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I.
The man has healed enough to get to his feet again.
When Xiao Xingchen reaches out to steady him, he lightly swats it aside.
“You’re so fussy, Daozhang. This one is made of tougher stuff.”
A hint of laughter traces the edge of his voice, as it always does. Xiao Xingchen hears him make his way gingerly from his bed to the other side of his room where he has hung his outer robes.
He will leave, Xiao Xingchen remembers. This man whose name Xiao Xingchen still does not know. He will heal from his injuries and depart with the wind.
On his way back to the bed, however, the man stumbles. Xiao Xingchen catches him by the shoulders.
“You have to rest.”
“Daozhang…” he whines.
Hands on his shoulders, Xiao Xingchen brings him back to the bed and feels the satisfying dip of it as it takes his weight again. He sets his hand on the man’s injured leg, and feels a hiss of breath as he transfers spiritual energy to the still tender flesh.
He is warm against Xiao Xingchen’s touch. Xiao Xingchen indulges it, just for a second – lets it soothe the ache in his palms. (When has Xiao Xingchen last touched another person, other than when he has been healing this anonymous man? When has he last been touched?)
Then, he retreats.
(Quells the selfishness beneath his skin.)
In this mortal world, Xiao Xingchen has learned, he will simply bestow kindness upon all, and be attached to none. To simply give, like the endless flow of a stream:
“Rest, and you will recover more quickly. I will bring you your food.”
This man will leave once he recovers. When that happens, Xiao Xingchen will let him go and learn to forget him.
Xiao Xingchen will let him go.
II.
Chengmei recovers, and he does not leave.
Xiao Xingchen expects him to, whenever he leaves the cottage to buy groceries, or collect firewood, to walk in the woods. Still, he always returns.
Summer passes into autumn. A chill descends upon the city, mixing with the miasma of yin energy.
Winter arrives, and Chengmei has not left.
The cottages of Yi City, including the one that Xiao Xingchen and his two companions have made a shelter of, are bare and dilapidated. They have found bales of hay with which to warm the coffins, but it is increasingly insufficient as a desolate draught blows against the walls and rooftops.
“I hate that stupid wind,” A-Qing complains, burrowing into her coffin and glaring at the holes in the roof.
“Huh,” Chengmei snorts. “Scared of wolves, Little Blind?”
In his own coffin, Xiao Xingchen listens to the howl of the wind outside and shivers at the cold.
In the darkness, he thinks of Chengmei in the next room. Does he sleep easy, in the cold?
Chengmei is hardier than Xiao Xingchen is. He weathers pain better and can bear the elements alone, with his capable hands and sharp tongue. He is used to making a living for himself in the streets, he has said.
Xiao Xingchen is no stranger to being a wanderer. Ever since descending from the celestial mountain, he has lodged in roadside inns, in clearings in the woods, beneath the stars, and other transitory places that Zichen scouted out.
Still, even before Zichen wished never to see him again, he had never dealt well with the cold.
He is lucky now, though. He is lucky to have this cottage, to have these bales of hay that soften the surface beneath his head. He is lucky for these two companions who have wandered into his path.
So for now, he listens to Chengmei’s shifting footsteps the next door, and lets it lull him into a fitful slumber.
III.
Xiao Xingchen wakes up to silence and a chill in his bones.
He steps gingerly out of his door and catches the sound of A-Qing’s deep breathing from where she is still asleep in her coffin. Then, he makes his way tentatively toward the adjacent room, the one that Chengmei has been using.
The door is open. The room is empty. No stir of breath, qi, or footstep.
Something inside Xiao Xingchen dies.
He returns to his own bed and lies back down. The chill seeps deeper into him, and he wonders vaguely if he can simply lie here forever, frozen as a statue.
It does make sense for Chengmei to finally leave in the winter night. There is nothing, really, left for him in this cottage after all. He will find other duties to attend to, other fruits of other labours that can keep him warm. He will move on from the mere companionship of a blind Daoist in a dilapidated shack.
Behind the perpetual darkness of his eyelids, Xiao Xingchen’s heartbeat slows to a crawl.
