Work Text:
Thousands of times I have been searching over the crowd
And all of a sudden when I turned my head around
He is right where the lights are few and dim.
Xin Qiji (1140-1207), Southern Song
The evening wind whistled through the bamboo a little too strongly for comfort, and Lianhua shuddered, the chill crawling up from under his robes, up his spine, manifesting in a soft sneeze.
“Cold?” a gruff voice sounded from not too far away. Di Feisheng was always careful not to stray too long a distance from his little fox.
“Not quite,” Lianhua shook his head in response, and then, pausing briefly to allow a mischievous smirk to cross his features – “but I could use a warm-up, always.”
Feisheng said nothing in reply, hand coming up far too quick in an unfair display of martial prowess, only to land two fingers on Lianhua’s nose in a soft pinch.
Code for – the sky’s getting dark, we need to find an inn and then, I’m all yours.
He was ten when he first saw Li Xiangyi, from behind the trunk of a hundred-year-old oak. Xiangyi had been dressed in a rough, green robe then, the memory still vivid. He was just a year and a half shy of Feisheng’s own age, but moved with the grace of a hero who would someday rule the jianghu. The organza lining the silk of his robe brushed lightly against the fallen leaves of his forest training ground, and Feisheng watched, with equal parts awe and envy, at the way he wielded his sword that should have been too heavy for his age.
Li Xiangyi was destined for excellence – that had been cemented in Feisheng’s young mind. Perhaps he hadn’t learnt to tell back then that he had found Xiangyi beautiful, a terribly charming juxtaposition of martial strength and doll-like features. The attraction was instantaneous and simply awful. All Feisheng could do when he got caught peeking at him was to climb out of the bushes, draw his own sword, and challenge Xiangyi to a duel.
They had never quite been able to get rid of that title to the relationship between them. Fire and water – enemies. As the years passed, Feisheng’s body grew, and so did his attachment. He had never quite learnt how to approach Xiangyi properly, beyond the toss of an unsheathed sparring sword, and sharp words with bite he barely meant. Xiangyi became increasingly unreachable and devastatingly alluring, leaving Feisheng behind. He watched from the sidelines as Xiangyi and Qiao Wanmian skirted around each other, with no room for him.
He had made it his goal to reach a position where he could get Xiangyi to look to him as a parallel – carving a time and space where they were equals capable of drawing close. He would have killed himself before he admitted it, back then, but the gentle sadist in him had dreamt of Xiangyi giving in to him in a show of loving, trusting submission. It was but a dream – the old, proud Li Xiangyi would never have done that, when he was too fixated on other lofty pursuits of justice and chivalry. The shortest distance between them had always been that measuring the length of a blade.
They stood on opposite ends of the world, in conflict in every aspect. But he had prayed for Li Xiangyi to live long and well, so they could duel to the end of time, and pick up the pieces of each other left strained after each petty fight.
Bittersweet was the word to use when it came to them. Feisheng knew they could be friends. And more, his heart supplied unhelpfully. He couldn’t help himself from exploding in elation internally when Xiangyi gave him those wide grins one could only reserve for an erstwhile companion. He gave himself pathetic hope, beating it down again by his own hand, and then feeding it some more in a vicious cycle. He knew Xiangyi didn’t hate him. They bickered, they fought, but it was not abhorrence. The ludicrous anger he felt at Xiangyi sometimes, for the insurmountable distance between them, it stemmed from a place of desire.
They had been sparring, once, in the oak forest fringing the outskirts, the place where Feisheng had first laid his eyes on Xiangyi. They couldn’t have been more than eighteen, freshly minted clan members. Boys in the skin of men, childishness enveloping their budding authority. Xiangyi had knocked him back into the detritus with a blow, sending dead leaves whirling up with light force, but had overestimated his body weight. He had landed on top of Feisheng, straddling him, though his palm had stretched out in caution, just in case he had crashed into Feisheng’s face.
And so Feisheng lay beneath him, Xiangyi sitting atop him, wordless. He didn’t move. It was very likely that he wouldn’t know how to move, either. His breath seemed to stick to his throat like cloying honey, and the air stilled. Xiangyi’s cheeks were red, through and through – it made Feisheng want to tease him further. And yet, as the other boy’s thigh brushed against him, his breath tumbled out of him in one hurried exhale. He no longer felt in control of his own body. Yearning and thirst coursed through Feisheng without volition, and it was his turn to feel heat rush through him, both to his face and further down, still. The end of Xiangyi’s high ponytail swayed gently in the wind, and the boy had leaned down, closer to Feisheng. He had contemplated closing his eyes and letting Xiangyi press his mouth to his – after all, he could feel the heat between Xiangyi’s legs too, then, and the knowledge that his ache might have been mutual sent an electrifying shudder down his spine.
