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I.

Xie Lian knows that he’s not the best cook around.

He’s not sure that his food deserves quite such a reaction, however.

“I could make something else,” he offers.

“No, no,” Nan Feng says, waving a hand before him.

“We should not trouble Your Highness, the Crown Prince,” Fu Yao adds.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Xie Lian says. To demonstrate, he turns back to the bubbling pot, and spoons out some of the soup into a chipped bowl.

“I believe my general has summoned me,” Fu Yao announces abruptly.

“Then have some, for the road,” Xie Lian presses. He holds out the bowl, and takes a couple of steps forward.

Immediately, the two little generals take a couple of steps back. Nan Feng’s eyes screw shut, as though he can’t bear the sight of the bowl’s contents. Fu Yao’s nose wrinkles.

“Fuck.”

“I really should get going.”

“I think I can hear my general summoning me too.”

“Enjoy your meal, Your Highness.”

The temple’s door slams alarmingly in their wake. The portrait of ‘The Xian Le Crown Prince who pleased the Gods’ sways where it hangs above the offerings table. Xie Lian blinks, and lowers his head to look at the bowl in his hand.

The soup is admittedly more brown than clear. The cut vegetables which he had added, bob beneath the cloudy surface of the soup, their shapes uneven and their colours indeterminate. Shaking his head, Xie Lian raises the bowl to his lips for a sip.

Growing up in the Xian Le royal palace, Xie Lian never had a reason to sneak into the palace kitchens to watch the royal cooks at work. Even when he was older, and moved out of the palace to cultivate, his family would still send him food, or Feng Xin and Mu Qing would lay the table for him. It was only after Xian Le fell, did Xie Lian begin to pay attention how the people prepared their meals. He would watch them carefully, and each time he had a little bit of money to spare for fresh food, he would try to replicate what he saw. Somehow, his best efforts never resembled the appetising plates of food which others produced. But Xie Lian did not mind it. If it was edible, it was good enough.

Now, in Puji Temple, Xie Lian sets the bowl on one of the two stools with a sigh. Then, he looks up with a tentative smile, at the only other person still with him. “San-lang, are you hungry?”

 Hua Cheng’s grin is as mischievous as it is dazzling. “Only if gege eats with me.”

“It may not taste very good,” Xie Lian warns, biting back a smile.

“If it’s cooked by gege, it won’t taste bad.”

Against his better judgment, Xie Lian laughs.

He’s still chuckling as he turns back to the pot to fill another bowl, when the cool breath against his cheek catches him by surprise, as does the soft brush of lips by the corner of his mouth.

Immediately, Xie Lian slaps his free hand across the side of his face. His skin feels hot beneath his palm. “San-lang!”

“There was a bit of soup there. I thought I should taste it, since gege was not confident about his cooking.”

Xie Lian feels his blush grow. He can barely look at Hua Cheng’s smirk. Still, he makes himself ask, “And?”

“Delicious.”

II.

To his surprise, Xie Lian discovers that he genuinely likes being with Shi Qingxuan.

Mind, it’s not that he dislikes the company of the other gods. After being alone for months, even years, at a stretch, he’s grown to find the company of anyone to be not bad, not bad at all. He appreciates having a voice other than his own to listen to, and finding someone who’s willing to talk to him at length has not lost its novelty.

But there’s something about being with Shi Qingxuan that reminds him of his childhood in Xian Le. He thinks it might be the way Shi Qingxuan insists on plying him fragrant teas in delicate porcelain cups and candied fruit piled high on dishes of fine pottery, just like Xie Lian’s mother, the queen, used to do whenever Xie Lian visited her royal chambers. Or maybe it’s just how Shi Qingxuan’s rooms look, with their intricately carved wooden furniture and lavish brocade hangings, and the way Shi Qingxuan’s robes and jewellery are strewn everywhere. Shi Qingxuan’s palace reminds Xie Lian of his own rooms when he was still a prince, when precious jewels were but shiny baubles, when he was prone to leaving his discarded robes on the closest pieces of furniture until his servants picked up after him.

Today, Shi Qingxuan sits him down in front one of the many polished copper mirrors that adorn his bedroom, the largest of them. Xie Lian stares at his face in the gleaming surface, momentarily distracted. It has been a while since he has had the luxury of studying his reflection in anything larger than a puddle of water. He startles when a small, ivory box is pushed into his hands.

“Rouge,” says Shi Qingxuan gaily, as he opens the box with a light flick of his wrist, revealing a tiny pot of vermilion paste. “I bought it in a human market today.”

“It looks… quite good,” Xie Lian offers. It is not a lie. It has been centuries since he last wore cosmetics, but a glance at the rouge in his hands is enough to tell Xie Lian that it is of a good quality: its texture smooth, its pigment vibrant. If it was something he had picked up, he would have been able to sell it again for a good price.

Beside him, Shi Qingxuan beams. “Ming-xiong says he won’t try it with me,” he says as he retrieves it from Xie Lian’s hands. “But you will, won’t you?”

“Wind Master…” Xie Lian begins, and he can hear the uncertainty creeping in around the edges of his voice. He still has fresh memories of the incident last month, when Shi Qingxuan had cajoled him into putting on women’s robes. Feng Xin and Mu Qing had separately chosen that afternoon to stop by, each bearing news that Jun Wu had an errand for him. Mu Qing’s face had turned two shades paler at the sight, and gossip later had it that Feng Xin’s yell could be heard on the streets outside the Wind Master’s palace.