(He is tired, he realises. He is very, very tired.)
Suddenly, a door hangs open. Footsteps make their way down the hallway, heavier than A-Qing’s, and familiar.
“Daozhang, don’t tell me you’re still sleeping in?”
Chengmei.
Xiao Xingchen sits up and hurries to the door.
“You’re –” he manages. “You’re back.”
“Yeah, someone needs to be fixing that damned roof. Straw just isn’t going to cut it for winter.”
Something heavy drops onto the ground. Wooden planks. Xiao Xingchen briefly wonders where Chengmei has acquired them. And then Chengmei shifts around, examining something on the wall next to him, and his shoulder nudges against Xiao Xingchen’s body.
“Don’t mind me, Daozhang. You should go back to your meditation or whatever you were up to.”
Chengmei gets to work. From his room, Xiao Xingchen listens as the sound of hammering continues into the afternoon, interspersed by brief curses.
When he is done, hours later, Xiao Xingchen simply bows his head.
The howl of the wind outside has dulled. It is already warmer, now, inside the cottage.
“Thank you, Chengmei.”
And then —
“You didn’t have to.”
He finds it necessary to add that, because it is true. There are no debts that Chengmei owes. He is healed, and he is free to drift once more: like a leaf on a current, along the winter wind. Wherever he so wishes, amidst the transitory nature of everything in life.
Then, Chengmei huffs out a laugh. It fills the room, the sound of his mirth.
“Yeah, and have Little Blind be on my ass about it before bed every evening?”
Fingers brush Xiao Xingchen’s arm, trailing briefly down toward his hand.
There is a hungry thing that lives beneath Xiao Xingchen’s skin. It comes alight at the touch, and wishes, selfishly, for it to linger.
IV.
“My old friend, Song Zichen,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs as he cleans his sword, “Was good at dealing with this type of yao.”
He does not usually speak of Zichen. Does not quite allow himself to think of him. Zichen certainly does not think about him anymore, except perhaps in hatred.
Still, it is difficult sometimes. On this night hunt, for instance, he and Chengmei, in aid of a nearby villager, dealt with the same type of water yao that he and Zichen once spent a memorable two nights vanquishing.
“Would be great if Song-daozhang returned, wouldn’t it?” Chengmei hums, tone light. “Then, Xiao Xingchen-daozhang would not have to be so awfully reliant on this one.”
Something sinks in Xiao Xingchen’s stomach.
Is this what it has been, all this time?
Chengmei finding him reliant. Chengmei staying simply out of pity.
“No, I’m not —“
Chengmei has done more than enough for them. He has made the house warm and habitable, helped with purchasing groceries, and now, is assisting Xiao Xingchen with his night hunts. He is not beholden to Xiao Xingchen.
“You have done a lot for us, Chengmei. You can… leave whenever you wish.” Xiao Xingchen bows his head. “You are free. I do not wish to bind you to me.”
It seems to be the wrong thing to say.
‘Oh yeah?” Chengmei snaps. “Of course, you don’t need my help in spending your pittance on garbage that they pass off as food for you at the market.”
Chengmei is in a strange mood. It happens, sometimes. There is a restlessness in his bones that sometimes erupts to the surface, that has him snapping at odd comments and disappearing from the cottage for hours at a time. Xiao Xingchen is unsure where he goes in times like those, but he never dares pry when Chengmei is in that state. He can only hope, each time, that Chengmei returns.
Heat crawls up Xiao Xingchen’s neck.
“No,” he starts. “Chengmei, I appreciate all that you do for us. I just meant –”
“Leave me alone, Xiao Xingchen.”
As though from a distance, Xiao Xingchen hears Chengmei pick up his own weapon and get to his feet. Quick, heavy footsteps fade into the darkness.
Chengmei returns again in the evening. He cuts rabbit-shaped apple slices for A-Qing and pretends that their conversation never happened.
After they retire for bed, Xiao Xingchen shifts his coffin against the wall that separates his and Chengmei’s rooms and leans his head against it. He listens to the rise and fall of Chengmei’s qi in the next room, all night long.
