect the one person I never wanted to see in pain ever again?”

Chu Wanning stares at his kneeling figure, speechless. It is either a very elaborate, very cruel joke the likes of which he would never expect from Mo Ran—not even when he was still a rebellious teenager—or Mo Ran is being earnest. He cannot tell which possibility terrifies him more.

“Mo Ran?” he says, uncertain, his voice wavering.

“I’m sorry, Shizun, but I really didn’t lie.” Mo Ran at last raises his head to look at Chu Wanning. “The one I like the most—the one I love the most—is you. It has always been you. I just couldn’t see it before. I’m sorry.”

Chu Wanning’s first instinct is to run. His heart is pounding in his chest, loud like the sound of a gong. The rush of blood in his ears is deafening. He stares at Mo Ran in disbelief. It would be so easy to throw him out, to tell him to never speak of it again. It would be the safe, reasonable choice.

It must be a joke, whispers some part of Chu Wanning that wants him to hide. He is not serious. He couldn’t be. Just look at yourself. Who would want you?

“You can’t—” Chu Wanning says at last. “That’s not—that’s not possible.”

“What?” Mo Ran asks, peering into his face. “That I love you? But I do. Shizun—no, Wanning—what can I do to prove it to you?”

The sound of Chu Wanning’s name out of Mo Ran’s mouth startles him, a gasp spilling from his lips.

“Stop saying nonsense,” he chides, trying to sound angry, but Mo Ran does not seem fooled. “Besides, how can this be true? It’s not like I—”

“It’s not like you what?” Mo Ran takes a step closer, and then another, until they are once more breathing the same air.

“It’s not like anyone would look at me twice,” he admits at last, but he looks away, unable to endure the sight of Mo Ran’s face as he says it. “I’m old and I’m ugly, so how could someone like you—” he pauses, struggling to get the words out, “want me? I know you did what you had to do in the Ghost Realm, but that’s not— It’s different. Here, you can have anyone you want.”

Chu Wanning swallows thickly, waiting for the inevitable moment when Mo Ran realizes his folly. There are so many beautiful people with pleasant disposition in this world, and Mo Ran could be with anyone he wanted, so why would he waste his time on his cold, severe shizun?

“Yes,” Mo Ran says, rising to his feet, “and I want you. So please, just look at me and never stop paying attention to me. Wanning.” His hand touches the side of Chu Wanning’s cheek, feather-light. “You’re beautiful and kind, and so good to me. Please, let me be good to you in return.”

Chu Wanning closes his eyes, letting himself lean into the caress. He has been so starved for Mo Ran’s touch that his body sings with it, opening up like a flower in spite of common sense. It is so dangerous to trust like this, to fully bare one’s soul to another, but Mo Ran has seen all of Chu Wanning’s souls four times over, and he is still standing here, touching Chu Wanning like a lover would.

“I want to…” Mo Ran continues, “I want to share everything with you. My life. My bed. Anything you want. Those five years you were in seclusion, I travelled the world and tried to become a better person. For you. You gave me another chance when you saved my life, and I wanted to make you proud of the person I’ve become. But I was worried that you would hate me, too, because I took something away from you that you didn’t want to give, back in the Ghost Realm. When you told me that you didn’t remember, I thought to myself, Maybe that’s for the best. Because then you wouldn’t have a reason to hate me. But every time I got close, I remembered how frightened you looked, how you didn’t want me to touch you, and I just—I didn’t want to upset you even more.”

Chu Wanning’s breath is arrested in his lungs. Mo Ran is so close, it would take only a little bit for their mouths to touch. Chu Wanning’s entire body tingles, and he trembles with anticipation, looking up at Mo Ran for once instead of looking away.

There are so many things he wants to tell him, but the words are stuck in his throat, impossible to say out loud.

I love you, he thinks, but his mouth cannot form the words.

“You dummy,” he says instead, but his voice is fond. “As if I ever could stop paying attention to you. And everything you took—it was all freely given.”

The moment Mo Ran’s lips touch Chu Wanning’s, he gasps and closes his eyes. The kiss is gentle, almost reverent, like Mo Ran is unsure how much he can take without crossing a line. It is Chu Wanning’s own fault, and his fault alone, for carefully concealing how much he enjoys Mo Ran’s touch, how much it thrills him when Mo Ran takes charge. Chu Wanning wants so many things that he lacks the names for, but his body understands better than his mind.

