TAMW CH57

Zhou Xiao had never combed anyone’s hair in his life, but with a long-haired wife, he truly mastered the skill.

His hands, somewhat rough and unrefined, wielded the delicate jade hairpin with surprising grace.

Early that morning, he had someone fetch a clearer mirror from the docks.

Seated before the vanity, Yuqing watched through the glass as the man stood behind him, running a wooden comb through his dark tresses.

“Comb from root to tip, together until our hair turns white,” Zhou Xiao recited.

Yuqing gazed at his reflection with gentle warmth, asking softly, “I am three years older than you. To grow white-haired together means I will fall short by three years.”

A smile touched the depths of Zhou Xiao’s eyes. Bending down, he pressed his cheek against Yuqing’s from behind. “It is I who was born three years too late.”

What did a mere three years matter?

Zhou Xiao never felt the slightest gap in age between them. Though Yuqing possessed the mature, soothing tenderness of an elder, Zhou Xiao held his own weight; out in the world, he was an indomitable man capable of shouldering any burden. Yet within the walls of their home, he preferred to be a captive at his wife’s skirts, or to play the role of his child.

Yuqing reached up and stroked his short hair, much like petting a favored, eager-to-please companion.

Once his hair was pinned, Yuqing said, “Your craftsmanship seems even better than my own. I fear I shall have to trouble the Master often from now on.”

Wrapping his arms around Yuqing’s waist from behind, Zhou Xiao murmured, “As long as Madam doesn’t mind.”

Yuqing turned, looping his arms around Zhou Xiao’s neck, drawing their faces close until his soft, pink lips brushed the man’s mouth. “I don’t.”

Zhou Xiao could scarcely withstand it. Yuqing had just rinsed his mouth and applied jasmine essential oil to his hair; he felt like a flower deity descending from the heavens straight into his arms. The intoxicating fragrance ensnared Zhou Xiao’s soul, urging him to lean in for a deeper kiss.

“Ah—” Yuqing pressed an index finger against his lips. “I must go check on Qingming.”

With a light push from Yuqing, Zhou Xiao—whose soul hadn’t quite returned to his body—stumbled a few steps backward and flopped into a chair.

By the time he regained his senses, Yuqing was already out the door, supporting his lower back.

Slumped in the chair, Zhou Xiao took a deep breath. The air still carried the lingering scent of Yuqing’s hair oil.

He wasn’t sure if it was merely his imagination, but since giving birth, Yuqing’s gait seemed different. His waist was impossibly supple, his hips swaying with a subtle, fluid rhythm; beneath the drape of his long gown, his silhouette seemed to ripple…

Like a water snake twisting through the currents.

Zhou Xiao sat there savoring the thought for a few seconds before suddenly realizing his wife was getting further away. He scrambled up and hurried after him: “Madam, wait for me!”

With the harbor banquet successfully concluded, Zhou Xiao was able to rest at home for a few days.

Now that Qingming had grown a bit and could see strangers, Zhou Xiao hired a photographer.

Yuqing knew nothing of such things, nor had he ever had his photograph taken.

Photographic equipment had reached the mainland before the Republic, and coastal port cities like Baizhou were among the first to see cameras and film projectors. Yet they were exorbitant luxuries, and the older generation had distrusted them; clients were scarce, and it was only in recent years that the trade had flourished.

Photographs appeared in newspapers, black-and-white films played in cinemas, and posters of modern girls adorned bustling streets. Yuqing occasionally saw them from his car but held no interest in them.

For one, his father had never taken a photograph. For another, he harbored a deep-seated dread of photographs.

Due to his childhood experiences, cameras left him with grim impressions. He even felt that when he was photographed as a child, his very soul had been trapped within the frame. It wasn’t until years later, when Zhou Xiao burned the Ruan estate to the ground, that his soul finally felt returned to its rightful place.

Zhou Xiao insisted that their family of three should take a portrait.

Yuqing was reluctant, though he was not a man who blindly rejected modernity. He figured that Qingming would grow up in a new era, and exposing the child to new things early on could only be beneficial.

When the photographer arrived, their family of three had just finished a meal.

The photographer dressed with the avant-garde flair of his trade, sporting a round, flat artist’s cap on his head. Finding it amusing, Yuqing cast a few curious glances its way.

When Zhou Xiao spoke to the photographer with a face like thunder, the poor man nearly shook in his boots. He wondered: When he invited me here yesterday, he wasn’t like this at all! Why the sudden black mood? Did I do something wrong?

Bracing himself, the photographer followed the servants into the ancestral hall to set up his equipment.

