Chapter Text
…I don’t think they made a point to tell you this, but if you persist in substituting pain with sexual pleasure, the outcome is most likely multiplying pain. Not the nibbling, biting, or scratching. It’s the reflex that matters. That twitch in the nerves, shallow and bright, comes precisely when you're most defenceless, eroding what should have been a deep and solemn sorrow, fear, mourning, despair, hatred, longing, reluctance, confusion, resentment, envy, heartbreak, and that blank, drifting sense of loss.
Rather like that Sun Quan you’ve always looked down on—when faced with this sort of thing, he only manages a single “fuck,” followed by some outdated improper jokes no one cares to hear anymore.
The letter arrived along with an anthology of poetry and a glossy travel brochure. All part of a formal delivery for Sun Quan. In this day and age, handwritten correspondence is nearly extinct. He had never seen the handwriting of anyone from Wei before, save perhaps for the occasional stylised signature from Cao Pi. He could not, at first glance, determine whose pen it was, nor whether the inclusion of the letter had been intentional or merely the result of poor organisation.
Naturally, Sun Quan responded with “Fuck,” although on this occasion, he refrained from adding the joke. His mind was otherwise engaged. Had he, at some point, slept with any of the Wei people? And if so, with whom? Could it, by some improbable misjudgement, have been Cao Pi? It would, at the very least, go some way toward explaining the latter’s psychological damage—although, in fairness, Sun Quan had always believed the disturbances of the Cao family to be toxic upbringing. If he had been born a son of Cao Cao, he would definitely have been mentally disturbed himself.
Grim as it sounds, Sun Quan had not, for nearly twenty years, been anyone’s son, and had long forgotten what it felt like to have a father. In the years when his mother was still alive, at least, she had managed to avoid raising him into a psycho. At school, the duty of attending parent-teacher meetings was shared between his mother and elder brother. Later, when Zhou Yu entered the picture, he too took on the occasional appointment. On rare occasions when even Zhou Yu was unavailable, the task fell to Zhang Zhao—an outcome Sun Quan regarded as most unfortunate. The old gentleman had absolutely no filter. His brother, for all his strictness, never imposed more than a ceremonial slap or two when discipline was required. His mother, on the other hand, had a talent for scolding that could reduce him to tears, barely able to raise his head. The pages of his exercise book were frequently baptised in fresh tear streaks of remorse. His remorse was genuine, as was his mischief. Their household was not short of chaos.
But as a child, he remembered sweets far better than scoldings. One day he might be weeping from punishment; the next, writing an essay in praise of maternal love that moved him to sobs. His brother, observing this, found it amusing and challenged him to write an essay about brotherly affection next time—enough to bring himself to tears again. Sun Quan stuck out his tongue and declared that, if he were to write one, it certainly wouldn’t be about him. Zhou Yu laughed and lifted him up in his arms, pinching his cheek for sport.
Sun Ce laughed too, remarking that it didn’t matter whom he wrote about so long as the result made people cry. That was the real test. Sun Quan huffed that they were ganging up on him and marched off in protest, the sweet that Zhou Yu had slipped him still melting on his tongue. Not long after, he was peeking through the doorframe, watching the two older boys whisper to each other, heads close, laughing again.
Later, in another composition, he wrote: In the room, the sunlight split my brothers in two—one in the light, the other in shadow. But soon, both were lit again. The teacher awarded him three stars. He was rather pleased with himself, ready to boast about it at home, until he learned that Cao Pi had received seven. He took offence at once and insisted on reading the boy’s essay. Cao Pi refused. He insisted. Cao Pi bit him, hard. The result was a fight, and a summons for both families.
This time, it was Zhou Yu who came. Excellent, Sun Quan thought — dear Gongjin would almost certainly find a way to smooth things over. Sun Quan did not recognise the person who turned up on behalf of Cao Pi. In fairness, Cao Pi’s parental representation tended to vary, but Sun Quan only ever remembered Cao Cao — that peculiar uncle who had once seemed inordinately fond of him, even going so far as to pat his head.
Cao Pi was speaking to the new adult, a tall and notably handsome man. At some point in their exchange, the boy began to cry, lowering his head in a manner that suggested this was not uncommon. The man crouched beside him, embraced him gently, and murmured something into his ear that restored his composure. Cao Pi gave a watery smile and clung to the man’s hand with theatrical desperation.
Sun Quan, meanwhile, looked up to find Zhou Yu deep in conversation with the teacher, his speech as graceful and effective as his features. With a few choice words, he persuaded the teacher to revise her judgment and settle the matter with a handshake between the boys.