But a bird cry broke the moment, and Xiangyi had already left his lap, hurtling through the forest with silent precision, by the time Feisheng stood back up, dizzy. They pretended nothing had happened after that.
There were quiet nights when he allowed one free hand to snake across his thigh, stilling against his own abdomen in a battle against his arousal, the memory of Xiangyi on his lap fresh in his mind. His fingers would dance across the ghost of Xiangyi’s weight on his robes, warmth curling in his belly. His brain would take him back to the blinding sunlight leaking into his vision through the trees, just behind Xiangyi’s head like a halo. His affection for the boy was sincere, yet impure, for he was but a mortal. He had weaknesses that were easy to grasp. He thought about how Xiangyi could have trained during the day, the blush that would rise to his cheeks, laboured exhales from exertion. Restlessness settled within him, and he gave in, sweeping his robes to the side, more often than not.
One palm to his mouth in case he made noise, the other curling downwards to palm at his hips tilted forward, slowly. He’d have untied his leather waistbelt by then, robes spread out beneath him, leaving him bare and more than half-hard. His length was a familiar weight in the palm of his hand, and his thoughts strayed back to Xiangyi, smiling softly at him as they caught their breaths after a spar. Oh, he would grow shy so easily, despite the bravado he carried with him in his demeanour, despite his physical strength. Feisheng knew him well – his inability to take compliments, how easily he would fluster with just some good-natured teasing. Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, Xiangyi could whine. Just like a little puppy, asking for Feisheng to give him some leeway. Feisheng fisted himself, squeezing down his length with a groan, his other hand coming forth to press against his leaking head.
There was an undercurrent of guilt, that he was relieving the tension within him to Xiangyi just like that, to a vision of the boy he had conjured up within his head. But Feisheng knew, and felt, the very real, palpable tension between them. Whether affectionate or not, there was a magnetic push-and-pull that existed between him and Xiangyi. He allowed himself to hope. If only he had been faster, back then, in the forest – if his hands had reached up to fist in Xiangyi’s hair and tug him downwards before he had the chance to run. What noises would Xiangyi have made against his mouth? He thought about a whimper he’d once heard when he’d hit the boy with the hilt of his sheathed sword. Gods, he was driving himself insane here.
His mind fluttered back to the ghost of Xiangyi’s slim hand against his thigh. He didn’t imagine much – just him kissing Xiangyi, stealing his breath, and rutting up against him with little finesse. Even then, it would feel too good to imagine. Feisheng would be tender, even in his desperation. He wouldn’t scare Xiangyi away, even in his fantasy. He would make his face flush, would make him drool and chase a high only Feisheng could give him. He would guide Xiangyi’s hand down to wrap around his length with patience, and would return the favour. He would put his mouth between Xiangyi’s legs, take him into his mouth, eat him out, and then eat him up, let him writhe all he wanted beneath Feisheng.
The sounds he would make, the faces he would show only Feisheng – they only served to make him grow harder. His hand slicked up as he moved it faster along his shaft, and he drew in another shuddery inhale, thinking about how Xiangyi would still be mischievous, even as he would hand Feisheng control over his body. The coil of heat in his abdomen grew and grew, and every nerve within him felt like it was being lit on fire. Shame abandoned, he pistoned his hips up into the hand wrapped around himself, thinking about the wet, warm clutch of Xiangyi’s body around him. It would be intimate, beautiful, being pressed against Xiangyi so close, to have his desire be enveloped by the depths of him. To have the love he had denied himself of.
There were so many things Feisheng wanted to do to him – gently, with force, any way Xiangyi preferred. He wanted to feel how Xiangyi’s mouth would be around him, feel the constrict of his throat with a deep thrust. He wanted to make Xiangyi cry from pleasure, tearing up, and be the one to wipe those good tears away. He wanted to hold Xiangyi by his waist, simply, or stand next to him under the sunlight, like friends and lifelong companions. He panted harshly into the crook of his elbow, fist moving even faster now, desperate in the haze of his imagination. The friction of his slick palm against his length was heavenly, and Feisheng was on the edge. He would take Xiangyi against the old writing table in the room of his sect dormitory, in one of those big oval wooden bathtubs Xiangyi liked, atop a trotting horse in the woods where they had first met. Xiangyi could sit on his lap, have his face pressed into silk sheets, lie on his back with unfocused, fucked-out eyes staring at the ornate ceiling of an inn, any way Feisheng could crawl between his thighs and worship him. With his fingers, with his mouth, with the entirety of him.