Photographs were black-and-white, so colors would not translate. To stand out against the dark tones, Yuqing chose a deep blue long gown.

“Look,” Yuqing crooked a finger, and Zhou Xiao leaned down to listen. “The photographer’s hat—is it pinned to his hair underneath? It doesn’t fall off…”

“Is that what you were staring at?”

“Mm.” Yuqing nodded, still observing with curiosity. “Is it really appropriate for us to take pictures in the ancestral hall?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? The ancestors never saw such advanced contraptions in their lifetimes. Let them have a look; they might just visit us in our dreams tonight to offer their thanks.” Zhou Xiao let out a scoffing chuckle.

They sat to the side of the ancestral hall, with the photographer facing them. From this angle, the spirit tablets remained on their left, out of the camera’s view.

Behind Yuqing and Zhou Xiao hung a grand plaque. Legend had it that an emperor of the old dynasty, touring the north and passing through Baizhou, had bestowed this mansion and personally brushed the four gold-leafed characters upon it: Hua Hao Yue Yuan (Blooming Flowers and Full Moon—Perfect Conjugal Bliss).

Whether true or not, the plaque had hung from the rafters for generations, meticulously preserved by each succeeding head of the household.

Yuqing murmured, “Father always worried that cameras would steal a person’s soul…”

He had wanted to keep a photograph of his father as a memento, but the older generation wholly rejected novelties. Their mindset wasn’t inherently malicious, just—in modern terms—pedantic.

Yuqing had been photographed as a child, but never again since. Guided by his father’s teachings, he too harbored a subconscious resistance to the tools of the new era.

Traditional portrait painting, passed down through generations, was now a dying art, rapidly replaced by the camera.

Zhou Xiao said, “If it truly steals souls, we should take a picture of Father’s tablet in a moment and see if his spirit shows up in the frame.”

“You—” Hearing such blasphemy, Yuqing reached out to pinch his mouth.

Zhou Xiao didn’t dodge, waiting with a beaming smile to receive his punishment.

Seeing the bright, affectionate gleam in his eyes, Yuqing couldn’t bear to inflict any pain. He merely tapped the tip of his nose, scolding softly, “You are not to speak like that anymore.”

“It’s disrespectful to Father.” Yuqing lowered his gaze. “When we go down to the underworld one day, how will we face the ancestors? Speaking like that is terribly rude.”

His words unexpectedly moved Zhou Xiao.

He himself didn’t believe in gods or spirits; the new era championed materialism, leaving tales of the supernatural as mere comforts for the antiquated minds of the past.

But hearing Yuqing speak of it…

Zhou Xiao suddenly found himself hoping that becoming ghosts after death was real.

That way, even as ghosts, they could stay entangled together. If it meant being with Yuqing, even the afterlife sounded rather amusing. As for facing the ancestors, Zhou Xiao feared nothing; he and Yuqing had secured the Zhou family line, and Yuqing had risked his life as a male wife to bear an heir. The ancestors below should be secretly weeping tears of joy.

Whether gods and ghosts existed or not, he and Yuqing were entirely in the right.

At that thought, he took Yuqing’s hand, murmuring tenderly, “Following you to the underworld, I fear nothing.”

Clatter— A screw from the photographer’s tripod dropped to the floor. He hastily bowed to pick it up: “Apologies, apologies—”

Yuqing batted Zhou Xiao’s hand away: “Restrain yourself in front of outsiders.”

Reluctant, Zhou Xiao obediently let go. “Bring the young master in.”

The wet nurse carried the baby in, reporting, “He just had his rice porridge; he’s full of energy.”

“Oh dear, I hope he won’t squirm too much.” Yuqing reached out to take him. “He feels heavier again.”

“The young master is as good as gold, a truly effortless child,” the wet nurse praised endlessly. She had tended to many infants, but Qingming was a rare gem of docility.

He slept when full, and woke without fussing, stretching his little hands to play with the air.

Having just eaten and slept his fill, the child was at his most lively. Cradled in the nurse’s arms, his sturdy little legs had been kicking the air as he gurgled with laughter.

Around his neck hung a longevity lock and a jade collar; whenever he bobbed his head, the chimes jingled—a clear mark of a wealthy household’s pampered son.

“Look at him, so full of vigor.” Yuqing held him with boundless affection, using a fingertip to tickle his newly formed double chin.

“He takes after me,” Zhou Xiao chuckled softly, reaching out to tease the baby as well.

