TAMW CH55

A spring night settled in, deep and quiet, as the lingering notes of the lute drifted through the air.

Zhou Xiao paused just outside the door. Gazing at the slender silhouette of his wife seated within the bedchamber, his eyes flickered, and his lips parted instinctively: “Qingqing…”

Yuqing wore an aqua-blue gown. His jade hairpin caught the pale moonlight, casting a cool, distant sheen. Yet Zhou Xiao knew better than anyone that this man was never cold; his wife was warm, and his waters were scalding, sweet, and rich with a lingering aftertaste that made restraint impossible.

His skin was luminous, gilded in silver by the moonlight.

The dark, quiet Zhou compound had always felt like an ancient book long forgotten in an attic, thick with dust. Yuqing was the sole unblemished line on its pages, a vivid stroke of breathtaking color.

Cradling the liuqin against his chest, strands of unpinned black hair spilled past his collarbones, pooling like a dark waterfall over his front. Zhou Xiao wished he could bury his face straight into that fragrant silk.

The liuqin was barely half the size of a standard pipa. Neither man nor woman would find it burdensome to hold; the frets were set close together, allowing the notes to skip briskly with a bright, crisp ring. A sorrowful air meant for the pipa took on an agile, breezy charm when played upon the liuqin.

Yuqing had indeed gone years without playing. But having grown up watching his mother perform, the muscle memory remained second nature; after so long away from the strings, the melody spilled forth effortlessly the moment his fingers touched the instrument.

Seeing the man standing frozen by the doorway, Yuqing could not help a soft laugh: “Come in.”

Zhou Xiao hurried inside. On the table rested a bowl of freshly boiled noodles, steam rising into the air.

Yuqing had no skill with Western cakes, so he had simply bought one.

“Where are the candles I asked you to bring?” Yuqing asked.

“Ah, right here.” Snapping out of his daze, Zhou Xiao quickly fished them from his pocket. “I wasn’t sure what they were for, so I bought every kind, except small ones…”

“A grown man, and you don’t even remember your own birthday?” Yuqing chided gently.

Zhou Xiao smiled sheepishly. “It’s been so many years; I truly forgot…”

When buying the candles, he had guessed Yuqing might be stitching another longevity quilt for Qingming and needed the flame to singe threads, never imagining it was for himself.

The candles he bought were meant for lighting the room. Yuqing teased him for being sharp and cunning by day, only to play the fool when night fell.

Zhou Xiao turned twenty-four this year. Following the old custom—marking odd years and skipping even ones—they lit five candles instead.

Yuqing pressed down on Zhou Xiao’s broad shoulders to seat him, cradling the liuqin as he sat across from him. “I’ve never spent a birthday with you before; this is our first. Master Zhou must not be too picky.”

A bowl of longevity noodles, and a store-bought cream cake.

Neither was rare or costly; even common folk could easily afford them.

Yet Zhou Xiao had not tasted them in years. Deep down, he had convinced himself he was grown and had no need for such trifles, coaxing and lying to himself, when the simple truth was that no one had ever bothered to prepare them for him.

His Yuqing, however, always held him in mind, remembered him, and cherished him.

As the wicks caught fire, Yuqing struck the opening chords of Three Variations on Plum Blossom.

Seated opposite him, Yuqing kept his gaze lowered; from Zhou Xiao’s angle, only the sweep of long, curling lashes was visible. Yuqing’s overall demeanor was cool and restrained, yet his eyes seemed painted with bold, dark ink.

One hand steadied the neck of the instrument, his wrist bone prominent beneath delicate skin. After childbirth, his frame had grown leaner, the contours of tendon and muscle along his forearm showing with vivid clarity. Even bathed in the amber glow of candlelight, his flesh remained a stark, porcelain white. With his black hair cascading down, he held a fragile, ethereal grace, stunning as an alluring spirit.

Seen from a distance, he seemed to blend into the mother-of-pearl screen behind him, looking like a figure stepping straight out of a classical painting.

His fingers brushed across the strings in a light, rhythmic dance.