Feisheng desired him so much his soul ached. Once more swipe against the head of his length, twice, and his legs kicked out beneath him from the force of his climax, shuddering. His hips twitched involuntarily as he struggled to ride the wave of his orgasm, pleasure coursing through him. He turned onto his side, panting, recovering from the crest, the remnants of his fantasy enveloping his presence in the night air, like floating ghosts. Ah, bittersweet – the boneless feeling spreading through him was equal parts bliss and emptiness.
And then, in more turbulent times, they were mortal enemies. It had hurt Feisheng more than he cared to admit, Xiangyi’s suspicion that he had murdered his Senior Brother in cold blood. Feisheng might have belonged to a faction with ideals that ran contrary to everything Xiangyi stood for, but he still treasured Xiangyi as a fellow martial hero, and as a companion he desired for life. The fact that Xiangyi had thought this lowly of him felt like a knife to the gut.
But Xiangyi had told him to fight, drawing his Xiangyi Tai Sword, on board his ship sailing into the inky darkness of night. His hands had been shaking, in anger and grief, as he turned to face Feisheng for the first time in years, since their last silly duel, now bogged down with the responsibility of running their own sects. He remembered sliding backwards on the wooden deck from the force of Xiangyi’s blow, the boy he admired leaning in close, the Xiangyi Tai sword on his neck but its owner hesitating to strike. Xiangyi’s eyes had been brimming with tears. The pained whisper he had directed at Feisheng – “You didn’t do it, right? It couldn’t have been you. I don’t want you to know where his body is.”
And Feisheng wouldn’t have disappointed him for anything in the world. He didn’t know where the body of Xiangyi’s Senior Brother lay. They traded blows which should have been harmless, and in Feisheng’s mind was a single thought – calm Xiangyi down, and they could work together to find his Senior Brother’s body, in any covert way that accorded with the way the world worked then.
But an exceptionally forceful palm to his chest sent him flying across the starboard and up the mast. Xiangyi’s sword lay in his chest, and pain bloomed within him like a fresh camellia. He could see, very sparingly, in the darkness of night, Xiangyi’s face of disbelief. Something was wrong – Xiangyi did not mean to hurt him this gravely, judging from his expression. Untimely warmth and contrasting dread wormed their way through his chest as he watched, pinned to the wood by the cold metal. His blood oozed around the blade, and he felt himself grow dizzy. The best in the jianghu could not control his energy? What was happening to Xiangyi?
He could see the boy swaying on his feet on the opposite end of the ship, but he was losing blood rapidly. Another burst of energy freed him from the mast as the Xiangyi Tai Sword flew back to its owner, and he folded as gravity pulled him down. He would break all of his bones and die, he most certainly would, with the deep wound from Xiangyi’s last blow and the sword injury, as soon as he crumpled to the deck. To hell with the honour of the clan, he thought, I think it’s time for me to rest for eternity from this exhausting existence.
A cloud of force pushed him back like a rag doll, and he shut his eyes fully. Ah, Xiangyi, dying by your hands doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go. It came as a surprise as his back hit the waves of the ocean gently, the lull of the calm sea breaking his fall from the height. He barely had time to think – why did you spare me? – before his consciousness left him, the water engulfing his torso.
Xiangyi had drifted out of his life in the depths of the ocean, crossing the barrier between life and death. Feisheng himself had been wiped clean of all the complex emotions he had held for him. He had lived ten years without a memory of the boy he had so treasured from afar, without even room for grief. A shell of his former self, but that perhaps was for the best.
And Xiangyi, no, Lianhua, had now been reborn into purgatory.
Meeting him again was terrifying. Feisheng was grateful that he had first met Lianhua as A-Fei, all recollection of their twisted past gone. The second he regained echoes of a time long gone, and his sense of self as the Sect Leader of the Jin Yuan Alliance, he knew he had little choice but to confront Lianhua. There was no way he could continue to act as A-Fei did. In any case, he didn’t trust himself to fool Lianhua, astute as he was.
He leaned back on old crutches, the only way he knew how to speak to his old friend and foe. He chased him around asking him for a duel to death. Even Feisheng himself found it too ridiculous to believe, asking a disgraced hero with only a fraction of his core energy remaining, to fight him. The old Li Xiangyi might have given in with this amount of pestering and determination, but Li Lianhua was different. Beyond his weaker exterior, he held a devastating amount of calm. Fighting with Feisheng no longer held any meaning – Feisheng no longer took up space in his mind, in his heart. He played no role in Li Lianhua’s life.
“I’ll find the remedy for the Bicha poison! We need to duel again – I want to beat you fair and square!” It sounded absurd, comical, to his own ears. He wanted Lianhua alive. He wanted to stay next to him. It made him angry, the nonchalance Lianhua walked around with, letting the wind rustle the loose sleeves of his too-big robes, concealing his body that was wasting away. Like he was a man without any worries, whose only focus was to live the remaining year of life, and live it well. Like he had given up on treating his condition.