“Please? It will suit you,” Shi Qingxuan interjects, sweetly stubborn and very much impossible to refuse. There’s a hint of a pout in his words, and that’s how Xie Lian lets Shi Qingxuan dust their faces with white powder. He holds himself still under the tickle of a brush as Shi Qingxuan paints floral gold on his forehead, and returns the favour carefully. Deft fingers dip into the pot of rouge: light dabs of colour to stain their cheeks, a thicker coat for their lips.

Xie Lian glances in the mirror again when Shi Qingxuan steps away, and a once-familiar face stares back at him. Startled, Xie Lian drops his gaze. He avoids looking at the mirror after that, and focuses instead on Shi Qingxuan’s delight in having someone else to dress who is not the solemn Earth Master. He even lets Shi Qingxuan braid his hair, and coax him into a stroll around the gardens of the Wind Master’s palace.

It’s almost evening before Shi Qingxuan finally tires of their play and sends for a washbasin and some cloths. Xie Lian accepts the dampened cloth gratefully. He uses it to wipe the powder off his face, and with it, the shadow of his seventeen-year-old self too.

He declines Shi Qingxuan’s offer of dinner, claiming that he is still too full from the afternoon’s tea and sweets.

Xie Lian’s palace is as not full of treasures as Shi Qingxuan’s, and while he has not been invited to any other palaces since his latest ascension, it will not surprise him to be told that his palace was the barest of all the palaces in the heavens. Usually, this does not bother him.

Today, however, there is something unbearable about its emptiness. The sound of Xie Lian’s footsteps echo off the unadorned walls as he walks from room to room, searching for something he can’t quite articulate.

On impulse, Xie Lian reaches into his robes. His hand closes around the cool, familiar weight of the dice he keeps tucked close to his breast. He eases the dice out, and tosses them carelessly onto a table before he can think too much of it. They clatter noisily, polished bone on wood, the first sound of life in a room that otherwise feels too still.

He doesn’t have to wait for long.

A pair of strong arms circle around him from the back. Xie Lian allows himself a relieved smile, his hands coming up to rest on the silver armbraces pressed against his body. A husky voice murmurs against the shell of his ear, “Gege summoned me again. I am happy.”

Xie Lian leans into the tall, lithe body behind him. Hua Cheng is a steady, grounding presence. “I hope I did not interrupt anything.”

“Nothing of importance. Haven’t I said it before? I will always come whenever gege summons me.” Hua Cheng’s arms tighten around Xie Lian’s waist. Xie Lian blushes, but does not resist as Hua Cheng starts to turn him around in he embrace. “Did gege miss me?”

Stop playing around, hovers on the tip of Xie Lian’s tongue. “Maybe,” is what he says instead, and he glances away when the word slips out, his cheeks flushing. He holds his breath, bracing himself for Hua Cheng’s response – which, he knows, will only make him flush more.

He exhales, and waits. And waits.                                                        

Finally, puzzled, Xie Lian dares a glance. Hua Cheng’s eyes are dark, his gaze focused on Xie Lian’s lips.

Inexplicably, Xie Lian shivers. “San-lang?”

“Gege, your lips are very red today.”

“Oh.” Xie Lian’s hands fly to his mouth, shielding it from view. “The Wind Master... Rouge… Ah!”

Clever fingers pry Xie Lian’s hands away, before pinching his chin, tilting his face up. Hua Cheng’s press against his, soft and sure and surprisingly warm.

Blushing furiously, Xie Lian stumbles backwards. This time, he claps his hands over his mouth firmly. “San-lang, stop playing around!”

His words come out muffled, but he imagines that their intent is clear. In front of him, Hua Cheng laughs cheekily, his hands held out before him in mock innocence. “Gege’s lips looked swollen. I just wanted to make sure that gege was alright!”

“You!” Xie Lian sputters.

But he’s forced to concede that his palace no longer feels quite so empty.

III.

It is still dark when Xie Lian wakes. Raining, too – he can hear the raindrops beat heavily down on the roof of Puji Temple, a low and persistent drumming a steady counterpoint to the silvery plink, plink of the water dripping into the temple where the roof leaks, falling into the pots and bowls Xie Lian had laid out in the evening before. For a long moment, Xie Lian lies still, savouring the fact that his sleeping mat is, at least, dry; that the temple, while draughty, is not as cold as it will have been outside.

After a while, he turns on his side to study his sleeping companion, propping himself up on an elbow for a better view.

The red candle on the offerings table remains lit despite the drafts that creep into the temple through the cracks in the walls. In its flickering, orange light, Hua Cheng’s complexion looks rosy, almost warm to touch, if Xie Lian was inclined to touch.

Instead, he just looks.

Hua Cheng had taken off his eyepatch for the night. With both of his eyelids shut, it is impossible to tell that he is missing an eye. Xie Lian takes this in. He takes in the smooth curve of Hua Cheng’s brow, the dark fan of Hua Cheng’s lashes across his cheeks, the strong bridge of his nose, the dainty dip of the bow on Hua Cheng’s upper lip. He takes in Hua Cheng’s mouth, usually so expressive when he is awake, now slack in slumber, his full lips parted just so.

Hua Cheng looks young like this, Xie Lian decides. Possibly no older than Xie Lian himself was, when Xie Lian first ascended. He looks at ease, care-free, perhaps even happy. It is a good look on him.

Unthinkingly, Xie Lian leans over to brush his lips across the mouth of the first man he has ever shared his sleeping mat with. Then, collecting himself, he lies back hastily onto his side of the mat.

By his reckoning, there are yet a couple of hours left before dawn, and another day of collecting scraps. Still blushing faintly, Xie Lian falls asleep to the sound of rain and the comfort of no longer being alone.