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All things eventually came to an end. All stories drew to a close. Huai’en knew that better than most.
That didn’t mean that it was any easier to cope with when their time came.
Xiaobao left first. The sole comfort that lay at the very depths of his soul, buried beneath his devastation, was that Huai’en could see him off. Of course, that meant there was no one left to do the same for him, but he’d spent the first two decades of his life believing he would someday die alone anyway. Outnumbered. Despised. A blight. A scourge.
To go alone while knowing he had been loved all the other days of his life? He couldn’t ask for more.
Certainly, he couldn’t have asked for Xiaobao to stay. For one thing, Huai’en would never inflict upon his sunlight the agony that had tormented him when faced with a quiet home bereft of all the sounds his husband had made for countless years. The boisterous exclamations, the gentle jingling of his jewelry, the bouncing flow of his footsteps—all of it was rendered nothing more than a memory, at first too painful to face yet dulling to a sorrowful ache over time. Likewise, he couldn’t bear to see Xiaobao’s physical suffering prolonged for a moment. The lifelong effects of Qi Xiaobin’s poison had worsened in Xiaobao’s advanced years, and even the divine doctor Que Siming had ultimately thrown in the towel. At least once Xiaobao left, he wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. The scars that Huai’en’s actions had inflicted upon him would no longer be his burden to bear.
Thankfully, the dragon and phoenix were meant to be together, never separated in their lifetimes. Huai’en welcomed death with open arms when it arrived after a brief period of lonely longing, prepared to join his husband and the family they had built in the underworld.
But fate had only been kind to Zongzheng Huai’en once, and clearly it would be asking too much to be granted such leniency a second time.
“So, you’re back too?”
Unlike Zuoying and Youying, whose current incarnations Huai’en had met in the boarding school he’d insisted on attending when they were still children, Su Yin’s voice immediately made the hair on his arms stand straight. Their animosity had ceased centuries ago, replaced by a grudging respect and tentative truce that was more indicative of Xiaobao’s innate ability to entice anyone to tolerate the unendurable than any sentiment on their parts, but that didn’t mean Huai’en wanted to rub elbows with him in this life.
“Where is Xiaobao?” Huai’en asked, never one to mince words.
The noise of the food stalls around them was deafening, but Huai’en could still hear Su Yin scoff lightly, that infuriating smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Truly, they had come a long way: the malice and killing intent that would have electrified the air between them was noticeably absent. That was the only reason Huai’en took it with a grain of salt when Su Yin mused, “All these years, I thought the Zongzheng family hadn’t entered the cycle of reincarnation. Who could have guessed?”
Exhaling harshly, Huai’en rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap.”
“What makes you think I know where he is?”
That wasn’t worth dignifying with a response, so Huai’en held his silence. He had discovered early on that his cultivation had imbued him with a miraculous ability—recollection. Crossing the Naihe Bridge and partaking of Meng Po soup had guaranteed him a peaceful childhood, oblivious to the fact that his father was previously partially responsible for his mother’s death and that his bratty younger half-brother had tried to kill him on at least three separate occasions. However, by the time he turned ten, memories of his past life that had been no more than shapeless dreams took on a form and clarity that made the truth undeniable. His relationship with Zongzheng Yunlian had soured overnight, made worse by the knowledge that his mother had perished shortly after his birth even in this life, and Huai’en had decided on a clean split. It took a great deal of convincing, but his father had eventually relented and enrolled him in a secondary school in Shanghai, far from their lavish Beijing residence. Huai’en had never looked back.
Su Yin hadn’t cultivated to the same level as members of Zongzheng Yuzhan’s sect, but it was unrealistic to believe that his own efforts hadn’t resulted in the same phenomenon. And if he remembered their past lives, there was no way he didn’t know where Xiaobao was. Fate had a habit of bringing people together again and again, just like Huai’en had met Zuoying and Youying on his very first day in Shanghai. If anyone knew where he could find Xiaobao in this boundless world, it was Su Yin.
And Huai’en hated that more than anything.
“…He doesn’t remember.”
Well, perhaps not anything.
Scrutinizing Su Yin through narrowed eyes, he cautiously asked, “What did you say?”