Why can’t you love yourself more? He had once wanted to yell at him. So I can love you properly, like I always have?
It pained him to talk about it, so the wound festered, and Lianhua grew weaker as the seasons passed.
He didn’t leave. There was so much to unravel – the location of Lianhua’s Senior Brother’s body, the identity of the mastermind who had poisoned Lianhua, and above all, the antidote to alleviating Lianhua’s agony. “Any worthy cure would be death,” Lianhua used to joke, rubbing behind Fox Spirit’s ears, and that made Feisheng’s heart squeeze in helplessness.
And so they traversed mountains and waters, solving cases and lifting the veil over mysteries plaguing the townspeople. Feisheng helped Lianhua as best as he could. He gradually eased into a presence next to Lianhua, awkward as it was with the revelation of his old identity. It was almost as if the gods were allowing Feisheng to peek into the lost years of childhood he had never gotten to spent close to Xiangyi. Li Lianhua was conniving, sharp, and had the bounce of a young boy. A complex paradox – his carefree disposition was always underlined by the lasting sadness of a man who did not have long to live.
Feisheng wished they had solved the bridal murders after he had realized he was not merely A-Fei. A-Fei had stared at Lianhua in awe and appreciation, as Lianhua put on the bridal robes and crown. He was looking at a pretty, pretty man, delicate lips parting and closing as he analysed the details of the case, pale wrists ducking in and out of the ornate red sleeves, gesticulating in speech. A-Fei had circled fingers around Lianhua’s hand to steady him as they re-enacted the crime scene, and Lianhua’s pulse had thrummed just a little quicker under his touch. A-Fei knew him as a person he trusted, one he was attracted to, but Lianhua had never seemed interested in him. Attraction could be fleeting, he had thought then, and treasured the time he spent gallivanting around the jianghu with the doctor.
Di Feisheng, as he now knew he was, thought about Lianhua in bridal robes on nights when he had nothing else to do. The memory held a special place in his mind now that he knew Lianhua was Li Xiangyi, the boy he had loved for more than a decade. He thought about a life they could spend together, holed up in the Lotus Tower, feeding Fox Spirit and running their own home, without a care about worldly affairs. He realized belatedly that he wanted a marriage with Lianhua, companionship that could extend to death. Lianhua in bridal robes, just for him, the sky, earth, sea and gods above bearing witness to their union. It only served to make him yearn for Lianhua more.
Still, he didn’t know how to speak of his feelings. He’d meant every bit of his words when he said Li Lianhua’s life was his. His to preserve, his to cradle – though it had seemed to his subordinates that he was hell-bent on killing Lianhua by his own hands. Feisheng knew they were no longer the young, hot-blooded martial heroes that they had once been – every step he took had to be calculated and emotionally mature. Time was not on their side. He allowed Lianhua to poke fun at him occasionally, taking his soft blows without retaliation – something the old Di Feisheng would never have contemplated. The most vital mission of his now was to find the antidote for the Bicha poison in Lianhua’s body, and to keep him alive. And then, next, to find out the truth behind everything that had happened a decade ago. Nothing that happened now could steer him away from Li Lianhua.
He knew that Lianhua saw through his sharp speech and intimidating exterior, and bore witness to the flinches he made when he inflicted agonizing treatments on him. Lianhua had never blamed Feisheng for a single thing, forgiving as he was, knowing that he meant well. There was not a moment spent on self-pity, on crafting new emotional baggage. They worked together like a well-oiled machine, bolts and nuts turning in intimate familiarity – with newfound mutual respect, and not just the control that Feisheng had envisioned having over Xiangyi in his youthful fantasies. They preserved each other’s space and pride, even though Feisheng had his silly, silly protective streak kick in at the most untimely of hours. Feisheng, on the other hand, was content with standing behind Lianhua, letting the man pick apart clues and details, analyse the cases they came across in his own individual capacity, leading any and all investigations.
Lianhua tried to take it easy as he could, basking in the covert way Feisheng tried to spoil him. But Feisheng knew, from the few instances they had been through together, that Lianhua would take an arrow for him if he were to sink into trouble. Feisheng seemed to dominate the relationship he had with Lianhua with his fiery temper, but Lianhua held his heart in his hands – could destroy it in seconds. And Lianhua had never attempted to chain Feisheng to him by it. Contradictions that could fill scroll after scroll, but a fit destined by the heavens. Feisheng finally felt like he could breathe standing next to Lianhua.