He leans into the kiss, remembering what little he learned about the act in the Ghost Realm. Even so, he cannot help feeling too clumsy, too stiff. At last, in a fit of courage, Chu Wanning opens his mouth and sucks at Mo Ran’s lower lip until Mo Ran groans against him, giving Chu Wanning’s body a last little push so that his back hits the wall.

Surrounded by Mo Ran’s scent and crowded against the wall, Chu Wanning shivers. He wants Mo Ran to touch him, to make Chu Wanning feel like his entire body is on fire, but the moment the kiss turns heated, Mo Ran pulls back. His breathing is harsh, labored, and Chu Wanning can feel the beginnings of an erection pressing against his thigh.

“We should sleep,” Mo Ran says, dragging himself away with visible difficulty.

Chu Wanning blinks, confused. “Why?”

Mo Ran blushes and looks away. “Shizun—Wanning will laugh, but I want to…I want to do this right. I want to court Wanning properly, at least for a little while, before we do anything else. Please. Just—I need to do this right. We’re leaving for Sisheng Peak in two days. Let’s talk about it again once we return, all right?”

They bid the villagers farewell two days later and leave just as the sun begins to make its journey towards the zenith in earnest. It is not a long ride on horseback from Yuliang to Sisheng Peak, and within a shichen, they are standing at the foot of the stairs that lead up to the compound.

Even five years of rain and occasional snow did not manage to fully wash away the bloody trail that tells the story of Chu Wanning’s sacrifice. They walk the steps together, side by side, until halfway through Mo Ran reaches between them to loosely tangle their fingers together. Chu Wanning’s first instinct is to snatch his hand back lest someone sees them, but Mo Ran just wraps his palm tighter around Chu Wanning’s own and squeezes.

“Just let me hold your hand, Shizun,” he says.

Chu Wanning’s heart clenches in his chest. In his entire thirty-two years of life, no one has ever wanted to hold his hand. No one has ever wanted to hold him. But now Mo Ran is here, walking next to him, their shoulders touching, with his strong, warm hand holding Chu Wanning’s own.

At the top of the stairs, they almost immediately gain the attention of a few disciples, and Chu Wanning hastily pulls his hand back. Before he can fully withdraw, though, Mo Ran leans into him and whispers in his ear, “I will come to the Red Lotus Pavilion tonight.”

A shiver runs down Chu Wanning’s spine, anticipation fluttering in his chest like a spooked bird. They say their goodbyes at the gate, each going in their own direction, but the promise of an evening tryst sets Chu Wanning’s heart pounding. He can feel how hot his face and neck are, the flush spreading down his body like a fever.

The Red Lotus Pavilion welcomes him with silence. It is as it has always been, unchanged and unaffected, even though Chu Wanning’s entire being has been remade anew in the wake of Mo Ran’s confession. Still, there are many hours until sundown, and as Chu Wanning makes a feeble attempt at cleaning up his home in anticipation of Mo Ran’s visit, doubt begins to creep in.

Mo Ran said so many things back in Yuliang village—so many wonderful things that Chu Wanning had never dared hope to hear from him, but perhaps seeing Shi Mingjing once more will bring Mo Ran back to his senses. Perhaps he will take another look at Shi Mei’s beautiful face and slender figure, and he will understand that he has had it all wrong. That it was only his gratitude towards Chu Wanning that clouded his judgment. That the one he loves is still Shi Mei.

The certainty of it settles like a stone at the bottom of his stomach when the sun goes down and Mo Ran does not come. Chu Wanning has bathed—taking his time for once to soak in warm water—and washed his hair, then oiled it to give it more shine and softness. He has dressed himself in a white robe, embroidered at the cuffs and the hem with a floral pattern, but as the water trickles in the water clock and Mo Ran does not appear, he begins to feel foolish. Who is he trying to trick, dressing himself up like a maiden waiting for her lover, when it is only bound to draw attention to how inadequate Chu Wanning’s looks are, how severe his face?

Here he is, freshly bathed and fragranced, his hair unbound, wearing frivolous clothes and missing the inner layers, while Mo Ran must have realized what a mistake he has made.