“Mm…” For once, Yuqing agreed with him. “He truly does. He knows how to read the room and understands how to behave on the right occasions. To be so sensible at such a young age—in the future…”

Yuqing’s voice trailed off. Zhou Xiao waited, eager to hear what hopes Yuqing harbored for their child’s future.

Yuqing rocked his arms gently, his lowered eyes steeped in immense tenderness.

Before giving birth to Qingming, Yuqing had naturally pinned all the Zhou family’s hopes upon this child.

He had hoped the boy would carry on their bloodline, hoped he would serve as a pawn to secure Yuqing’s own standing in the estate, hoped he would inherit everything and restore the Zhou family to its former glory.

But now…

This child had grown within his abdomen for seven long months. From the earliest bouts of severe morning sickness, his presence had been undeniably profound. He had grown inside him, and Yuqing had endured the agony of his bones being forced apart to bring him into the world.

Seeing him pause, Zhou Xiao pressed, “In the future, what?”

Yuqing lowered his head, tickling the baby with a fingertip. In his smiling eyes, tenderness seemed ready to spill over: “In the future, he will simply be a clever child who knows how to find joy and happiness for his entire life.”

“Isn’t that right, little Qingming?” Yuqing lifted the baby slightly, rubbing his nose against the infant’s.

Tickled, Qingming broke into a bright, gurgling laugh, his clear, childish voice echoing crisply through the ancestral hall.

Watching this scene, Zhou Xiao felt tears threaten to spill.

This was what he believed a true mother to be.

Harboring no ulterior calculations for the child, possessing only a pure, wholehearted devotion…

Zhou Xiao crouched beside Yuqing, wanting nothing more than to nestle into his wife’s embrace as well. “Qingqing, you love him so much…”

“Don’t be jealous. He is our child.” Yuqing knew exactly what was brewing in his mind; the great Master Zhou’s heart was so narrow you couldn’t slip a needle into it. “Hurry and take the picture. The yin energy in the ancestral hall is heavy; it’s not good for the child to stay here too long.”

“Yes, yes, yes, right away. My good Madam, whatever you command, I obey.”

Because Yuqing’s fingertip had lightly tapped the tip of his nose, Zhou Xiao was instantly pacified, willing to agree to anything.

The photographer, however, felt exceedingly awkward.

The Republic championed freedom of love, and many young masters and misses from wealthy families took photographs.

But a house call to photograph a family of three consisting of two men and a baby—that was a first for him.

Furthermore, one was calling the other “Madam”…

Looking out, he saw the traditional, four-square courtyard.

It was still early. Sunlight streamed in, but to avoid harsh exposure for the camera, the wooden doors of the ancestral hall were only half-open, casting shadows over the family of three.

Yuqing cradled the child, while Zhou Xiao rested a hand on the back of his chair, looking down at them. Sheltered in the shadows of the grand estate, the three of them smiled with such radiant, warm bliss that even their dark, somber garments seemed to burst into color.

The photographer adjusted his equipment and ducked beneath the black cloth. “Alright, Boss, look right here.”

“Look at the lens,” Yuqing nudged Zhou Xiao’s head away as the man leaned in close.

“Let me hold him; he’s heavy. Your arms will get sore,” Zhou Xiao offered, wanting to share the burden.

Yuqing shook his head: “He’s not heavy.”

Zhou Xiao didn’t press the matter, instead whispering softly into his ear, “Let’s take one of just the two of us afterward, alright?”

Yuqing nodded his consent.

Zhou Xiao stood behind the chair, one hand resting on Yuqing’s shoulder, his posture tall and commanding.

With his long hair pinned up, Yuqing tilted his head slightly toward Zhou Xiao, cradling the plump, round Qingming in his lap.

“Excellent, absolutely perfect! Don’t blink—three, two, one!”

With a loud click, the magnesium flash ignited in a blinding burst of searing light. Startled, Yuqing forced his eyes to stay open, utterly unprepared for the brilliance. His immediate thought was to comfort the child in his arms, terrified he would cry.

Qingming didn’t even have time to react.

Struck by the flash, the infant froze. Before he could even think to cry, his mother’s soothing touch arrived. Yuqing patted the baby’s back gently, coaxing, “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, my good Qingming. We’re just taking a picture.”

“Look, that’s a camera.” Yuqing pointed it out to him. “With a flash of that light, our faces will appear on a piece of paper.”

Yuqing stood up, pacing the ancestral hall with the baby resting against his shoulder. By now, every trace of fear had vanished from Qingming’s face, replaced by curious scrutiny of the camera.