He let his presence melt into the background near Lianhua, as the doctor busied with setting up his roving clinic in the bustling market. The heat was turning into a slight chill towards the tail end of Summer. Lianhua’s reputation had far exceeded him, with incredulous encounters of bringing the dead back to life making their rounds around the townsfolk. Business grew steadily, people crowding round his squeezy little stall, clamouring to see the miracle-working physician. Rumours of the fact that Doctor Li Lianhua was as beautiful as he was skilled too traversed the city, and some visited the clinic for little more than to see he who was deemed a porcelain doll.
Feisheng had a possessive root, he knew he did, but he trusted himself to keep it under control. Lianhua now cared little for worldly desires and for being immersed in love. It didn’t stop him from bristling when handsome young masters and dainty young mistresses with a penchant for beauty visited the clinic. Lianhua had always been gentle to his patients, drawing their wrists out from under their robes, delicate fingers wrapping around them to feel their pulse. “Are you feeling alright today?”
He remembered it being the start of the Autumn Tiger, when the renowned Young Master Changheng came forth, having heard of Lianhua’s distinction. Hailing from one of the most distinguished families in the citadel, the Young Master was an elegant gentleman, with a character like water. Wherever he went, he brought with him a trail of admirers – a force that could counter Lianhua. But Feisheng had an inkling that Young Master Changheng had come for reasons beyond a petty contest for social prowess – Changheng wanted to stay close to Li Lianhua.
“Young Master, where are you feeling discomfort in?” Lianhua went through the motions of taking his pulse, light touch brushing against Changheng’s inner wrist. The tips of his fingers felt cool, as if they were jadeite stone, and Changheng leaned in, smiling soft and bright as Lianhua made a preliminary diagnosis. “Nothing seems out of the regular, though your pulse is thrumming quickly.”
Feisheng watched as Changheng’s face flushed, testimony to his nervousness around Lianhua. He had a beauty feeling his pulse – it was all too normal for it to run upwards. “Could I – ” a pause, and the tips of Changheng’s hair, done up in a half-topknot, rustled in the wind, tilting towards Lianhua like a moth to light. “Could I have some of your time for a meal, Doctor Li?”
If it could be consolation to Feisheng, Lianhua hesitated for close to a minute, though Feisheng was sure his own expression would be sufficient to kill Changheng twice over. Despicable, he thought, hitting on someone when they are at work, and you’re in a position of power as a paying patient.
An awkward, soft laugh, and Feisheng was prepared for Lianhua to reject his offer – but what came after was a flicker of Lianhua’s gaze up to him, fleeting as a butterfly atop a blossom. It almost seemed like Lianhua was asking for permission, though that seemed hard to believe.
Young Master Changheng’s hand crept over Lianhua’s fingers, holding it in a gesture of sincerity. “You don’t have to worry about holding up the other patients. I can wait for them to clear, and will pay you fair wage for the hour. Five taels of silver – that is your rate, is it not?”
He had done his research. Feisheng’s jaw clenched. From Lianhua’s worry that he would not be able to get to the patients queuing behind Changheng, to Lianhua’s pet peeve of being paid too much or too little, or not at all. He could physically see the twitch when Lianhua gave in and agreed, wriggling his wrist out of Changheng’s grip, and Feisheng grimaced behind his own sleeve.
Changheng chose one of the best, most bustling restaurants in the citadel, and had topped the menu off with alcohol. Lianhua had to be discerning with what he consumed now, but they seemed to be in good conversation when Feisheng left the compound and returned to the Lotus Tower, scowling the whole way back. Lianhua returned just a quarter before the hour of the rat, to Feisheng scratching vigorously between Fox Spirit’s ears, face dusted with annoyance.
Lianhua walked with a slight stagger, just the slightest bit tipsy from the osmanthus wine Changheng had ordered, stumbling forward to point at Feisheng in mirth. “A-Fei, you look funny,” he started, a half-smirk, half-laugh crawling out of him, “Like a jilted widow.” Feisheng caught him when he stumbled forward, catching a whiff of the fermented liquor drifting from his robes. Lianhua’s eyes were just a little clouded over, not quite enough to count as a stupor, but just enough to make his gaze dreamy – a little of the clear wine still clinging to his bottom lip. Feisheng swallowed at the proximity. He wanted to swipe his finger over the wine on Lianhua’s mouth.
Receiving no response, Lianhua put all his weight on Feisheng like the scoundrel he was. “Bring me upstairs? Feel like I need a good day of sleep.”
“Mn.” Feisheng agreed, though he was still vexed – petty enough not to respond to him in full sentences. But still, he put both strong hands around Lianhua’s waist and led him upstairs, placing him gently on the futon left unmade since they had set out in the morning. Moonlight embraced him gently, lending a soft glow to his hair, spread out under him. The flush from the alcohol was beginning to settle in, and pink rose to Lianhua’s cheeks. Feisheng reached one hand out, wanting to cup his jaw, but realized how silly it was when he lifted his hand. He withdrew it.