Fool, he chides himself when they sound hai shi and Mo Ran still does not come. He tears at his sash that tightens into a knot when he pulls too hard, his throat constricted and his eyes stinging. What a delusion it was, to think this could last once they returned home. Here, on familiar ground, their relationship had no choice but to fall back into its familiar patterns. Chu Wanning has been a fool to pretend otherwise.

He is about to cut off the sash in his haste to disrobe when the entrance door opens and the sound of footsteps echoes through the interiors of the Red Lotus Pavilion.

“Shizun?” sounds Mo Ran’s voice as he approaches, instinctively knowing where to direct his steps. “I’m sorry I’m late. I was eating dinner with Uncle and Auntie, and they wouldn’t let me go until I had two helpings of everything. You know how they are.”

He at last enters the room to find Chu Wanning sitting at the table, pretending to sip his tea. Chu Wanning’s eyes must still be red, his robes disheveled. What a sight he must be, he thinks. How transparent under Mo Ran’s gaze.

Once their eyes meet, a frown draws Mo Ran’s brows close together. “Shizun, are you all right?” He pauses, looking at Chu Wanning with more scrutiny that he can bear. “Did you think I wasn’t coming?”

“What nonsense!” Chu Wanning scoffs. “You said you were coming, so why would I think that?”

Mo Ran shakes his head with a fond smile, like he sees right through Chu Wanning, then kneels next to him on the floor cushion.

“Ah, Wanning, your hair is still damp,” he says, catching a strand of it between his fingers. “Do you want me to brush it?”

Chu Wanning hides his face, unwilling to let Mo Ran see the flush that spreads across his cheeks. He wants to say yes so much, but he has already combed it and there is no actual need for this. It would be too much of an indulgence, but Mo Ran is here, looking at him with the kind of intensity that makes Chu Wanning shiver. Even if nothing more ever comes of it, perhaps Chu Wanning should let himself have this, just this once.

He nods, glancing at Mo Ran out of the corner of his eyes. “Come,” he says then, leading Mo Ran into his bedroom.

The room has been tidied as much as Chu Wanning was able, and the bed is for once neatly made. A presumptuous decision, but Mo Ran makes no comment on it. Instead, he sits Chu Wanning down in front of the bronze mirror and reaches for the jade comb.

“Wanning’s hair is so beautiful,” he whispers into Chu Wanning’s ear, and Chu Wanning shivers. Mo Ran laughs quietly—a small huff of air more than anything else—and presses a kiss to the side of Chu Wanning’s neck. “Is this all right?”

Chu Wanning can barely breathe. He nods, his throat too tight to allow him to speak. How silly of him to get so overwhelmed by a simple kiss, and yet his skin tingles where Mo Ran’s lips have touched it. The truth is that Chu Wanning wants so much more, but he has no words to ask for any of it, his face too thin to let Mo Ran know about his desires.

Still, he sits, his body burning, as Mo Ran carefully combs his hair until the comb glides smoothly through it, then replaces the comb with his fingers. He threads them through Chu Wanning’s hair, pressing them gently to his scalp to massage it.

The gasp that escapes Chu Wanning at that is the breaking of a dam, and when Mo Ran guides him to crane his neck, Chu Wanning tips his chin up with a shaky moan. He can feel the warmth of Mo Ran’s body pressed against his back, the way he cradles Chu Wanning to his broad chest as they kiss.

It is a slow, unhurried kiss. Mo Ran gently teases Chu Wanning’s lips apart and brushes his tongue against Chu Wanning’s. They shift, until Chu Wanning is sitting in Mo Ran’s lap, and he would be more mortified at the way his body molds itself against Mo Ran if Mo Ran was not busy pressing a line of kisses from Chu Wanning’s collarbone to the warm, hidden place just behind his ear, making him shiver.

“Wanning is so beautiful,” Mo Ran says, voice low and hoarse. He tugs at Chu Wanning’s chin, tilting his head until Chu Wanning meets his reflection. When, at last, their eyes meet in the bronze mirror, Chu Wanning finds himself unable to look away. He is transfixed, spellbound by the intensity of Mo Ran’s gaze. Any protest dies on his lips and he can only watch himself fall apart in pleasure. It is a perverse kind of looking, the kind that people in love with their own reflection must indulge in at times, but for Chu Wanning, it is a struggle and a challenge.