To Su Yin’s credit, he did Huai’en the courtesy of stowing his smug demeanor and nodded towards a nearby alley where they could talk without being overheard. The lunchtime chaos of the food market would naturally mask their conversation, but it would be more than a little awkward to start speaking of such things where just anyone could notice. After all, they were a couple of old ghosts wielding the double-edged sword of memory. The more superstitious among them might make a scene, and if there was one thing both Su Yin and Huai’en had in common, it was that they didn’t have the patience for the inconvenience that would pose.
So, once he was somewhat convinced of their relative privacy, Huai’en intoned, “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember?”
“He was different from us,” Su Yin replied, finally dropping the prevarication. “We began cultivating from a young age. Que Siming needed his own training to be called a divine doctor. Even Zhaocai and Jinbao cultivated to further their martial arts.”
“They all remember the past?”
“They do.”
Huai’en took a deep breath. “But Xiaobao never cultivated.”
“He learned the Heart-Warming Sutra at…that time, but no, he never cultivated.” Pausing uncomfortably, Su Yin swallowed his pride to add, “We were the ones circulating our own internal force for him.”
A scene from endless ages ago flashed through Huai’en’s mind—a dark cave, a useless fire, an insensate Xiaobao in his arms as Huai’en forced spiritual energy through his meridians. Pain. Panic.
Futility. Utter futility.
It wasn’t that Huai’en hadn’t expected something like this might happen. He was no fool: when Zongzheng Yunlian and Shaoyu showed no signs of recalling their shared past, he’d idly wondered if others would be the same should they reunite. Perhaps he’d been deluding himself, or maybe Zuoying and Youying remembering him immediately had kindled a hopeless wish in his heart that it was some karmic reward for how he had changed in his past life. Either way, while he wasn’t particularly surprised, there was no denying the sudden pain in his heart at Su Yin’s words. Not as intense as watching his husband succumb to time’s cruelty, yet just as sharp.
But Jin Xiaobao was alive. The rest could be dealt with in due course.
***
“Young Master, shouldn’t we wait for Su Yin…?”
“Shh! He’ll only know if you tell him, so keep quiet!”
“It’ll be easy for him to tell on his own if all the pork belly is gone when he arrives.”
Huai’en watched from the entrance as Zhaocai yelped, rubbing his arm where Xiaobao had elbowed him none too gently and looking to Que Siming and Jinbao across from him for backup. In that instant, the fears that had been growing ever more potent on their walk from the market to a dumpy hotpot restaurant a few blocks away dissipated. For the first time in ten years, since he remembered who he was and who he was meant to be with, his heart was at peace and he felt as though he could breathe freely.
It was him. It was really him.
“I only had one roll,” Xiaobao muttered with the same pout he’d used on Huai’en anytime he didn’t immediately get what he wanted. Those same eyes exuded that same wronged expression; those same arms folded over that same skinny chest.
The short hair common for men of this era and thick-framed black glasses made no difference. Huai’en would recognize the other half of his heart and soul anywhere.
Was this how Xiaobao had felt that night, all those years ago? Had his heart stuttered in his chest, threatening to stop at the sight of such captivating beauty? Had the world around him melted away until the only beings left in existence were him and this seeming angel sent from the heavens to accompany him through life and death?
Huai’en hadn’t been an angel, of course. He’d been a curse, and Xiaobao had paid the price for it time and time again. Yet right here, right now, he couldn’t find any other way to describe Xiaobao—his light, his miracle, his savior. Angels probably didn’t wear loose jeans and hooded sweatshirts, but as far as Huai’en was concerned, they were just as much a part of this religious experience as anything. Even the restaurant, with its sticky floor and peeling wallpaper, was now a place of worship in his eyes.
“One roll from the second plate, maybe.”
Whether Su Yin could tell that Huai’en might just stand there forever or he was simply hungry, he nudged Huai’en aside and made a beeline for the table. At the sound of his teasing remark, its four occupants whipped their heads around, three with expressions of shame and guilt. Apparently, Su Yin had experience with their eating habits.
Xiaobao’s mouth opened to refute the accusation, but Su Yin squeezed his cheeks together before he could get a word out. “If you aren’t careful, you’ll be the one served up on that platter soon.”