Yuqing coaxed the child softly, his palm patting his back in a rhythmic, gentle tempo. It was this very brand of maternal tenderness that forged Qingming’s unshakable, unflappable composure in the years to come—all because from infancy, he was raised by a patient, meticulous mother.

Zhou Xiao stayed to amuse the child for a while before ordering the servants to carry Qingming away.

The two of them took a couple’s portrait together.

Developing the film would take some time, and Yuqing found himself rather looking forward to the photograph.

He wondered if he had looked presentable.

Watching the photographer pack away his gear, he found it marvelous that such a small metal contraption could capture a person’s exact likeness, far more precise than a painting. It was truly formidable.

Watching for a moment, Yuqing smiled.

Zhou Xiao asked him what he was smiling about.

He replied, “I had intended to paint a portrait of our family of three. Now that we have photographs, it spares me a great deal of effort.”

“How are Qingqing’s painting skills?”

“I only dabble when I have idle time; it’s not worth mentioning.”

What Yuqing deemed “not worth mentioning” was likely a mastery that others couldn’t attain with ten years of dedicated practice.

Zhou Xiao immediately dragged him toward the study, complaining, “It’s rare I get a day off at home, and I can’t even have a moment alone with you in our own private world? When the child grows older and clings to you, I’ll surely be left out in the cold.”

“So Qingqing needs to spend more time with me now, alright?”

Qingming hadn’t yet reached an age of awareness. When he grew older, he would inevitably clamor for his mother to sing lullabies and tell bedtime stories at night—at least, that was how Zhou Xiao envisioned a proper childhood.

Seeing his earnest pleading and knowing Qingming was already asleep, Yuqing nodded.

The two went to the study.

Most of their time together was spent entangled on the bed; moments of quiet elegance like this were rare.

Yuqing prepared the brush and ink, asking Zhou Xiao, “What kind of painting would you like? A portrait?”

Seeing Yuqing seated at the desk, Zhou Xiao couldn’t resist circling behind him. “When I was a child, I used to sit right here.”

“Writing in your little notebook?” Yuqing looked up, a smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, right!” Zhou Xiao hurried over to the bookshelf to check his copy of the Three Character Classic. “Where is the notebook? Did you hide it?”

The diary he had tucked inside the Three Character Classic was gone.

Yuqing leaned over the desk, his shoulders trembling with laughter. “I knew you’d try to take it back, so naturally I hid it a step ahead of you.”

“Give it back to me. What use is keeping it? I’m right here in the flesh; what need do you have for those little notebooks?”

Yuqing shook his head, refusing to hand them over, finding him utterly endearing.

Those little notebooks chronicled the bitter hardships and grievances of her husband’s youth.

The figure leaping off those pages was a pitiful, helpless child—someone entirely disconnected from the towering, formidable man before him. Sometimes, when the thought of finding Zhou Xiao a concubine crossed his mind, Yuqing would open the notebook, reminding himself of how hard his husband’s childhood had been, how difficult it was for him to trust anyone. At the very least, he was earnest in his devotion to their life together. He was young; exercising a bit more tolerance was no great burden.

To Yuqing, the little notebook served a very vital purpose.

Zhou Xiao found it deeply humiliating, pestering him endlessly: “My sweet Qingqing, give it back…”

“If I hadn’t read it, how would I have known to make you longevity noodles?” Yuqing refused to yield. “Back then, your notebook was my only gateway to understanding you…”

In the mouths of the servants, Zhou Xiao was the sole heir of the Zhou estate, bearing a noble status, cherished by both the Old Master and the First Madam.

Yet years later, sitting in Zhou Xiao’s study, Yuqing read the stark truth of his sorrow and neglect.

It felt as though, in certain fleeting moments, the shadow of the young Zhou Xiao gripping his pen overlapped seamlessly with the adult Yuqing reading his past…

As time flowed on, were he and Zhou Xiao not sharing the exact same life?

Sharing one life, and creating another.

Dusk approached, and the red lanterns along the corridors were lit.

Spring was passing; midsummer was on the horizon.

With the paper spread out, Zhou Xiao ground the ink block for him, watching Yuqing in quiet stillness.

Sometimes, he felt an uncontrollable urge to seek physical contact with Yuqing—not a desire for penetration, but a genuine yearning to simply nestle into his embrace.

Whether sitting or kneeling on the floor didn’t matter. As long as his head rested against Yuqing’s thighs, allowing his wife to lower his hand and stroke his hair, it was enough.

Yuqing wielded the brush with steady precision, not even glancing down at Zhou Xiao.