“A-Fei,” Lianhua murmured, reaching out for the hand he had put back into place. Feisheng didn’t pull away, letting him ramble. “We should drink together one day – drinking with Changheng just now made me realise we’ve never done that.” A laugh. “You’re the only one who’s known me for a decade now, you see that? No one else here.”
Feisheng turned his hand over so it was gripping Lianhua’s, the latter’s barely-there stupor giving him courage, in an odd fashion. “It made you realise? Drinking with Changheng and drinking with me – is that the same?”
Lianhua stared back at him with bright eyes, the flush on his face deepening. He thought long and carefully about his next words. “I would suppose not. Changheng is a paying customer. You, A-Fei,”
Feisheng held his breath.
“I think I can call you a friend. Someone who knows me.”
Feisheng surged forth, hand now squeezing Lianhua’s. Lianhua’s warmth was in his periphery – he could reach out and Lianhua would be right there, pressed against him in an embrace. “I want to know you again.”
Feisheng could see the cogs turning in Lianhua’s head as he leaned over, closer than he had ever been to him. Closer than they had been in that encounter in the forest ten years ago. “Will you let me?” he continued, pressing forth.
Lianhua’s gaze was certain when he responded, answer ringing in the night air. “Yes.”
Feisheng let himself melt away, until he was nothing but a bare soul holding the man he loved. He tilted his head down, and pressed his mouth to Lianhua’s, tongue pressing in. Free hand coming up to cup the back of Lianhua’s head, deepening the kiss and drawing a soft, sweet sound from him. It felt like brief utopia, less thinking and more doing – doing something he had dreamt of for a decade.
Lianhua didn’t push him away, and when they parted for air, he looked back up at him with those dazzling eyes, mouth opening and closing in question. “Do you know what you’re doing? I have a year to live.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Feisheng admitted in return, words spilling out too fast. “But I have had feelings for you for a decade, foe or not. And I won’t let you die without my permission.”
The petulance in his tone made Lianhua laugh, lying flat against the pillow and tossing his head back in a hearty peal. “Oh, A-Fei, this is so ridiculous.”
Feisheng felt the corners of his own mouth curl up in mirth. “It is, huh?”
“It is, it is.” And then, softly, “I want to live well for as long as I can.”
Those words made Feisheng choke up inside, fingers playing with Lianhua’s. Bittersweet, always. But things were different now, and he would learn how to cook, just as Lianhua did. Remove the bitter, flavour everything with honey. “Can I kiss you again?”
Another laugh. “Yes.”
When Feisheng woke up the next morning – from where he had fallen asleep squeezed next to Lianhua on the same futon, the blankets had been made, and the space beside him was cold. Lianhua was gone.
Feisheng panicked, flipping out of bed in one swift motion, shrugging on his outer robes. He could hear some motion downstairs, but he could never be sure if it was Lianhua or Fang Duobing making a ruckus early in the morning. Leaning over the stairs, he could smell the questionable aroma of something being stir-fried, and he forwent climbing down for a flip over the railings.
Lianhua stood over the stove, spatula dipped in a crock. His head tilted towards the direction where Feisheng had landed by instinct.
“Good morning, A-Fei,” he called without even turning around, waving one hand in the air habitually, his green sleeve shaking with the movement. “Ah, that headache last night after drinking. I can’t remem –”
Feisheng crowded forward, taking Lianhua’s jaw in one hand and placing a soft kiss to it. He didn’t intend on letting Lianhua forget again, not a decade after the first lesson he had learnt. “Good thing I do.”
Feisheng liked to press close to Lianhua as he fussed over his wok, brow furrowed in concentration. The best moments were when he caught his little fox by surprise, Lianhua’s senses dulled by the poison, only twisting gently in acknowledgement as Feisheng’s arms slid around his slender waist from behind. He would tilt his face and rest one cheek on Lianhua’s shoulder as he busied around the spices, the top of his head brushing gently against Lianhua’s face. It was almost guaranteed that Lianhua’s body warmth would grow, then, and a faint blush would rise to his pale, beautiful cheeks, the scarlet sometimes extending to his ears. No allure could compare.
Feisheng had become taller, more muscular, growing into his adult body. Lianhua on the other hand, had shrunk – physically, an effect of the Bicha poison – but not in spirit. Never in spirit. He took up so much space in Feisheng’s mind it was difficult to describe. Feisheng had taken to wearing loose robes in late Summer, for ease of movement and dissipation of heat. A hug from behind like this made Feisheng envelope Lianhua fully, like the first layer of snow, gentle, gentle. Like Lianhua was melting into him – so that no one could tell where he ended and Feisheng began. Feisheng liked that. It was almost as if Lianhua belonged to him entirely, body and soul. He desired this feeling, chased after it like a man on a mission. A terrible brew of possession, control and devotion. The way Lianhua seemed to lean into him, back relaxing with a soft exhale, only served to please him further.