V.
“Thank you, Chengmei, for the dinner.”
The stew is rich and spiced. It burns Xiao Xingchen’s tongue, down his throat and his stomach, and into something deep within his chest.
“No offense, Daozhang,” Chengmei says through a mouthful of food. “I pity that old friend of yours for dealing with your cooking for fuck knows how long.”
In spite of himself, a smile tugs at the corners of Xiao Xingchen’s lips. It has been happening increasingly frequently. Chengmei would make one of his quips, and Xiao Xingchen would feel a pressure in his cheeks, a lightness in his chest.
There is a huff of breath right next to Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder. Chengmei is sitting nearer to him than he initially thought.
Please do not leave me, Xiao Xingchen thinks. Please do not leave this humble one.
“Would you like to… to be in charge of the cooking from now on?” he suggests. “A-Qing and I will be responsible for the cleaning and laundry instead.”
He hears the clink of the bowl that Chengmei sets down.
“If Daozhang wishes me to stay…”
Xiao Xingchen can almost feel Chengmei’s brow arching. His insides shiver. Chengmei always makes him feel so exposed – with his gaze, his words, and his sharp tongue, which pierce through the wordless wants that Xiao Xingchen keeps tight within his chest.
“... He can simply say so.”
When Xiao Xingchen kisses him, however, Chengmei lets out a surprised huff. Hands fall onto Xiao Xingchen’s waist, and then Chengmei is pulling him closer against him with a reciprocal hunger that makes Xiao Xingchen breathless. Their mouths taste like the meal they just shared. He can feel the heat of Chengmei’s chest through their clothes, and wonders if Chengmei can hear the pounding of his heart.
Xiao Xingchen angles his head and presses their lips flush together. He spreads his aching palms against warm skin, and takes, and takes, and takes.
I.
“It’ll be more efficient if we split up to search,” Xue Yang suggests, glancing up and down the path ahead.
They have arrived at a crossroads in the woods, pursuing an entity that has been causing villagers to disappear. This time, it really isn’t Xue Yang’s doing.
Indeed, he genuinely does help Xiao Xingchen out in his night hunts these days.
Sure, he spent the first few excursions dispatching dying civilians to Shuanghua. To feel that delight that sang through his bones when Xiao Xingchen calmly stood in a pool of blood and smiled in his direction. Still, Xiao Xingchen himself would have been as good as dead on one of those hunts if Xue Yang had not seen through the disguises of an actual humanoid yao, and skewered it before they could walk further into a trap.
Or that other hunt, where he tugged Daozhang to safety before a demonic claw missed him by inches. That, too, sent another thrill buzzing up his spine.
It was probably then that he realised he does not even have to kill to be able to hold Xiao Xingchen’s life in his hands.
Over time, Xiao Xingchen has begun to expect his presence at night hunts. Before departing, he would simply turn wordlessly toward Xue Yang with a half-expectant smile tugging on his lips, and —
Isn’t that just incredibly, beautifully stupid?
Beautiful, stupid Xiao Xingchen.
Smiling at him as though Xue Yang were something to smile at. Because that is probably what happens when someone is abandoned by Song Zichen.
Xue Yang finds that giving Xiao Xingchen what he thinks he wants gives him high just as — if not even more — satisfying as skewering his moral pretences.
Now, at his suggestion, Xiao Xingchen chews his lip. Various expressions flicker across his face.
Finally, he nods.
“... Right. That is a reasonable choice, Chengmei.” Xue Yang knows that Xiao Xingchen usually prefers to stick together, but really, this hunt has already been dragged on for much longer than necessary. “Perhaps we can reconvene here in two shichen?
On his own, it takes a little less than a shichen for Xue Yang, following a trail of demonic energy, to track the entity down. It is some sort of mo, barely tangible: a dark shroud flitting amongst the trees. Optical illusions seem to be a trick in its playbook. Wherever it passes through, moonlight and shadows swirl together, and the path wobbles as though it can dissolve at any moment. It is honestly fucking with Xue Yang’s head a little. Vaguely, it occurs to him that Xiao Xingchen might really fare better in this scenario.