They stay like this for a while, until Chu Wanning realizes what the increasing pressure against the small of his back must be and gasps, breaking the kiss.

“Mo Ran, you’re—you’re—” he says, and feels the warm exhale of air against the side of his neck as Mo Ran laughs.

“Don’t worry, Shizun.” Mo Ran gathers all of Chu Wanning’s hair and pulls it over his shoulder, presses a kiss to Chu Wanning’s exposed nape. “I can wait. I want to see you come for me first. I didn’t see your face the last time. I want to see it now when you fall apart under me.”

Chu Wanning sputters, pushing Mo Ran away as he scrambles to his feet. “Shameless!” he hisses, furious at the way his body reacts to Mo Ran’s words nonetheless. The truth is, he wants to be taken apart until he can forget all of his deficiencies, his body reduced to an instrument of pleasure and nothing else. And yet, he cannot find the right words to ask, cannot force them out of his mouth to let Mo Ran know that whatever he wants, Chu Wanning wants, too.

Mo Ran laughs, following Chu Wanning off the floor, then pulls him in the direction of the bed. “I’ll make you feel good, I promise,” he says. “Just follow my lead.”

Gently, he pushes Chu Wanning to lie down on the bed, then settles himself between his legs, spreading his thighs open. It is a natural instinct for Chu Wanning to want to cover himself, to stop Mo Ran from looking at him, naked and exposed where his robe has fallen to the side.

Mo Ran makes a low, strangled sound at the sight, then reaches for one of Chu Wanning’s legs and lifts it by the ankle to press a kiss to the knobby protrusion of the bone.

“Mo Ran!” Chu Wanning protests, but Mo Ran only looks up at him with a smile that spells trouble.

“It’s not my fault that Wanning’s legs are so beautiful I want to kiss them all the time,” he says, and touches his lips to the curve of Chu Wanning’s shin, the soft underside of his knee, the warm inside of his thigh.

Chu Wanning’s cock twitches. His entire body is a bowstring about to release, wound tight with the need to be touched. He bites his lip to keep himself from crying out, but it is a futile endeavor, and more sounds spill from Chu Wanning’s mouth, incoherent with pleasure. His body arches off the mattress when Mo Ran noses at the underside of his cock, then drags his tongue all the way up to the tip. It is filthy, obscene, and Chu Wanning loves every moment of it. The wet sound that carries when Mo Ran sucks the head of Chu Wanning’s cock inside his mouth is a spark of lightning down his spine. The beating of his heart reverberates in his ears like a drum.

Just like last time, it is so easy to get lost in the overwhelming pleasure of it, the wet heat that engulfs him and threatens to swallow him whole. Mo Ran sucks him down all the way to the root, until his nose presses against the thatch of hair at the apex of Chu Wanning’s thighs, then looks up. It is that which undoes Chu Wanning in the end, the intent gaze that Mo Ran directs his way as he slowly takes Chu Wanning apart. He tries to hold off for as long as he can, with his hands fisted into the bedding and his entire body trembling, begging for release.

Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. It is too much to bear—this care, this tenderness, this relentless onslaught of affection that pours out of Mo Ran like a river in spring. Chu Wanning, like a piece of driftwood, lets himself be carried with the current, ready to be swallowed by the undertow.

It happens suddenly, when it finally does—Chu Wanning cries out, his back arching, and spills into Mo Ran’s mouth, who continues to swallow around him until Chu Wanning is completely spent. Once it becomes too much, Chu Wanning pushes at Mo Ran, watching as he pulls back reluctantly, then licks his lips.

Chu Wanning’s face heats at the sight, but the languid, boneless aftermath of pleasure clouds his judgment and makes him bold. Without a word, he maneuvers Mo Ran so that he is the one lying down on his back, and settles himself between Mo Ran’s open legs. Mo Ran, having divested himself of his outer layers earlier, is only wearing his trousers now, chest on display and cock straining against the linen. Hesitant, Chu Wanning reaches out to touch it through the fabric, and his eyes widen when he watches Mo Ran tip his head back, exposing his throat as his mouth opens around a moan.