The two combatants glared at one another. It was evident they both considered the verdict unjust. Zhou Yu patted Sun Quan on the back, not forcefully, but with just enough weight to irritate him. Sun Quan turned to deliver a wounded stare. Zhou Yu, unmoved, remarked that shaking hands was hardly such a burden. “If you really have such excessive energy, there’ll be plenty of opportunities to spend it later. After all, fighting is for children, and our Zhongmou is quite a grown-up now, isn't he?”
Sun Quan had been about to point out that his grown-up brother had been in a fight only the previous year, but Zhou Yu tapped the crown of his head instead, turning him gently by the hair until he was once again facing Cao Pi. He didn’t catch what the handsome adult was now saying to Cao Pi, only that the boy gave a reluctant nod and took a few steps forward, still blotchy from tears, his expression set in a defiant grimace. He said nothing. Sun Quan, with a flash of initiative, extended his hand. Cao Pi hesitated, then grasped it stiffly.
The good-looking man brightened at once and declared the matter resolved. Cao Pi immediately latched onto his sleeve and whispered that he wanted to go home.
On the journey back, Zhou Yu mentioned that he would have to inform Sun Ce of what had occurred, though perhaps not Aunt Wu. Before he could elaborate, Sun Quan solemnly vowed never to repeat the offence — or, at the very least, never to be caught by the teacher again.
Zhou Yu let out a dry little laugh and pinched the back of his neck. He delivered the boy bodily to Sun Ce, who listened to the entire tale with increasing amusement, then asked to see the offending essay. After reading it, he announced that it was very good indeed, and proposed that they spend the next holiday at the seaside.
Zhou Yu agreed, saying they would go once the current project was concluded. He then reminded Sun Ce to add his friend’s number, to which Sun Ce, feigning ignorance, asked which one that might be among his vast circle of friends. Zhou Yu gave him a smack on the arm. “Lu Su, Lu Zijing, of course! Stop pretending you don't remember. You asked me to find you someone for R&D yourself.” Both men were laughing now. The afternoon sun fell across their shoulders. Sun Quan, observing them, felt his essay had been worth at least four stars and was aggrieved on principle.
His thoughts drifted back to Cao Pi. He wondered whether that handsome uncle would report the incident to Cao Cao. He couldn’t help thinking of the seven-star essay either. Despite the struggle, he had managed to glimpse a few lines at the end:
Autumn is the season of coolness. I began a solitary walk, heading north. I came upon rows of gravestones. It was a cemetery. I counted them one by one, reciting the names aloud.The wind and rain rose up around me. So did my longing. I did not know those buried there, just as some stranger walking past that distant grave would not know my elder brother.
Ah. So Cao Pi lost a big brother. That, at least, explained the tears. Sun Quan produced a modest stir of sympathy. He decided not to hold future grudges against such a crybaby that easily.
Several years later, Sun Quan almost cried his lungs out at Sun Ce’s funeral. Weeping into oblivion, he could barely feel the blurring, wobbly surroundings, when Zhang Zhao slapped him sharply on the back and informed him that this was not the time for tears. He then hoisted Sun Quan into a car and delivered him to the press conference, where he stood before a forest of cameras, read his brother’s will aloud, signed documents with a steady hand, and gave an address concerning the future of the Sun-Wu Group, now under his leadership.
Only days earlier he had still been in university military training, sneaking drinks, singing loudly, and flirting indiscriminately with new students from all faculties and genders. A few days later, he no longer had a brother. The freedom to play at being a grown-up vanished at once. Suddenly he was expected to become one, with no time allotted for feigning unfamiliarity with the task.
In later years he held a certain quiet resentment toward Zhang Zhao for not having allowed him a proper chance to mourn. The old man had undoubtedly noticed, but offered only subtle reminders that, since his brother had entrusted him with Sun Quan’s future, his duty was now to Sun-Wu as a whole. When Sun Quan’s mother passed away some time later, Zhang Zhao cried with him. In fact, the old man cried first, and even years afterward, he could still burst into tears when persuading Sun Quan in her name. But by then, Sun Quan no longer cried in any unguarded way. Tears, laughter, rages, affection — all had become part of his public repertoire. He had learned to take his sincerity out and wield it like a prop. He understood Brecht. The alienation effect worked too well; even he felt distanced from himself. To put it plainly, he had become, to some extent, psychologically damaged. Not as extravagantly as the Caos across the River, perhaps, but even so, the bright, sun-drenched optimism of his childhood was gone for good.
He had developed his own theory of perversion. To love too easily or too much was not, in itself, perverse. It simply indicated a powerful capacity for affection. But to outsiders, when that affection extended itself toward Zhou Yu, it began to resemble something less socially presentable.