Xue Yang readies himself as the thing swoops at him. As it crosses before his eyes, his vision blurs and nausea lurches in his stomach.
“Fuck off.”
He hurls his entrapping talismans. In the haze of dizziness, however, he does not duck in time, and the edge of the thing’s wing passes straight through his head.
It feels like being doused in a winter stream. Around him, the trees, sky, and path blend together in a whirl of shadows, and Xue Yang feels himself sway on the spot. Fortunately, the sensation does not last for long. His talisman kicks into effect, the coldness dissolves around him, and the world rights itself again.
Xue Yang huffs out a breath and stoops. This type of entity often leaves some sort of souvenir when vanquished. The cursed thing that it came from. Sure enough, as he squints at the path ahead of him, Xue Yang finds a small piece of obsidian lying all but harmlessly beneath where the mo floated.
He reaches out his hand to pick it up –
And stops dead.
He blinks. Reaches his hand out again, and –
Where his hand is supposed to be is… nothing.
Xue Yang looks down on his body and sees an empty forest path and a jutting branch swaying in the night breeze where his torso is supposed to be.
As though he himself has melted into thin air.
He can still feel everything, though. The qi in him. The heartbeat in his chest. The scrabble of his knuckle against the ground. But when he stretches his hand out to grab at the piece of rock, to tug at Jiangzai, to hit at the tree branch in his way, his invisible flesh simply passes through everything, helpless as air.
They have all assumed that the disappearing villagers have been kidnapped, but Xue Yang knows the truth now. They have simply been turned invisible. And not only that: intangible.
Xue Yang’s heart begins to pound.
Once he is done having a fucking panic attack about the suffocating helplessness of his hands passing through anything he touches, he makes his way back along the path and thinks that, on the bright side, this might not be so bad. Judging by the weakness of the demonic influence and the minimal disruptions to the qi within him, this will merely be temporary. Being a cultivator probably helps. Destroying the damn thing in time probably did too. In the meantime, he can probably find uses for this gift of invisibility.
When he returns to the clearing where he separated from Xiao Xingchen, Xue Yang finds his Daozhang already there. Xiao Xingchen has his sword in hand and is pacing back and forth around the clearing.
“Daozhang!” Xue Yang calls.
No sound emits from his throat.
Xue Yang walks up to Xiao Xingchen and reaches for his shoulder. Prectibly, his hand passes right through his body. There is no response at all. Xiao Xingchen simply continues on his slightly agitated pacing without so much at a glance at him, and now Xue Yang has to be the one chasing after him around the clearing.
Then, seemingly registering his tiredness, Xiao Xingchen stops at a rock at the edge of the clearing and sits down. Lips pressed together, tilts his head up to the sky, as though contemplating the steady streaks of dawn that are already emerging.
Xue Yang remembers:
Xiao Xingchen is waiting for him.
Waiting for his dear friend Chengmei to return.
Xue Yang kneels down in front of Xiao Xingchen, right up against his face. There is a pulse in his neck. Xue Yang can hear it, throbbing in line with the rhythms of his qi. He can hear, too, the slow but shallow breaths in his chest, and can almost feel the muscles that pull Xiao Xingchen’s body tight upright. If his body were tangible, they would be pressed up against each other.
Xue Yang raises an experimental hand against Xiao Xingchen’s chest and reaches straight through it. When he leans forward, his face fades through Xiao Xingchen’s neck. Like this, the sound of his pulse in his ear impossibly close, as though he has pushed himself into Xiao Xingchen’s heart itself.
Xue Yang feels breathless.
Would it really be so simple? To be beside Xiao Xingchen, within him, dwelling within his very flesh? To be a ghost that haunts him without him even having a clue? Beautiful, impossible, stupid, stupid Daozhang, waiting for his Chengmei when he is already here, inside him –
(Xue Yang had expected Xiao Xingchen to discard him right after he healed. Do-gooders like Xiao Xingchen might be naive enough to pick a feral rat off the streets, but they would never actually care to stoop to their level and share their wretched lives. Not really. Indeed, Xue Yang had expected it to be a matter of weeks, if not days, before Xiao Xingchen saw – well, heard, probably, or felt – through his disguise and ran a sword through his chest.