They were perfect for each other, weren’t they? Feisheng could only hope that Lianhua wasn’t merely giving in to him because of the little lifespan he had left. He used to wake up in cold sweat, fretting over Lianhua’s deteriorating condition. It was all he could obsess over, finding remedies to repair core energy tattered by venom. He wanted Lianhua around for a long, long time, and the way the years, no, days, seemed to slip past him, made his throat constrict with the unfamiliar feeling of fear and panic.
Another particularly harrowing nightmare of Lianhua’s pale wrist slipping from his grip, in an unknown tavern far away from their childhood sparring places, far away from their homes from a more carefree time. He had gasped awake, the futon tucked under his neck feeling like a noose, even in the Autumnal night. Lianhua had stirred, removing his hand from where it was slung over Feisheng’s heaving chest, sitting up sleepily.
Feisheng had known Lianhua’s vision was growing blurry again, the way he blinked into the darkness, eyes not focusing on his face. His hand found Lianhua’s, putting it back in its earlier position across his chest – the warm touch calming his heartbeat.
“Oh?” Lianhua had chirped, lying back down again, movements sluggish. “Did you dream of something bad, or did you sense an intruder?”
Feisheng didn’t respond. He rubbed Lianhua’s hand on the area over his heart, focusing on taking deep breaths.
“A nightmare it is,” Lianhua murmured into the night air, to no one in particular. “Can I talk you out of it?”
“Yes,” Feisheng said, voice coming out all choked and wrong. Softer still, “please.”
“You know what, Sect Leader Di,” Lianhua’s voice was light, lofty, “I knew you before you challenged me to our first fight in the oak forest, when we were children. I’ve never told you this, have I?”
Feisheng made an intrigued noise in his throat. He hadn’t known that. A brief pause later, ruminating in his own thoughts – he realized belatedly that Lianhua had referred to himself as “I”, when bringing up a memory from a distant time. A time when he had been Li Xiangyi. The line was blurring. Lianhua was accepting that he was Li Xiangyi – the Li Xiangyi that Feisheng had loved since he was a child, and the Li Xiangyi that had noticed Feisheng even before that.
A soft laugh from his little fox lying next to him. “I can hear your heartbeat quickening, A-Fei,”
“Tell me about how you knew of me before?” He tried to keep the desperation in his voice measured, controlled, but he had a feeling it didn’t quite work.
“Ah,” Lianhua’s words were filled with mirth even though Feisheng couldn’t see him in the darkness of the night. “I was already thinking about the three favours I’d have you do in exchange for me telling you this secret.”
A silly reminder of the barter trade Lianhua had tried to establish with him just a while ago, when he had yet to regain his memories as Di Feisheng. The night made Feisheng unduly honest, baring his soul.
“I have loved you since the day I saw you in the oak forest,” he murmured, fingers still running across Lianhua’s palm on his chest.
His little fox crawled up, meeting his eyes, expression soft, vulnerable. “Oh, I was not expecting that.”
“You should know that.”
“I know now.” A pause of a single heartbeat. “I saw you at the Festival of Martial Heroes the year before we met in the oak forest. I don’t think you were even, ten, yet? Do you remember performing this routine – this complicated routine with these terribly-curved knives? Smaller than a sword, but definitely sharper. More dangerous. I thought you were the coolest pupil around, back then. Made me train like a madman for the entire year. But I had always been weaker at wielding short knives compared to you.”
The compliments sprinkled in between Lianhua’s words made Feisheng’s mouth curl into a smile, and he closed his eyes in contentment. If he had been more feline than human, satisfied rumbling would have tumbled out of his chest. Lianhua gave him more affection than he had dared to wish for, and it made him feel like he was walking on clouds. He used to think that too much happiness would only lead to great misfortune, but living like this – he could slowly learn to accept that he too deserved elation and love – not just strife.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he countered, meaning every bit of it, sincerity leaking all over the bedsheets.
“You could bruise me now if you as much as flicked your fingers to get my hand off you,” Lianhua tsked, though he snuggled closer.
“Wouldn’t,” Feisheng’s free hand reached up to comb through Lianhua’s hair. “You would want me to, but I wouldn’t. And it’s true you’re strong. It’s what I love most about you. I believe you can be a hero, little fox. It’s not a weakness, never been one.”
The words tumbled out, unbidden. A soft hum from Lianhua. It was getting late – Feisheng estimated it was around the hour of the ox, and Lianhua needed all the rest he could get. He could feel his little fox tiring out.