“My Wanning is so good to me,” he says just as Chu Wanning reaches for the ties of his trousers.

Mo Ran’s cock springs free, just as large as Chu Wanning remembers, flushed all over and so, so warm in his hand. In the candlelight, Chu Wanning can see the clear liquid welling at the tip, dripping down the length of Mo Ran’s cock when Chu Wanning squeezes his hand around it by accident. Another broken moan spills from Mo Ran’s lips, and Chu Wanning wonders, mind suspended in a fever haze, what kinds of sounds Mo Ran would make if Chu Wanning took his cock into his mouth.

It seems an insurmountable task, but the desire to hear more of those breathy, punched-out sounds from Mo Ran drowns out any remaining common sense in Chu Wanning’s mind. Pushing all embarrassment aside, he kneels, folding his legs neatly under himself, and leans forward to give the tip of Mo Ran’s cock a gentle lick.

Mo Ran jolts, a throaty groan ripped from his chest. “Shizun,” he says.

The aftertaste on Chu Wanning’s tongue is bitter, but for once, he does not mind. There is, however, another issue. Foolishly, he thought that his body would know what to do next. Mo Ran has done it to him twice, and surely Chu Wanning should have learned something from the experience, but his throat clenches at the mere thought of accommodating all of Mo Ran’s girth inside his mouth. Would he expect Chu Wanning to swallow down all of him, the way he did? Would he finally realize that the only thing Chu Wanning has to offer are clumsy attempts of an inexperienced lover?

Some of that hesitation must show in his face, because Mo Ran props himself up on his elbow and reaches down with his other hand to touch the side of Chu Wanning’s face.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, all right?” he says. “We can do other things instead. Just because I—”

“Will you be quiet, Mo Weiyu?” Chu Wanning hisses, his shoulders drawing up. “Who says I don’t want to do this? I just—” His jaw clenches, and Chu Wanning looks away to the side. “I don’t know how. I need you to tell me how to—how to make you feel good.”

He half-expects Mo Ran to tease him, to laugh at him, but instead he surges to pull Chu Wanning into his lap and kisses him.

“So do you want me to be quiet or do you want me to tell you how to make me feel good?” Mo Ran asks once they part for air, a smile playing on his lips. “You have to pick one, Shizun.”

“Don’t,” Chu Wanning says. “Don’t call me that when we’re doing…this.”

“Wanning, then.” Mo Ran shifts to press a kiss just behind Chu Wanning’s ear. “Well? Which is it going to be?”

Chu Wanning swallows. “Tell me, Mo Ran. Tell me how to make you feel good. I want to—with my mouth. I want to do it to you, too.”

“Start slow.” Mo Ran’s fingers trail down the side of Chu Wanning’s cheek, and then he presses his thumb against Chu Wanning’s lower lip, parting his mouth open to slip it inside. “Don’t strain yourself, don’t try to take too much into your mouth at once.” He pushes his thumb further in, and Chu Wanning lets him, trembling and overwhelmed. It slides against his tongue, the same way that Mo Ran’s cock would. Chu Wanning’s entire body flushes at the thought. “Lick it, kiss it, curl your tongue around it, and then,” Mo Ran tips Chu Wanning’s head up by the chin so he can look him in the eye, “suck.”

It is impossible to look away. It is impossible to do anything but comply. And so, obediently, Chu Wanning closes his lips around Mo Ran’s thumb and sucks. Saliva floods his mouth and he swallows, taking Mo Ran’s thumb even deeper inside. His tongue curls around the soft finger pad.

“Just like that,” Mo Ran murmurs. “You’re doing so good, Wanning. But you know, my cock is so much bigger than my thumb.”

With that, he pulls the thumb out of Chu Wanning’s mouth, replacing it with two of his fingers instead. Chu Wanning sucks them inside, his mouth stretching around the wider girth. They penetrate deeper, reaching nearly the very back of his mouth, but even so, they are nowhere near as big as Mo Ran’s cock.