With his face buried in Yuqing’s lap, Zhou Xiao asked curiously, “Qingqing, you can’t even see me. What are you painting?”

“One doesn’t need to look to paint your likeness,” Yuqing replied. “I know your face by heart.”

How many late nights had he traced the contours of this man’s face? How could he not know what he looked like?

“Qingqing, your words always warm my heart.” Zhou Xiao’s voice was low, laced with profound realization. He rarely bared his vulnerabilities to outsiders.

Even beside Yuqing, the countless times he had shed tears were driven by the terror of abandonment. Both of them knew the root cause, yet Zhou Xiao had never spoken it aloud.

“You once said you envied my status as the eldest young master. Yet you never knew how many people remembered my title, while no one cared that I was Zhou Xiao…”

The young master of the Zhou family had to be erudite. A young master had to be dignified and glorious. A son had to be perfectly filial.

But who was Zhou Xiao as a person? As he grew up, it seemed no one had ever spoken of it, nor had anyone cared to ask.

Yet now, Yuqing could paint his portrait without even looking at his face. It meant that in Yuqing’s heart, his likeness had already been traced countless times.

At that thought, profound joy surged in Zhou Xiao’s chest. Overwhelmed with the urge to bite and kiss, he rubbed his head wildly against Yuqing’s lap. “Qingqing, you love me… you love me…”

Yuqing wasn’t entirely sure if this counted as throwing a spoiled tantrum.

Qingming hadn’t yet reached an age of independent thought; surely he wouldn’t grow up to be this clingy, would he?

Zhou Xiao hadn’t even said “I love you,” but rather “You love me.”

He truly was a child starved of security.

Outside the gates, he was Yuqing’s formidable right hand; once inside the Zhou compound, he dropped to his knees to play the child by his side.

Yuqing patted his cheek: “Get up and see if it looks like you.”

Having kept his face buried in his lap the entire time, Zhou Xiao had no idea what Yuqing had painted.

Prompted by Yuqing, he rose to look.

A young child sat before a desk. The Zhou Xiao of that time had already had his queue cut short, wearing a traditional magua of the old era, head bowed in earnest focus over his writing.

Zhou Xiao didn’t remember exactly what he looked like as a child.

But Yuqing’s painting seemed to yank him instantly back to that six-year-old boy gripping his pen.

Outside the window, jasmine flowers were blooming. He sat with his head bowed, writing of his loneliness. His face still carried a trace of baby fat, but from living in constant fear and anxiety, his young eyes lacked any spark of light—he looked like a malnourished puppet.

Seeing the painting, Zhou Xiao felt an undeniable certainty: This is me.

As people grow, they inevitably forget their childhood.

He recalled the day he departed Baizhou to study abroad. Perhaps the moment he sat in the car pulling away, the figure brushing past him amidst the heavy snow was Yuqing, just cast out by the Ruan family.

Yuqing smiled at him: “Is this Zezhi?”

Zhou Xiao nodded. “It’s me.”

Stifling a laugh, Yuqing took his brush and, with a few deft strokes, drew a shape on the paper resembling the character ‘凸’ [convex/protruding], only far more vivid, topped with a single dot. He asked, “And is this Zezhi as well?”

Zhou Xiao instantly recognized what he had drawn. He swept Yuqing up into his arms in a flash: “Well played, Qingqing—trying to provoke me on purpose?”

“Ah—!” Startled by the sudden pounce, Yuqing hadn’t even set the brush down. He lightly dotted the skin just beneath Zhou Xiao’s pupil—matching the mole on his own face. “I saw you were on the verge of tears and figured I’d have to coax you, so I thought of a way to stop your crying.”

“This drawing here—which part of the body is it? Don’t you want to take a closer look?” Zhou Xiao slid a hand up beneath his long gown. “Hmm?”

“Stop fooling around.” Yuqing was flipped over, his upper body pressed flat against the desk. “The inkstone is going to fall…”

Many items on the desk were crafted of jade; if they shattered, they would be irreplaceable, matching antique sets.

Zhou Xiao leaned over him, pressing flush against his back. “Qingqing paints so quickly. Guess what I’m going to do next—paint it, and I’ll let you go.”

“You shameless scoundrel…”

If he actually painted it, there was zero chance he would be let go. If he didn’t paint it, Zhou Xiao would make good on his threat of not letting him go anyway.

This rogue… actually demanding he paint an erotic scene. The pity Yuqing had felt for him moments ago evaporated into thin air.

After all, that pitiful child from the past had grown into an utterly shameless man—one who stole his infant’s food, and most crucially… one who had grown far, far too large.