Having borne a child, the curve of his hips against the chair had softened into a richer fullness. The side slits of his gown parted along his thighs, revealing thin silk trousers beneath, the slender lines of his legs traced under the lightweight fabric.

From head to toe, only his wrists and face were bared, yet in Zhou Xiao’s eyes, the man was laid entirely bare.

It felt as though Yuqing were offering himself up for his gaze alone.

The sight of his wife fanned the flames of desire in Zhou Xiao’s chest, threatening to consume him whole alongside the flickering candles on the table.

He didn’t even want to touch the noodles or the cream cake. Though these very things had been his greatest childhood regrets, set beside Yuqing, they paled into insignificance.

Simply because Yuqing had remembered him.

He had never craved material goods; he had only ever yearned for the warmth of being held dear in someone’s heart.

And Yuqing had given him all of it.

Yuqing played intently, intending to lull him into enjoying the meal to the tune. But glancing up, he caught Zhou Xiao staring hungrily—clearly craving something far removed from the food on the table.

“Foolish lad, eat your food.” Yuqing set the lute aside and flicked his plectrum across the table, tapping Zhou Xiao lightly on the cheek.

Jarred back to his senses, Zhou Xiao scrambled to catch the pick, breaking into a foolish grin: “Eating… of course I’m eating.”

“Yuqing’s playing is rusty; Master Zhou mustn’t hold it against me. If it sounds pleasant, take it as such; if not, you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“How could I? It sounds wonderful. I know nothing of the liuqin, only that it sounds lovely…”

“If it sounds so lovely, why have you been grinning like a fool?” Yuqing teased, knowing the answer full well.

Zhou Xiao answered with utter honesty: “I’m smiling because I’m looking at you.” He pressed on, “Whenever I look at you, I can’t help it. Qingqing, tell me, why is that?”

Amused by his puppyish demeanor, Yuqing tucked his chin, laughing softly: “How should I know…?”

“You truly don’t know?” Seeing him set the instrument down, Zhou Xiao rose to wrap his arms around his waist.

“Hold on—” Yuqing pressed a fingertip against his lips. “Eat first.”

Zhou Xiao parted his lips, taking the fingertip into his mouth, his tongue tracing over the soft pad. “I want to eat you first.”

Such shameless bedroom talk made Yuqing’s ears burn. Yet no one in the world would ever speak to him like this except Zhou Xiao.

“Sweet talker. I made these noodles myself; don’t you want to taste them?” Yuqing asked.

“You made them?” Zhou Xiao was genuinely surprised. “You know how to cook?”

“A little.”

Hearing that Yuqing had cooked them with his own hands, Zhou Xiao’s interest was piqued. He obediently released his hold and sat back down to eat.

Yuqing said, “When Father was ill, his throat was ruined from smoking and he couldn’t taste much. When I brewed his medicine, I watched the cooks prepare his broths, so I picked up a bit.”

A sour pang of jealousy pinched Zhou Xiao’s chest, his eyes widening in petulant indignation.

That old bastard certainly knew how to enjoy himself!

Thank goodness he fell ill quickly and died early; otherwise, with Yuqing’s stubborn filial piety, wouldn’t he have spent his whole life tending his sickbed?

Pah!

Zhou Xiao felt deeply disgruntled, silently cursing the old man up and down. How could he have let Yuqing wait on him hand and foot? What right did he have?

Noticing his gaze spacing out again, Yuqing waved a hand before his eyes: “What are you daydreaming about? Hurry and eat, before the noodles turn to mush.”

Zhou Xiao picked up his chopsticks with a grin: “Alright.”

Since returning to China, he had rarely eaten noodles; this bowl tasted exceptional. On top rested a poached egg—a simple bowl of longevity noodles without garnish or foreign ham, clean and light.

Steam billowed from the bowl, misting Zhou Xiao’s eyes.

The longevity noodles he had never tasted in his youth were finally before him at twenty-four.

So this was what longevity noodles tasted like. The flavor was no different from ordinary broth noodles. Yet Zhou Xiao could barely taste the broth; a sharp sting caught in his nose, and sniffing hard, he let out a helpless, tearful laugh.