Slowly, Mo Ran maneuvers them so that Chu Wanning is once again sitting in his lap with his back to Mo Ran’s chest. He wraps an arm around Chu Wanning’s waist, keeping him close, while his other hand remains at Chu Wanning’s mouth, fingers sliding in and out like Mo Ran is trying to fuck his throat. The wet, squelching sounds that accompany the motion are indecent, echoing through the quiet space of the Red Lotus Pavilion as Chu Wanning allows himself to let go. He is burning up, embarrassment mixed with desire, his own cock once again stirring against his thigh.

When Mo Ran at last pulls out, a string of spit stretches between the tips of his fingers and Chu Wanning’s mouth. In the low light, they glisten obscenely as Mo Ran inspects them for a moment before wrapping them around the length of Chu Wanning’s cock.

“Mo Ran, stop,” Chu Wanning forces out, unwilling to give in to the pleasure just yet. “This is not what we— I’m supposed to be the one—”

“But my Wanning looks so beautiful when I do this,” Mo Ran says, then bites down gently on the delicate skin of Chu Wanning’s earlobe.

Chu Wanning moans, then turns around to glare. “Mo Weiyu, stop playing your tricks on me!”

He steels himself, taking a deep breath, before sliding off the bed to kneel at the edge of it, between Mo Ran’s spread thighs. There is a sharp intake of air above him, and when Chu Wanning lifts his eyes, Mo Ran is watching him. His mouth is slack with shock, but his eyes are hungry.

Before he can think better of it, Chu Wanning wraps his hand around Mo Ran’s cock and brings it to his mouth. He starts slow, just as Mo Ran instructed, kissing along the length of it before he licks at the head. The slightly bitter taste floods his mouth, but above him, Mo Ran makes a strangled sound, so Chu Wanning parts his lips wider and slips the head of Mo Ran’s cock into his mouth. Even that is a lot—the stretch all the more pronounced as Chu Wanning slides his lips lower along the shaft. His mouth is filled to the brim, the tip of Mo Ran’s cock almost touching his soft palate, and yet it seems like barely anything has fit inside Chu Wanning’s mouth.

He must look ridiculous, with tears welling in the corners of his eyes as he pushes himself further down, determined to make Mo Ran feel good, and his mouth stretched awkwardly around the girth. He tries to work his tongue along the underside, where he can feel the big vein running along the shaft, clumsy and inexperienced as he is, but he must be doing something right, because Mo Ran’s breathing grows labored and one of his hands finds its way to the back of Chu Wanning’s head. He does not push, but Chu Wanning can feel the way Mo Ran’s fingers curl with pleasure, grabbing at his hair.

The only way Chu Wanning can breathe now is through his nose, but even that proves difficult. He can feel himself struggling, nearly choking a few times when he dips his head too low, and he must not make for a pretty sight, but filthy words keep spilling from Mo Ran’s lips, telling Chu Wanning how good he is making him feel, how pretty he looks like this. It is little more than nonsensical babble of those whose common sense has long given way to pleasure, but it stirs something inside Chu Wanning nonetheless. At last, long after his jaw has begun to ache and his lips have grown sore, Mo Ran makes another low, strangled groan and says, “Shizun, I need you to— You have to—” before he comes. His seed coats Chu Wanning’s tongue and lips, drips down to his chin. The bitterness is too much for him and he spits into his hand, mortified at how unappealing it must look.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mo Ran keeps repeating, leaning forward to wipe at Chu Wanning’s mouth with his thumb. The words echo with another time, another bed. “I didn’t mean to—just like that. I’m sorry, Shizun. Wanning.”

Chu Wanning reaches for a handkerchief to clean himself up, then rises to his feet.

“Come here,” Mo Ran says and pulls him in for a kiss.

Chu Wanning goes without complaint, letting Mo Ran lay him out on the bed. His hair fans our around him like a curtain, his robe gone, and he feels at once too exposed before Mo Ran’s intent gaze.

“Wanning, do you want—” Mo Ran pauses, unsure for the first time this evening how to give voice to his desire. “Do you want me to be inside you tonight? We don’t have to—we don’t ever have to do it, if that’s not what you want, but I just—”

Chu Wanning bites his lip. “Yes,” he says. He avoids Mo Ran’s eyes, but his body is a traitor, and his cock twitches at the prospect.

The truth is that Chu Wanning is a shameless, wanton man, feeding off the memory of Mo Ran’s body moving against him, inside him, enveloping Chu Wanning entirely. More than anything, he wants to feel that again.