But Xiao Xingchen simply gave, and gave, and gave –)
Xiao Xingchen gets to his feet. Subtle expressions flit across his face as he comes to a decision. Then, he raises his sword again and starts making his way down the path that Xue Yang went down earlier.
Xue Yang has to hasten to keep up. A look of deadly concentration in his face, Xiao Xingchen flits between the trees and bushes, white robes streaming behind him.
It takes only half a shichen for him to reach the place where Xue Yang defeated the invisibility demon. As though sensing the remains of spiritual energy in the air, Xiao Xingchen begins to pace around the area. His brows become increasingly furrowed.
“Where is it?” Xue Yang hears him mutter. “Where is he?”
Here, Xue Yang says, and melts his disembodied form into Xiao Xingchen’s body. Stupid, silly Daozhang…
“Something has to be here,” Xiao Xingchen murmurs again.
Xue Yang hears him sigh. Then, Xiao Xingchen darts into the ring of trees surrounding the area and continues to search. It is obvious that Xiao Xingchen can sense that an exchange of spiritual power has recently occurred in the area and is trying to find its tracks, but it is as though whoever was once here has simply… disappeared.
Then, Xiao Xingchen emerges again. His jaw is clenched and Xue Yang catches a tremor in his hand even as he grips his sword. Bright moon, gentle breeze. Ever distant, ever calm, except Xue Yang can recognise the tension coils beneath his skin, like the way victims do when encircled by predators –
All because Xiao Xingchen is… searching for him. For his dear Chengmei.
A flush of greed throbs so deliciously through Xue Yang that he has to pause to catch his breath.
With a last glance around the clearing, Xiao Xingchen darts back down the path and toward the city.
The sun has begun to rise.
The light of it casts Xiao Xingchen’s face into relief. Xiao Xingchen used to be gaunt, like that first time Xue Yang opened his eyes thinking he was dead and found himself cradled in his old enemy’s hands. His cheeks had hollow, exhaustion etched into his skin. Because despite starting out with everything going for him with those beautiful little ideals, he had still gotten fucked right up by Xue Yang.
Now, though, his cheeks have filled slightly again, even with every line pulled taut in concentration. Because Xue Yang has been personally ensuring that they have the best of the food that can be purchased in a useless town like Yi City where the grocers are too brutish and unintelligent to deserve the privilege of taking advantage of Xiao Xingchen.
He follows Xiao Xingchen at a quick jog until they arrive at the cottage that they share together. Xiao Xingchen hurries through the door, barely bothering to latch it shut behind him.
“Chengmei!” he calls. “Are you back? Did you return by yourself?”
“Daozhang!” A-Qing runs out and points at Xiao Xingchen accusingly. “You’re late! You’re usually back by the time I wake up!”
Stupid child. Xiao Xingchen catches her in his arms.
“Is – Chengmei back?”
A-Qing’s mouth falls open in surprise. Her milky gaze passes right over the spot where Xue Yang is standing.
“Daozhang, I thought he’d be with you?”
The little existing colour fades from Xiao Xingchen’s face. He turns his head from side to side, as though once again scanning the house for Xue Yang’s presence.
“He did not return?”
“Well, he left with you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but we separated, and he did not return to our designated meeting spot. I searched the area that he might have been at, to no avail. I…” Xiao Xingchen’s voice wavers. “I… wondered if he might have returned home first.”
A-Qing blinks.
“Oh.” A-Qing is a sharp one. Unlike her beloved Daozhang, she, too, has no delusions about the brutish ways of the world. “I’m sure he’s fine, Daozhang. I mean, what even scares him, right?”
“You’re right, A-Qing.”