Zhaocai and Jinbao covered their snorts of laughter behind their hands. Que Siming didn’t bother hiding his amusement and watched from the sidelines like a gossipmongering old woman. They hadn’t changed in the slightest.
Neither had Xiaobao, who smacked Su Yin’s hand away and angrily exclaimed, “You! Are… Are you calling me fat?!”
“You cost me over a thousand yuan every time we get food,” Su Yin observed with a lofty air. “Why would I call you fat?”
The tips of Xiaobao’s ears turned red, and Huai’en’s fingers twitched. He knew so many ways to make those ears glow brighter than fire and with just as much heat.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on memories like those.
“You’re the one who’s gained weight. Look!” Xiaobao yanked the collar of his sweatshirt aside in an all too familiar display. “You can still see my collarbones! Where are yours?”
“You—!”
“Tch, Jin Xiaobao. Can’t you make yourself decent?” Que Siming interrupted Su Yin, jerking his chin towards the entrance. “You have an audience.”
There was a mischievous smirk on his face when Que Siming’s eyes met Huai’en’s, but the latter had no opportunity to reply. Instead, he froze to the spot: Xiaobao’s curious gaze had darted to Huai’en and stuck. Just as Su Yin had said, there was no recognition there; the stars that had always appeared in those twin night skies when Huai’en entered a room were conspicuously absent. Nevertheless, Xiaobao looked like someone had hit him over the head, dazed and a little unfocused as he observed Huai’en standing in the doorway with his sweatshirt still pulled slightly away from his neck.
They were at an inn. Huai’en was stony-faced behind a white veil, dressed as a woman but far too tall and broad to seriously be considered one by anybody with half a brain or working eyes. Xiaobao watched him as though a fabled immortal had descended to the mortal realm, mouth hanging open and eyes wide in undisguised awe.
They were in a guest room. Huai’en was on his back, pretending that his internal force couldn’t detoxify the paralyzing powder he had been exposed to. Xiaobao was nearly lying on his chest, his shy smile and innocent gaze tearing down the walls Huai’en had spent twenty years building around his heart.
They were escaping from the Jin family’s mansion in the dead of night. Huai’en was focused on evading the guards. Xiaobao watched him with an exhilarated grin at the place where Huai’en’s hand voluntarily held his wrist.
They were at Su Yin’s estate.
They were in a frigid, damp cave.
They were in their own home.
They were in their marriage bed.
They were in a filthy little hotpot restaurant in the middle of Shanghai, its dingy fluorescent lights throwing shadows on the yellowing walls and emphasizing just how faded the upholstery was on all the furniture. Yet they were everywhere and nowhere at once because for Huai’en, Xiaobao’s eyes were all that existed in this vast universe.
“Right.” Su Yin broke the heavy silence, taking a seat next to Zhaocai and very obviously leaving the one beside Xiaobao vacant. “This is an old friend of mine. We met by chance at the market, so I invited him to join us.”
The spell that Xiaobao’s attention had cast on him released his legs, and Huai’en made his way to the table as casually as possible. This was it. This was what he had waited another twenty years for.
Xiaobao’s gaze tracked his every movement as though he, too, had been anticipating this exact moment. Finally snapping out of his stupor enough to readjust his clothing and clear his throat, he mumbled to Su Yin, “I thought I knew all your friends. You don’t have that many.”
The atmosphere was so charged that Su Yin graciously overlooked the barb. Que Siming, on the other hand, leapt at the chance to answer for him.
“I didn’t realize you followed Su Yin everywhere he went. Jin Xiaobao, are you really so shameless?”
Jinbao pointedly nudged him in the ribs with a significant look, but while Que Siming didn’t say anything else, it was clear he was enjoying himself too much to take the silent reprimand seriously.
This time, Xiaobao grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and fell silent again as Huai’en gingerly sat beside him, their arms brushing. If Huai’en hadn’t been so attuned to Xiaobao’s every breath, he would have missed it; if his nearly imperceptible shudder was any indication, Xiaobao felt the same way.