“Yes?” Mo Ran gives him a curious look.

“Yes, I want you to do it,” Chu Wanning admits. His entire body burns with need. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

The expression in Mo Ran’s eyes softens. “We’re here to do anything we want, Wanning. I know you didn’t like it the first time. I know I hurt you, so we don’t ever have to—”

“You didn’t,” Chu Wanning interrupts him. “I—I liked it. And I want you to—I want you to do it again. Tonight.”

“All right.” Mo Ran leans down to kiss his mouth, the underside of his jaw. “I want to see your face tonight.”

They start slow, with fragrant oil dripping between Mo Ran’s fingers as he opens Chu Wanning up. Mo Ran never stops kissing him, until his lips have touched nearly every cun of Chu Wanning’s body—a trail of molten heat that leaves Chu Wanning trembling. Every time, though, Mo Ran returns to claim Chu Wanning’s mouth, like he cannot get enough of it. The slow, lazy slide of their tongues makes Chu Wanning’s toes curl and his hands grasp at the sheets as breathy moans spill from between his lips.

His body gives in easier this time, opening before Mo Ran bit by bit, no longer gripped by the frenzied terror that accompanied their first night in the Ghost Realm. By the time Chu Wanning is ready, he is half out of his mind with pleasure.

“Look at me,” Mo Ran demands, settling himself between his open thighs, nudging Chu Wanning’s entrance with his cock. “Look at me, Wanning, and pay attention to me.”

Mo Ran breaches him slowly, gently, rocking against Chu Wanning’s body like a calm sea lapping at the shore, but the pressure steals all breath out of Chu Wanning’s lungs all the same. There are tender kisses that Mo Ran presses all over Chu Wanning’s face, his neck, the slope of his shoulder.

“Is this good for you?” Mo Ran whispers against Chu Wanning’s lips.

He hikes up one of Chu Wanning’s legs and hooks it over his lower back, his fingers digging into the meat of Chu Wanning’s thigh. There will be marks, ready to join those left by Mo Ran’s mouth across his neck and collarbones, but if Chu Wanning can wake up and be reminded that he did not only dream all of this in his loneliness, then he will cherish each mark until it fades with time.

“Wanning,” Mo Ran says again, his voice low and husky. “Am I being good for you?”

Chu Wanning can only nod, afraid that if he were to open his mouth, the only thing that would spill out would be a broken half-moan, half-sob. It is the kind of pleasure that cannot be described in words—the kind that seeps deep into the marrow of the bones and makes a home for itself there, the memory of it impossible to extinguish. He crests its wave and lets it wash over him when he falls apart, spilling into Mo Ran’s hand with a breathless gasp, nails raking across his strong back.

Mo Ran moans in response, burying his face in the crook of Chu Wanning’s neck, and buries himself inside him completely, then follows him over the edge, shaking through the aftershocks in Chu Wanning’s arms.

Chu Wanning is the first to wake in the morning. Beside him, Mo Ran is still asleep, an arm slung over Chu Wanning’s waist like he never wants to let him go, not even for a moment.

The morning sun falls through the window, spilling in a bright puddle across the floor. It illuminates the room, touching the foot of the bed where the two of them lie tangled in each other like vines. Chu Wanning has lived at the Red Lotus Pavilion for a long time, but the place has always been too big for just one person. His bed, too, has always been too big for Chu Wanning alone, half-filled with clutter in the place of another person.

But now Mo Ran is here, sleeping soundly at Chu Wanning’s side, curled around him like he wants to shield him from the world even in his slumber.

I love him, Chu Wanning thinks, and for the first time his chest does not cave in at the thought. I love him, I love him, I love him.

He has spent such a long time thinking those words in those secret spaces of his heart that eventually, the words have settled beneath his skin like they have always lived there. Now, whenever Chu Wanning kisses Mo Ran, whenever he touches him and lets himself be touched in return, it is his body that sings love.

It will still be some time, perhaps, before his mouth can speak it as well, but until then, he will keep singing its melody with the touch of lips against lips, his body opening to let Mo Ran in like he has always belonged there—like there was an empty space inside Chu Wanning in the shape of that love, that he now gets to fill with golden light.