Seeing heavy tears splashing into the bowl, Yuqing hurriedly pulled out a handkerchief to dab his face: “What on earth is this about?”

Unable to swallow another bite, Zhou Xiao dropped straight to his knees, wrapped his arms around Yuqing’s waist, and sobbed aloud: “Qingqing…”

Taken aback by the sudden embrace, Yuqing froze with the handkerchief mid-air, then gently stroked the back of his head: “Alright, alright…”

“Who weeps on their own birthday?”

Burying his face against Yuqing’s lower abdomen, Zhou Xiao felt a sharp ache tugging repeatedly at his chest, so intense he could scarcely draw breath. His vision blurred with tears as Yuqing’s palm smoothed over his hair: “No one has ever treated me like this…”

Yuqing let out a soft, fond sigh: “I know Zezhi never had this before, but don’t you have it now?”

The home he had lacked—didn’t they have a happy home of three now?

Yuqing did not mock his tears, nor did he find him childish; he only felt an ache in his heart for him. Now that he was a parent himself, the mere thought of passing away and leaving no one to remember Qingming’s birthday made his heart clench. Even if Qingming grew into a man who claimed not to care, the child was flesh of his flesh.

Zhou Xiao had lost his mother early and had never known tenderness in his life. All his juvenile antics and bluster—were they not merely desperate cries for someone to notice him?

Aching for him, Yuqing stroked his hair down to his nape: “From now on, Yuqing will stay by Zezhi’s side, year after year. There’s no need to cry, hmm?”

“Qingqing, why are you so good to me?” Zhou Xiao lifted his head, drinking in his wife’s gentle touch.

Yuqing’s fingers, flushed from plucking the strings, felt slightly cool against his burning face.

“Is this considered good?” Yuqing smiled, giving his nose a light pinch. “Is it my schemes that are too clever, or is Zezhi simply too easy to coax?”

Soothed by his tender words, Zhou Xiao’s heart turned completely to mush. Letting out a soft whimper, he burrowed his face back into his wife’s waist, like a child demanding sweets without end.

Seeing that his tears were genuine, Yuqing scooped a dab of cream onto his finger and fed it to him: “It’s sweet. I’ve been waiting for you to eat it.”

Yuqing had always loved sweets.

Finding his gentle wife endlessly endearing, Zhou Xiao picked up the entire cake, offering it up for Yuqing to take the first bite: “You eat.”

Yuqing reached for a small fork, but Zhou Xiao deliberately pushed the cake against his face: “Mmph—”

“Zezhi!”

Catching him off guard, Zhou Xiao dabbed white cream onto the tip of his nose and his cheeks, smearing the beauty’s pristine face.

Zhou Xiao laughed, claiming it was an accident. Straightening his knees, he leaned close to kiss his cheek: “I’ll clean it for you.”

Yuqing, usually steeped in jasmine, smelled sweetly of cream tonight.

Yuqing allowed him to lick the cream away. Firm butter cream wouldn’t melt from body heat alone; it had to be taken fully into the mouth. The dollop traveled from the tip of his nose to his cheek, then down to the corner of his lips.

Yuqing nipped at his lip with a bit of force, making Zhou Xiao wince slightly, and demanded, “Did you do that on purpose?”

“I didn’t,” Zhou Xiao insisted, his eyes dancing with mischief.

His mouth denied it, yet the next second, the man rose effortlessly from his knees and swept Yuqing up into his arms.

Yuqing let out a startled gasp as he was lifted into the air. Carried toward the bed, his dark hair swayed through the air, scattering its sweet scent.

“Zhou Xiao—” Yuqing was laid flat on the mattress, his neck seized by hungry kisses and nips that made him burst into breathless laughter from the tickling friction.

Zhou Xiao murmured, “Good mother, it’s Zezhi’s birthday today—won’t you even grant a man his wish?”

“Don’t tell me your wish over the candles was about this sort of thing.”

Zhou Xiao leaned close to his ear, whispering with dark delight: “My wish was…”

“To stay tangled with Qingqing, never to part.”

Never to part—a lovely phrase indeed.