When Sun Ce got injured, Zhou Yu had been away on business. He returned at once with lightening speed, but still missed the chance to see Sun Ce alive. Sun Quan could not quite grasp the shape of Zhou Yu’s grief. What he offered publicly was minimal, yet remarkably well-managed. He even helped the Suns arrange the funeral reception with unflappable composure. Sun Ce’s will caused no small amount of consternation, but Zhou Yu, without a word of hesitation, declared his support for Sun Quan and transferred all of his influence within the company to the younger brother. In the days that followed, the boardroom was a battleground. Meetings were held in endless succession. Zhou Yu attended every one, argued every point with exhausting precision, and even Cheng Pu, who had never liked him, was overheard saying something vaguely complimentary.
Sun Quan did not dare speak to Zhou Yu about Sun Ce. He suspected that if he brought it up, one or both of them might fall apart. Instead, they worked together. Their coordination was uncanny. One quickly established his reputation as the new young master of Jiangdong. The other eliminated all dissent. Together, they made minor adjustments to the company’s policies. The core projects remained focused on the lower Yangtze, while expansion efforts moved steadily south. New recruits arrived one after another, all of them young, all brimming with energy. They shared a kind of collective vitality, and just as importantly, a shared vision.
On Sun Ce’s birthday, Sun Quan visited the flat his brother had once called home. It came as no surprise to find Zhou Yu there, lying on Sun Ce’s old bed, eyes shut, the lines of fatigue drawn plainly across his face. The light from the west window cast long shadows, separating him from the photograph of Sun Ce that hung on the wall: half in light, half in shade, just as Sun Quan had once described in a school essay. An inexplicable panic took hold of him. He rushed to Zhou Yu’s side and shook him, calling his name over and over. Zhou Yu didn’t open his eyes, but reached out instinctively and caught Sun Quan by the wrist.
“Bofu?” he murmured.
The name had barely escaped his mouth when he awoke fully and met Sun Quan’s gaze. Neither of them looked particularly surprised.
Sun Quan tugged gently at his arm, and Zhou Yu allowed himself to be pulled upright. They moved to the sitting room, made tea, ordered takeaway, and switched on the television. They loaded one of Sun Ce’s old games on the PlayStation4 and started a new file. Among the saved games were many that he had played with Zhou Yu, and just as many he had played with Sun Quan. Each of them could tell which were which. The ones they had all played together had a different rhythm, but the familiar strategies were evident, the fingerprints recognisable. They progressed rapidly through the levels. Both saw the shadow of the same man on the other.
They kept playing late into the night. At some point — neither could later recall who had spoken first — they finally gave in and began to talk about Sun Ce. Sun Quan began to cry. Zhou Yu began to laugh. A birthday cake from the takeaway sat on the tea table between them. Sun Quan took a bite, salted by his own tears. Zhou Yu, mid-mouthful, choked and spent several minutes coughing. In the end, Sun Quan wept himself to sleep. In a haze of half-consciousness, he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders, a hand smoothing down his hair.
“Brother?” he said, half-dreaming, then sat up.
Zhou Yu’s eyes were smiling at him. There were tears in them too.
“You weren’t wrong,” he said softly. “I’m your brother too.”
Few would believe it, but until that point, Sun Quan had genuinely regarded Zhou Yu as nothing more than an older brother. The other brother. When that feeling began to shift, he could not say with any certainty. Perhaps it was ignited with that single remark. Perhaps it simmered for years and only erupted at Red Cliffs.
During those years, he entered into numerous romantic entanglements. Some were consecutive, others concurrent. A few barely lasted beyond a board meeting. All of them, without exception, were employees of Sun-Wu. No one had ever properly explained to Sun Quan the dangers of workplace relationships — and in any case, the legendary bond between Sun Ce and Zhou Yu had set a rather permissive precedent.
The most surprising among them was probably Lu Su. His CV had been submitted to Sun Ce and had reached the final round of interviews before the latter’s untimely death derailed the hiring process. Most of the candidates were quietly dropped, but Zhou Yu was insistent that Lu Su be brought in. He told Sun Quan that all the preliminary groundwork had been completed, and that only his approval was needed.
Sun Quan gave his consent. Zhang Zhao, predictably, was horrified. The man, he declared, was arrogant, far too young, and clearly lacked propriety. Who in their right mind applied for a job and ended up in the boss’s bed?
Sun Quan refuted each point with the calm assurance of someone perfectly accustomed to doing as he pleased. Arrogant? Perhaps. But Lu Su had already contributed a great deal to the company’s new strategic plan, which proved he had substance. Young? Hardly a problem — in fact, he was older than Zhou Yu by several years. As for the third objection, Sun Quan admitted he didn’t particularly care who knew the truth. It was he who had climbed into Lu Su’s bed, not the other way around. He simply thought Zhang Zhao’s heart might not survive the disclosure. At that point in his life, Sun Quan was regularly overtaken by hormones and had developed a reflexive habit of sleeping with anyone he liked. What set Lu Su apart was that he refused to treat him like a child. He was as exacting in bed as he was in a boardroom. Strategy or intimacy, he took both with equal seriousness.