Xiao Xingchen squares his shoulders and swallows, even as another tremor passes through his hands. Xue Yang has come to recognise this motion. It is the thing that Daozhang does when he wants to keep up that poise of his in front of A-Qing, or the vendors in the market, or the poor villagers he tries to assist. Only Xue Yang gets to see him unravel. Beautiful, stupid Xiao Xingchen –
“Perhaps he had to make a detour. Well, I hope he will know to return to find us here.” Xiao XIngchen sighs. “I will… take my rest now. Please do not worry yourself, A-Qing.”
Xiao Xingchen makes his way into his room and closes the door behind him. He strips himself of his outer layers and sinks down onto his coffin-bed. Then, he simply… sits there. In front of Xue Yang. Facing the wall, body stiff and blank except for the continued shaking in his hands.
Then, as Xue Yang watches, red begins to leak into the bandage covering his eyes.
Xue Yang is not new to this, as much as Xiao Xingchen tries to hide his crying. It usually happens at night, or very early in the morning, probably after another nightmare about his precious Zichen.
Still, he has only heard the muffled sounds of it from another room, and helped to clean the soiled bandages. Not like this.
Not like how he is now, in Xiao Xingchen’s room, perched at the foot of the bed as Xiao Xingchen lowers his head, presses a hand against his mouth, and his body rocks forward with the force of his sobs. He is trying to keep himself quiet to not attract A-Qing’s attention, but a miserable moan squeezes through his bitten lips, and his fists tremble and clench as they press into his lips.
For him. For his dear Chengmei. For Xue Yang.
Xue Yang feels drunk on it. Intoxicated by this delicious stream Xiao Xingchen’s beautiful, stupid feelings –
Needs to take every part of him that he has to offer and then feed it back to him thricefold, because Xiao Xingchen always has more to give and more to take –
(Like that very first time Xiao Xingchen kissed him. Xue Yang had fucked around and made a loose, stupid quip just to draw a reaction. And Xiao Xingchen had simply – taken it. And then gave him more. Drew himself up to him and put his mouth on his.)
(Xue Yang is not like that. That is not the type of relationship that he has with people. Except all that he knew was that he wanted to devour Xiao Xingchen.)
He barely realises that he has crossed the room until he is kneeling on Xiao Xingchen’s bed, one knee on either side of Xiao Xingchen’s hips, and his disembodied torso passes straight into Xiao Xingchen’s chest. Like this, it is even more acute: Xiao Xingchen’s sobs, the beat of his heart, the hitches of breath, the heat from his skin as bloody tears smear into his palms. Xue Yang feels it all as though it is in his own body.
“Chengmei,” Xiao Xingchen is moaning quietly, a plea into his bloodied hands. Xue Yang feels it in his own throat itself. “My friend. Chengmei.”
“I’m here, Daozhang,” he murmurs.
It takes him a split second to realise that he has managed to speak out loud.
Xiao Xingchen gasps.
His hands brush up against Xue Yang’s skin, now tangible against him. Beneath the sudden weight of Xue Yang’s very physical form pressed up against him, Xiao Xingchen does not steady himself on time, and both of them collapse into the bed in a tangle of limbs.
“Chengmei?” Xiao Xingchen cries out. “What – how –”
“Invisibility curse.” He does not quite feel like explaining. Not now. Not when a shuddering gasp rattles through Xiao Xingchen’s frame, and Xue Yang presses his mouth against him and swallows his breath. “Following you… all along… all night.”
Xiao Xingchen makes a muffled sound of surprise and protest. Embarrassment colours his cheeks.
“I thought you’d run into trouble,” he manages, struggling for words. “Or if you had finally decided that it was time to… If it was finally time for me to –”
Xue Yang licks into his skin. His mouth. His throat. The flush spreading up his ear.
“You’ll never forget me, daozhang.” Xue Yang takes it all and presses back against him: the heartbeat fluttering in his neck, the metallic salt of his bloody tears, the delicious weight atop him. The soft sucking lips against him, around him, breath against his neck, hot hands. All proof that Xiao Xingchen has gotten himself just as fucked up as Xue Yang himself. “I’ll never let you go.”