Winter trawls through Yi City slowly, like a tiger creeping up on its prey. It begins with the weather, cold drafts becoming more frequent, and ends as A-Qing realises that the sun begins to set earlier and earlier each day. The old lady down the street complains about her backaches more frequently and the taverns have become livelier, often filled with young people drinking bowls of piping hot soup or warm wine to keep warm, their chatter only dying out in the wee hours of the night.
Xiao Xingchen, along with A-Qing, seems adequately equipped to deal with the cold, piling heaps of straw into their coffins and layering blankets to ward off the chilly night air as they sleep. They are fortunate that the walls of the coffin home are thick and crack-free, sparing them from the worst of the harsh cold.
Xue Yang himself is no stranger to cold nights. In fact, compared to most of his previous accommodations, the straw-stuffed coffins they sleep in would be considered a luxury.
The one thing he is worried about, however, is the groceries. As it is with all the other villages, market prices for fresh fruit and vegetables tend to skyrocket during winter, and Xue Yang decides to take it upon himself to secure as many decent ones as possible with their limited funds.
(Both he and the blindy have an unspoken agreement — never let let Xiao Xingchen go to the market alone, unless they wanted to see the week’s funds squandered on a bunch of close-to-wilting cabbages. It is the closest to cooperation they’ll ever get, he thinks.)
One day, they wake to snow lining the branches of the trees near the coffin house, their fallen leaves long since buried beneath layers of morning frost. Xue Yang wastes no time in lobbing a generous handful of snow at A-Qing, who lets out a very unlady-like screech as she turns towards his general direction, brandishing her walking stick like a little warrior. Each of her swings is punctuated with a shrill cry of “Get back here, you asshole!” and he snickers as he easily dances out of reach.
“You two are rather enthusiastic today,” a voice laughs, as a white-clad figure steps out of the coffin house.
“Daozhang!” A-Qing hollers, barely able to contain her excitement, “Come here! It’s snowing!” she bounces up and down, her previous animosity against Xue Yang all but forgotten as she heaps a small ball of snow into the cultivator’s hands.
The market is bustling by the time they make their way there. It’s rare for both of them to go down at the same time, but their nameless companion had suggested that he make this week’s grocery run. The quirk of his lips hints at an ulterior motive, so A-Qing tags along, just in case. She may not be able to cultivate but she’s pretty confident in her ability to throw a mean left hook.
The stallowners are a friendly bunch, many of them calling out to A-Qing as they engage her in polite conversation.
“The crowd seems to be louder than usual,” she notes, “Is there a festival approaching?” She turns towards the direction of laughter and the familiar pitter-pattering that could not be anything but the footsteps of children.
“Ah, they’re probably rushing to buy ingredients for dongzhi,” the old lady laughs, “My brother and I used to race each other all the time whenever we were sent out to buy ingredients.”
Dongzhi. A-Qing has heard of it, a festival traditionally celebrated with one’s family, but for street children like her, it is simply one of the many prime opportunities for them to scavenge for scraps. She’s never celebrated it before — but maybe, she thinks, maybe, this time…
“Oi, blindy,” the nameless black-robed cultivator, whom A-Qing privately dubs The Asshole, calls out to her. “What fillings do you want?”
“Huh? Fillings for what?” she frowns. If this is another one of his dastardly schemes…
“Tangyuan, duh, I thought you were blind, not mentally crippled,” he snarks back at her as he turns back to the stall owner, leaving A-Qing to fume silently as she hobbles over, trying her best not to get jostled around in the crowd.
It makes sense, she thinks, after all, she’s no longer a child on the streets. There’s no reason they shouldn’t celebrate the festival.
Like a real family.
The thought makes an invisible weight lift from her chest, and there is a spring in her steps as she walks towards her companion.
The Asshole is already picking up their purchases by the time she gets there. “I got one of each type anyway,” he tells her when she complains (“What’s the point of asking me if you’re just going to buy them all anyway!”).