As for relationship advice, Sun Quan needed none. He had always been something of a natural. He knew precisely how to date — with gifts, with compliments, with joyrides and charm. He excelled at all of it. Lu Su, by contrast, remained largely nonchalant. His true passion lay in meetings and business trips. A true friend of Zhou Yu, cut from the same workaholic cloth. Sun Quan sometimes suspected that Lu Su loved him only as a by-product of loving the work.
Lu Su’s mother liked him, though. All their mothers did; Lü Meng’s simply adored him. And Lü Meng had been the boldest of them. During a departmental merger, he had staged a performance at the annual gala, submitted a full campaign proposal in advance, and made such a spectacle of himself that it was impossible not to take notice. Once they became better acquainted, Sun Quan discovered that he wasn’t nearly as showy in private. At first, his attentions had been career-minded. He had no qualms about sleeping his way upward. But eventually he developed a genuine fondness, and once he did, he became thoroughly and pathetically devoted to Sun Quan. Whether it was presents or promotions, he no longer cared. During the major crises of Sun-Wu, he was first to volunteer for damage control. He spent considerable time stationed in out-of-town branches. Every time Sun Quan went to visit, he reacted with pure, unfiltered joy.
Lu Su, at first, had looked down on Lü Meng. He found his educational background lacking. But after a few shared business trips, they became close. Both had their suspicions about Sun Quan’s feelings for Zhou Yu. Lu Su had asked him directly. Sun Quan had not denied it. Lü Meng, who had once served under Sun Ce and had always maintained a slightly inexplicable attitude toward Zhou Yu, was silent for a long time after reaching the same conclusion. Eventually, he muttered, “Gongjin is a nice man. You’re a nice man, sir. And your brother was a nice man too.”
It was around this time that Sun Quan began to wonder if he had some sort of older-brother complex. Every man he dated was older than him. All of them hovered around the same age bracket as those two elder figures in his life.
This thought brought Cao Pi to mind. They hadn’t seen each other in years. One had remained in the South, the other ensconced in the North. Their contact was minimal, consisting mostly of regional sniping across social media — mutual mockery of each other’s home cuisine, local dialects, and weather. Their personal connection was largely dormant, though Cao Pi’s private life had become something of a public archive. Sun Quan found no difficulty locating the trail of his love life, or at the very least, of his gossip and scandals. A closer read brought swear words to his lips. What’s with Sima Yi, and Wu Zhi, and Chen Qun, and Zhu Shuo? All of them significantly older than Cao Pi. The infamous “Four Friends of the Crown Prince” turned out to be something else entirely. What an impressively chaotic private life. And wasn’t Xiahou Shang a relative to the Caos? How on earth did Cao Pi manage that? What a pervert.
And then there was the truly appalling rumour: the only person on the list younger than Cao Pi was his own younger brother, Cao Zhi. Sun Quan remembered him vaguely from childhood. A poetic prodigy, or so he had been told. These days, his poetry collections sold rather well even in the South. Sun Quan had a few volumes in his home but had never glanced through them properly. On a whim, he searched online and found that the boy had written an alarming number of love poems to his brother. How maudlin! How disgusting! Come on, it was Cao Pi. Cao Zihuan. For all the years Sun Quan had known him, how come he had never so much as detect a trace of “his wit, his art, descend as gods through air” in that crybaby?
Almost involuntarily, Sun Quan opened their long-idle private chat and sent a message: Are you really screwing your brother?
Cao Pi replied almost instantly: Go to hell.
Sun Quan replied, Got it. So you still prefer screwing older men.
To which Cao Pi responded: You're the one who likes screwing older men.
Sun Quan, without thinking, fired back: Exactly. Your dad included.
That ended it. Cao Pi unleashed a tirade of obscenities and promptly blocked him.
The next day, Sun Quan received a long and furious private message from a stranger. The sender’s IP traced back to Wei territory, the profile filled with poetry excerpts and tributes to Cao Pi. Almost certainly Cao Zhi under an alias. Sun Quan read through every line with the relish of someone reassured. The Caos were truly deranged. By comparison, his own minor psychological eccentricities seemed positively radiant. A touch of older-brother complex was entirely understandable. They had lost an older brother, hadn’t they? But actual incest was another matter.
Sun Quan began to wonder: if anything were to happen between him and Zhou Yu, would it qualify as incest, perversion, or simply love?
It was around this time that he met Lu Xun.