Yet in Zhou Xiao’s heart, those words held a far more literal meaning; he intended to achieve an unbroken union in every sense…

The bed curtains dropped, and the rhythmic creak of the old timber echoed once more. Within the bedchamber, low chuckles mingled with soft gasps.

By the time it ended, the birthday candles on the table had burned down into pools of wax upon the stand, leaving a solitary wick flickering in the draft before tilting over into darkness.

Zhou Xiao rested his head against Yuqing’s abdomen, both men glistening with sweat, their breathing still ragged.

Yuqing’s night sweats had improved considerably; whenever sweet perspiration broke out, it was promptly licked clean by Zhou Xiao’s mouth.

Lying between Yuqing’s waist and thighs, his nose nuzzled against the skin, his lips placing soft kisses: “Qingqing…”

He loved murmuring his wife’s name.

And Yuqing answered every single time: “Mm.”

Zhou Xiao had nothing urgent to say; he merely wanted to say his name aloud.

In his eyes, speaking Yuqing’s name was an honor. He had grown so possessive that he hated the thought of anyone else uttering it, as though everything belonging to his wife was his, and he belonged entirely to Yuqing.

True union meant two souls melting together; their devotion was genuine.

Zhou Xiao gently bit his thigh, letting out a soft sigh: “This is the best birthday I’ve had since the day I was born.”

His shirt hung open, his youthful, corded chest muscles bare as he sprawled over Yuqing’s lap, stroking him without pause. “Qingqing, you gave this to me.”

“You have no idea how terrified I was in this compound as a child… so terrified…”

Back then, he had dreaded anyone remembering his birthday; an acknowledgment only served to remind the First Madam that he was not her own flesh and blood, inviting fresh torment. Yet he had also dreaded being forgotten, treated like an empty figurehead—respected on the surface, but invisible beneath. Anyone could play the young master; no one truly cared who Zhou Xiao was.

Zhou Xiao traced circles over Yuqing’s abdomen, kissing the very place where Qingming had grown.

Yuqing’s waist had recovered completely, bearing no outward scars of childbirth. Some said childbirth left permanent marks, but that depended on constitution and luck. Yuqing bore none, yet Zhou Xiao’s heart still ached for him. Resting against his lean abdomen, he nipped lightly: “I want… I want…”

“What do you want?” Yuqing gathered his breath, looking down at the man nestled against his waist. “Hmm?”

“I want you to love me a little more, just a little more, alright? Qingqing…” Zhou Xiao’s voice carried a pathetic tremble. “Not because of whose son I am, and not because of whose father I am…”

Yuqing was no good at lying.

Truth be told, if a man like Zhou Xiao were not his father’s son, passing him on the street, Yuqing would have spared only a passing glance at his fine build before forgetting him entirely. Had he been a stranger, he would never have known that within such a powerful frame dwelt a soul so fragile.

Seeing Yuqing hesitate, Zhou Xiao understood.

Burrowing into his thighs, he began sobbing again: “I knew it!”

Flustered, Yuqing moved to wipe his tears, but his hand was caught and held fast in the man’s mouth, refusing to be soothed. Zhou Xiao had mastered the art of playing the rogue, tears spilling freely as though he were an abandoned lover wronged by a cruel spouse.

In the end, to quiet him, Yuqing parted his lips to accommodate him.

His jaw ached from the bruising friction, yet Zhou Xiao still wasn’t satisfied, carrying on with fresh vigor.

In truth, Zhou Xiao cared little for his titles; he was the old man’s son and Qingming’s father, holding every winning card. He was the sole Zhou left tying Yuqing to the past and the future; Yuqing could never leave him.

His tantrum was merely an excuse to coax a taste from Yuqing’s mouth. After all, on a birthday, a man deserved full satisfaction.

Yuqing was prone to indulgence and soft-hearted to a fault; Zhou Xiao had figured him out completely. To outsiders, Yuqing was ruthless and unyielding in business; at home, toward those he held dear, he always yielded ground.

And Zhou Xiao took every inch given.