“Weren’t they selling tangyuan at the restaurant down the street?” she asks him as they’re walking back, “Are we getting jiaozi too?”
“We only have enough for one of them,” he shrugs, “Besides, I’ve heard that homemade tangyuan tastes sweeter.”
Of course. She fights the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of an adult looking at sweets with the same fervour a child would.
“Do you even know how to make tangyuan?” she asks instead as they head back to the coffin home.
His response is muffled by the slamming of the old door as it flies open. A-Qing wonders if it’ll give way with the amount of times it has been kicked open.
“You’re back,” daozhang’s voice greets them, “Did you encounter any trouble? You’re later than usual.”
“We bought some other things too,” The Asshole (though she supposes he’s a bit less of an asshole now) replies, laying out the different fillings and rice flour he had managed to snag at the markets.
“Let’s make tangyuan, daozhang!” she beams, “I’ve never made them before!”
“I’ve never made them before either, so don’t blame me if they turn out bad,” The Asshole adds, pulling a face at her, just because, not that he’s aware she can see it.
“You—!”
Xiao Xingchen laughs, a soft, breathless huff that startles both of them out of their argument, “I’m sure anything you make will taste fine,” he smiles, and neither him nor A-Qing can’t bring themselves to argue with that. A-Qing turns away with a huff, though she still insists on helping with the dough-making, just to make sure Xue Yang doesn’t “try anything fishy”.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me when you mess up.”
A-Qing barely refrains from lobbing a handful of rice flour into his smug face.
Making tangyuan is a lot harder than it sounds, they realise. The dough is too sticky — A-Qing complains, so Xue Yang improvises by adding more glutinous flour until they end up with two neat portions of pliable dough. It gets easier to shape after that, so A-Qing busies herself with making neat little balls, something she takes great delight in, and pretends not to notice Xue Yang slipping her a bit more dough when she runs out.
(She grudgingly admits that he’s a little less of an asshole than she thought he was, though if anyone asked her about it she’d kick their asses to the moon and back.)
Later that night, as A-Qing is tucked into her straw-padded coffin (there seems to be even more straw than usual — Xue Yang makes a mental note to sneak some of his into Xiao Xingchen’s coffin later), the two cultivators find themselves lulled into easy conversation by the warmth of the crackling fire.
“You know,” Xiao Xingchen begins, “This is our first dongzhi in Yi City.”
Xue Yang busies himself with ladling the remaining soup and tangyuan into their bowls.
(The last few embers flicker away, and he is once again reminded that nothing lasts forever.)
“You’ve been awfully quiet — is there something on your mind?”
He lets a bitter smile tug at his lips, even though the other man cannot see it. “I was just thinking about how nothing can last forever.”
Part of him wishes it would though, even if it meant weaving an intricate web of lies to hide his real identity. Living like this, in a place far away from the machinations of the cultivational world was… nice, he admits. It’s peaceful, in a way he’s never experienced before, and he would be loathe to give it up anytime soon.
There is a long pause.
Then, Xiao Xingchen smiles, the same annoying, infuriating, endearing smile that haunts his dreams. “Well then,” he says, “We should make the best of what we have now, shouldn’t we?”
Xue Yang can’t think of a response to that. His brows furrow, and he vaguely realises that his good hand is clenched into a fist so tight he can feel his nails digging into the palm of his hand through the thick fabric of his glove.
“… yeah,” he says, “I guess we should.”
When Xiao Xingchen sets his bowl down, he slips his remaining tangyuan into it.
There are two things Xue Yang carries with him till the very end. One — a single piece of candy, clutched so tightly that Wei Wuxian has to pry it out from his clenched fist to extract it. The second thing is this — the memory of a warm bowl of tangyuan, served in a cold winter’s night, of the first and last dongzhi he’s ever celebrated.
Name: Noir Twitter: cappucci_noir AO3: cappuccinoir
Comentarios