Sensing that familiar gaze pinning him to his seat, Huai’en fists were clenched so tightly in his lap that he could easily shatter his own bones. How was he supposed to just sit here and eat when every fiber of his being was telling him to pounce? How was he supposed to hold a conversation with these former acquaintances—even friends—when his instincts were gradually turning him into a beast that would only be satisfied when it had taken full possession of what was already his? On a dark riverbank, in the warm glow of home, under coquettish brothel veils—there had once been a time when he had staked his claim without hesitation.
Now, they had an audience of four and a steaming pot of soup standing in the way.
That was probably for the best.
Unexpectedly, he had to admit that he was grateful for that audience. The loaded silence between Xiaobao and Huai’en couldn’t turn awkward when the others filled the space with idle chitchat and laughter. Zhaocai and Jinbao, whose trust he had finally earned after a few years of happy marriage, tacitly welcomed him back into the fold as though he had never been absent to begin with. Que Siming was always difficult to read, much like Huai’en knew himself to be, but a suggestive smile played on his lips every time he glanced in their direction. Even Su Yin attempted to make their alleged “old friendship” seem genuine, and with Xiaobao so clearly distracted, it actually appeared to work.
The only thing missing was…
“By the way… I still don’t know your name.”
Huai’en blinked and turned to see Xiaobao watching him directly rather than the discreet observation he’d been subjected to for most of the afternoon. While the others argued over who had contributed more to the sizable check, it appeared that Xiaobao had finally screwed up the courage that had once been second nature to him. With no major brand names on display and such a modest appearance, however, Huai’en chalked it up to the inevitable change that a lack of exorbitant wealth wrought. Still, he wasn’t accustomed to a Xiaobao that wasn’t shamelessly throwing himself in Huai’en’s direction, so his own response was somewhat stilted.
“Oh… It’s…Zongzheng Huai’en.”
“I can lie too. I’m telling you, everything I told you before was a lie. And I could never forgive you at all. Do you understand, Zongzheng Huai’en?”
“Zongzheng Huai’en, don’t be hypocritical here. I know what you’re doing here. I’m telling you, if you dare to harm my parents in even the slightest way, I’ll make sure to skin you and tear your body apart!”
“Zongzheng Huai’en, you’ve torn my family apart. It’s your fault we are in this situation today! I don’t owe you anything!”
“Zongzheng Huai’en… What a nice name.”
Those ghosts, those demons, fled from his mind and left him with an uninhibited view of Xiaobao’s vibrant smile. In this life, it was free from the awful realization and burgeoning terror that hearing Huai’en’s full name had brought him that fateful night. Before, it had been a death sentence for him and his family. It had torn his way of life from his hands and strangled it until there was nothing left but grief and sorrow.
Now, it was merely a name. Nothing more, nothing less.
Breathing suddenly came easier again, and Huai’en was able to reciprocate, “They said yours was…?”
“Jin Xiaobao!” he blurted out with perhaps too much enthusiasm. The familiarity made Huai’en smile, but Xiaobao coughed bashfully and lowered his head. “It’s, uh… It’s Jin Xiaobao.”
“What a nice name,” Huai’en echoed, delighted to see the tips of Xiaobao’s ears beginning to darken.
“Th-Thanks…"
With the rest of the table studiously ignoring them, Huai’en leaned in a bit closer and asked, “But…did I hear them call you young master earlier?”
That tantalizing red spread further down towards Xiaobao’s neck, but his expression was eager and slightly embarrassed when he automatically met Huai’en’s gaze again. Jin Xiaobao was Jin Xiaobao, however, which meant that even a little healthy humility couldn’t keep him down for long. The playful, arrogant grin Huai’en had fallen in love with reappeared.
“It’s an old joke. My parents are always too overprotective, so Zhaocai and Jinbao have been calling me that since we were kids.”
Over his shoulder, Xiaobao's former bodyguards peered at Huai’en and shot him identical ironic looks. Some habits, it seemed, were simply too difficult to break.
They were all the same people at heart, even this Xiaobao who couldn’t remember what they had all meant to him in his past life—what Huai’en had meant to him. Once the ice was broken, he was the life of their small party and the noisiest one at the table. He gave Su Yin a hard time and pouted to avoid the consequences, believed Jinbao’s worldly wisdom gleaned from terrible fiction and was subsequently talked down from the ledge by an actually wise Zhaocai, and was just terrified enough of Que Siming to behave himself when the latter occasionally interjected.