“Take your medicine properly, and we’ll go see the mountains and the gingko trees beyond the citadel in ripe Autumn next year, hm?”
Another sleepy hum from Lianhua. The lanterns were dim as they always were, when they were sleeping, but Feisheng got up halfway, twisting his upper torso so he could reach further and blow out the single lighted candle in this foreign room. He hoped Lianhua slept well.
Lianhua was getting clingier lately. Feisheng could hardly complain, but it was in him to overthink, always. His mind constantly reminded him that Lianhua was trying to grasp at him as tight as he could, before his conscious mind and his life dissipated like a cloud of incense.
They reached the inn just before sundown. Feisheng stayed just an inch behind him as Lianhua stood on his tiptoes, pushing his bundle wrapped in cloth onto the top shelf of their room. He turned around, and finding Feisheng right by him, stretched both arms out for an embrace. Feisheng obliged readily, pretenses falling away in privacy.
“A-Fei,” he began, “we should get on a boat one day. Heard it’s best to go on a boatride when you’re seven-tenth drunk, you know? And we should never dismount. Just let the rivers and streams of the world take us wherever we are meant to be. Any struggles we might face then – it’ll be a fresh experience, wouldn’t it be?”
Feisheng slid one hand up to undo the half-topknot Lianhua kept his hair in, placing the dried lotus pin next to his little fox’s baggage with ease. “If Lianhua wants to, we can.”
The jianghu was quiet for now, but it was a brewing pot, an underworld of hucksters and heroes alike. It was inclined to bubble over. Life was never peaceful in the times they lived in – looking back, Feisheng and Lianhua had tasted the myriad flavours life had thrown at them. Bitterness, cloying sweetness, elation, grief. He thought about Lianhua drifting off in a nap as the boat swayed gently on the waters of a tranquil lake, a tiny slice of calm granted to them as they sailed the edges of the world. He would always indulge his little fox – too-long dozes that made him lazy, followed by a sumptuous meal of the chicken thigh Lianhua so enjoyed, right after waking up. Was that not the meaning of life? To make a tortured existence not worth a penny worth something, at the very least?
Lianhua leaned back into him, turning around and cupping Feisheng’s jaw in one hand. Feisheng’s pulse skipped, and he dipped his head down, taking his little fox’s mouth in a kiss. Rolling Lianhua’s bottom lip between his teeth, he drew a soft, choked sound from his lover, strong arms coming up to rest gently on the cradle of his waist. He had promised Lianhua warmth from the chilly Autumn air, and he was here to deliver.
Feisheng exhaled into his lover’s mouth, a strong thigh finding its way between Lianhua’s legs, and melted into him helplessly, as he always did.
Lianhua had always been standing where the lights were few and dim. The years Feisheng’s consciousness had spent agonizing over the loss of someone he could no longer remember, the way his soul had ached for completion by the one he desired. He hadn’t known it then, but he had been searching over the crowd for Lianhua, always. And one day, he took a deep, lucid nap – waking up, Lianhua was right there with an upward tilt of his head.
Feisheng’s hand found its way into Lianhua’s hair, as always, stroking at his scalp gently the way his little fox liked it. “Lianhua,” he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his boy’s forehead, “All I need is to accompany you for the rest of our lives. Do you understand?”
It might have been asking for too much if he had added “till a ripe old age”. Lianhua wriggled gently in his embrace, sleepy again. He tended to get lethargic as the temperature dropped outside. Feisheng couldn’t tell if he was asleep yet, or simply traversing the boundary between lucidity and dreams, but he knew Lianhua was cognisant of his simple wish.
He looked up at the thin paper windows, the moonlight spilling in through the bamboo frames. Wind rustled through the willow leaves, entering their haven with quiet stealth, bringing with it a gentle drizzle. Raindrops cascaded upon the lotuses in the shallow pool beyond their room. The blooms sprung from the mud pure and untainted, bathing in the ripples without pomposity. Such was his little fox. Feisheng had no time to be sad, when he barely had enough time to hold Lianhua’s hand.
Another Autumn together – they had seen the gingko trees this year, and Lianhua was improving. He could now make the trip up the mountain to the temple where no one but them worshipped. Same old, same old – Feisheng twisted up gently, blowing out the only lantern they had kept lit in their room, and settled back in, caging Lianhua securely in his hold again, so he wouldn’t get cold. He would be here for Lianhua till the end of time, dimming the lanterns for an Autumn nap.
When young, I knew not the taste of sorrow,
But loved to mount the high towers;
I loved to mount the high towers
To compose a new song, urging myself to talk about sorrow.
Now that I have known all the taste of sorrow,
I would like to talk about it, but refrain;
And say merely: 'It is chilly; what a fine autumn!'
Xin Qiji (1140-1207), Southern Song