The following morning, Master Zhou emerged from the bedchamber carrying a bowl of soggy noodles: “Deng Yongquan.”

At the summons, the young steward, who had timed his rounds perfectly, hurried over: “Master.”

“Is breakfast ready?”

“It is. The young master is awake as well; the wet nurse just sent for warm rice porridge.”

“Take this and warm it up.”

“Pardon?” Deng Yongquan looked down at the bowl of clumped noodles in bewilderment. The broth had been entirely absorbed by the dough, looking thoroughly unappetizing.

Catching his blank stare, Zhou Xiao’s face darkened: “What are you staring at? The Madam made this. Can something he made be wasted? Am I the sort of man to waste food? Hurry along!”

“Right away, right away…” Deng Yongquan carried the bloated noodles to the kitchen, ordering the cooks to reheat them for the Master’s breakfast.

Last night, Zhou Xiao had been consumed by birthday celebrations, admiring his beauty by candlelight, eating only a few mouthfuls of noodles before switching to the cake and other indulgences. But this bowl, cooked by Yuqing’s own hands, could never be thrown out. Knowing it looked unappealing, he ate it quietly before Yuqing woke.

Eating alone felt a bit solitary, so he had the wet nurse bring Qingming over.

He ate Yuqing’s noodles while the baby drank rice porridge, father and son sharing a peaceful meal. Zhou Xiao felt a rare glimmer of domestic harmony, finding the child increasingly pleasant to look at.

“Your mother was worn out yesterday; when you’re taken in shortly, you’re not to fuss, understand?” He tapped the blunt end of his chopstick against Qingming’s nose.

The baby understood nothing; drinking his porridge, he snapped at anything brought near, babbling as his gums tried to chew the chopstick.

Zhou Xiao chuckled: “Eating anything in sight—how did you inherit that from me?”

Hearing Master Zhou converse with an infant, the servants nearby kept their heads bowed low, pretending not to understand. When Master Zhou was home, no one except Young Deng was permitted to wait on the main quarters. To this day, the laundry maids had not washed a single garment belonging to the Madam.

Zhou Xiao would wash the Madam’s clothes by hand after a quick breakfast, hang them in his courtyard, and gather them in the evening once dry. It had been ages since anyone else touched the Madam’s laundry.

In this household, the staff served Master Zhou, and Master Zhou served the Madam.

Yuqing woke late once more.

Still groggy, Qingming was already tucked into his arms. He unfastened his collar on one side to feed him.

Having already drank his rice porridge, Qingming wasn’t particularly hungry, smacking his gums and teething down on him. The sharp pinch jolted Yuqing fully awake, drawing a sharp hiss of breath.

Hearing the sound, Zhou Xiao called out, “What is it?” He had been about to step out, but parted the bed curtains at once.

“He’s biting me,” Yuqing sighed helplessly. “Teething already, and biting so hard?”

“If you were your former size, he wouldn’t be able to catch it at all,” Zhou Xiao teased with a grin.

“Zezhi,” Yuqing warned, telling him not to speak so loosely before the child.

“If he bites, switch to one who won’t,” Zhou Xiao offered, unfastening the other side of his robe. “If he doesn’t drink properly, you’ll feel uncomfortable shortly.”

Doctor Liu had said that holding back for two days would let it recede, but holding back ruined Yuqing’s sleep and kept him from lying on his side. Coupled with Zhou Xiao’s frequent nursing, his body kept producing a steady supply.

Now that Qingming had taken to rice porridge, the wet nurse fed him far better, and the boy had grown picky, merely grinding his gums instead of drinking.

For a fleeting second, Yuqing caught himself thinking that Zhou Xiao was far more skilled at this; if Qingming drank with such vigor, he could have fattened the boy up in no time.

Then he remembered Qingming was merely an infant in swaddling clothes; how could he compare a baby to a grown man?

Yuqing felt he had been far too harsh, expecting a tiny child to compete at the breast.

Before his thoughts could wander further, the wet, smacking sounds from Zhou Xiao’s mouth shattered his composure.

“Can’t you keep quiet? Don’t disturb the child…” Yuqing murmured, his ears burning crimson.