By the time the sun hung low in the sky and they were hustled out of the restaurant so the owners could close shop for the day, only their surroundings could have convinced Huai’en that they hadn’t picked up right where they’d left off. Even the prospect of returning to his cold, empty apartment without his soulmate by his side didn’t hold the same bitterness for him that it usually did. Not when he had Xiaobao’s WeChat and Weibo information on his phone and the promise that they would see each other again.
Not when Xiaobao had stood against the backdrop of the setting sun, vibrant and healthy and whole and here, and gifted Huai’en with a smile meant only for him.
The smile meant only for him.
Not when Xiaobao’s voice was still echoing in his head hours later and Huai’en could drift off to sleep with photos of his face filling his vision.
Not when he’d found his meaning again.
***
~Two Years Later~
Jin Xiaobao woke with a start, gasping for breath and covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat.
It took him a minute to remember where he was, and he stared blankly at the pale dawn light beginning to crawl towards him through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Huai’en’s bedroom. He had slept here innumerable times over the last two years, even before they started dating two months ago, yet the room somehow felt strange. Wrong.
That was the same desk where Huai’en sat to read or submit his work. Over there was the same wardrobe Xiaobao would frequently sneak Huai’en’s clothes from to carry his scent with him when he left. Next to him was the same nightstand where he charged his phone and left his glasses on nights he stayed over. And this was the same bed, where they’d done…not the same thing as usual last night…
Was his back supposed to hurt like this?
The uncomfortable yet satisfying ache in his lower half wasn’t what was different this time, however. Well, not the only thing that was different. Xiaobao’s head was swimming, images overlapping in his mind’s eye that were both familiar and not. Turning to look at Huai’en’s sleeping face beside him just intensified the sensation.
Last night had been their…first time. But it wasn’t.
They had met through Su Yin. But they hadn’t.
They had slept together for the first time in a comfortable bed inside Huai’en’s apartment. But they had slept together for the first time on a riverbank beneath the moon and stars.
They had met when Su Yin invited an old friend to join them at a hotpot restaurant Jinbao swore by. But they had met in the middle of the night, surrounded by mysterious enemies.
They had been inseparable for two years. But they’d been separated by misfortune for nearly a year.
They had never shared anything worse than a cold. But they had sat at each other’s bedsides, frightened that the end was near.
They had only been dating for two months as of the night prior. But they had been…
They had been…
As though sensing the chaotic mess of his thoughts, Huai’en’s arm tightened around his waist and sleepily pulled him closer until Xiaobao was lying on top of his bare, unblemished chest.
“Why are there so many wounds? You didn’t apply the medicine as I asked you to, right? You are not a stone that won’t hurt.”
“Wounds…”
He was staring sightlessly at the smooth expanse of skin in front of him. No… He was administering medicine and blowing on it to ease the sting…
“Huai’en, your heartbeat is different from others. It sounds nice.”
It did… It really did…
Huai’en was grabbing his wrist.
…Huai’en was grabbing his wrist.
“Xiaobao?”
“You still have wounds that haven’t healed. Please take care of yourself.”
“Xiaobao, are you all right?”
“Huai’en…”
“Huai’en…”
“What’s wrong?”
Everything. Nothing. Xiaobao didn’t know. There were no words for what he was feeling, hard as he tried to dredge them up from the maelstrom in his head. Nothing made sense, but everything was right. Nothing had changed, but everything was different.
He saw his hand reaching out as though watching from the other side of a screen, as though someone else was controlling his body and tracing his trembling fingers along the invisible line of a scar that didn’t exist—but did. It had to. Huai’en’s eyes wouldn’t have widened, his mouth wouldn’t have fallen open, his words wouldn’t have similarly failed him so completely if it didn’t. His hand wouldn’t have been shaking just as hard as Xiaobao’s where it tenderly caressed the side of his face if it didn’t. A single tear wouldn’t have rolled down his cheek if it didn’t.
The quiet bubble that had engulfed them was seemingly impenetrable, and only after a long while did Xiaobao realize that there was only one word that could encompass it all.
Finally.