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They had stopped at an abandoned farmer’s shelter to watch wild geese fly over the golden fields when Wen Kexing reached out for Zhou Zishu’s hand. He did not take it in his; instead, he rubbed the outermost bone with his calloused fingertips as if to warm it up. Then, once he was satisfied, he hooked their little fingers together. Lightly, he asked, “Ah Xu, do you think we will grow old?”
“Eventually,” Zhou Zishu replied without taking his eyes off the scenery. The words what kind of question is that needed not be said. “Everyone grows old.” After a pause, Zhou Zishu amended, “Well, perhaps not that old turtle Ye Baiyi.”
“And the dead,” Wen Kexing reminded him.
“And the dead,” Zhou Zishu conceded.
Wen Kexing studied Zhou Zishu’s profile thoughtfully. “You would look respectable and distinguished with grey hair. No one would guess that this lord of mine likes to eavesdrop on people’s marital problems and brothels…”
From the long corners of his eyes, Zhou Zishu stole a glance at his companion. “Grey hair wouldn’t improve your appearance at all. You would just graduate from looking like a lecher to an aging lecher.”
Wen Kexing winced at the thought. Rubbing his chin, he said, “Perhaps it isn’t bad to die young, before my hair turns grey and I lose my husband’s favour.”
“Save it,” Zhou Zishu sighed. “Besides, you can just dye your hair. You eat enough walnuts that the shells could supply the entire capital’s demand for hair dye.” Narrowing his eyes, he added coldly, “No need to act innocent now. I know what you are hiding in your left sleeve.”
Smoothing out his sleeves as if nothing was amiss, Wen Kexing heaped effusive praises upon him: “My husband is observant, his knowledge unparalleled. Even if his hair is still all black, unlike Laozi’s…”
Zhou Zishu had turned a deaf ear to Wen Kexing’s blathering, seemingly immersed in watching the geese form an arrowhead in the clouds. After a while, he interjected, “When I die, don’t bother with a headstone.”
“Why not?” Wen Kexing sounded genuinely puzzled.
“I remember the nonsense you carved onto Long-qianbei’s,” Zhou Zishu said, grimacing at the memory, “and how long it took you.” Suddenly, he turned to face Wen Kexing. His dark irises were reflecting the flames of the setting sun. “Don’t make me wait that long, would you.”
After a long, long while, Wen Kexing dropped his gaze and answered softly, “All right.” He laced the rest of their fingers together, such that they were standing shoulder to shoulder, palm to palm, and hand in hand. “I promise I won’t make you wait that long.”
There was no need for unnecessary questions about who should be burying whom. Between the two of them, they had figured it out: Wen Kexing was the elder by a little under a year, but despite his full recovery, the Nails of Seven Apertures and Three Autumns had shortened Zhou Zishu’s lifespan somewhat.
Autumn was coming; the cicadas had stopped singing. In the silence, Zhou Zishu asked, “Do you know any song?”
After some thought, Wen Kexing answered, only half-joking, “I was saving this for your headstone, but since you asked for none…” Then, in his soft, low voice, he sang:
Silent, alone, I ascend the west tower.
The moon is a hook.
Deserted parasol trees trap clear autumn in the inner courtyard.
Cut, it won’t break.
Straightened, it stays tangled.
The sorrow of parting
is a strange taste in my heart.
<
The last note had not had the chance to trail off when Wen Kexing found himself drawn into a kiss, one that tasted like osmanthus wine, made from last year’s blossoms.
Soon, the harvest moon would rise in the west. Although these fields were abandoned during the foreign invasion a few years back and the farmer’s shelter had surrendered itself to the embrace of vines, the millet had ripened again. Perhaps it spoke of the prosperity of the nation that no one had sought to claim these grains. At the hem of the land, two wanderers looked up to see wild geese journey home over earth draped in the gold of a dragon’s brocade.