Chapter 31#

Beneath the Umbrella#

Qionghua slipped down against Mijin’s chest. He was lightly dressed and at ease, as if the gust of wind meant nothing to him: “They blew it wrong. This one’s much harder to blow out than that one.”

“Hard in what way?” Shache flicked over the glass lantern with his finger. “You blow both out just as fast.”

“Such a temper.” Mijin moved the glass lantern aside. His shadow fell over Shache, his bearing perfectly measured. “Young Master, where are you off to in the dead of night, not even leaving a single person at your side?”

“Catching a thief.” Shache looked at him. “Someone who loves taking advantage of others’ peril and also loves stealing other people’s things.”

“So you were luring the enemy in,” Mijin praised. “How is it? Have you caught them?”

“Not quite.” Shache opened one palm. “I prefer catching the thief red-handed.”

Mijin looked at that palm. The wide sleeve had slipped down, faintly revealing the pink marks between his wrist bones. It had been days already, yet the places where the whip had bitten into Shache still bore their marks. Mijin drew a breath and placed the glass lantern into Shache’s hand: “I haven’t seen any thief. Here’s the lantern — go on, keep catching.”

Shache lifted the glass lantern. The wind blew twice, whoosh, and snuffed it out. He looked back at Mijin. Mijin met his gaze. After a moment, the former crown prince said: “What… you saw it. I didn’t blow it.”

Snow hissed down upon them. Set against that dark green, Shache seemed almost like a jade rain-flower climbing out of this pool of dark water. His eyes brimmed with silver salt across the whole sky. He closed in on Mijin: “You owe me.”

“Owe you what?” Mijin leaned back slightly. He was already so much taller — looking down at Shache from this angle, his gaze carried another layer of meaning. “How should I pay you?”

Shache didn’t want this glass lantern. He stuffed it into Mijin’s arms with disdain: “Pay — money.”

Mijin seemed to buckle under the weight. He held the lantern with one hand: “Why won’t you answer the second part?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Shache’s fingers hadn’t left the glass lantern. “Must I answer everything you ask?”

“May I?” Mijin suddenly lowered his head. He grasped Shache’s wrist. “Then I’ll really begin the questioning, Sha Sanqing.”

Snow particles slipped into his collar. Shache curled his fingers as though he feared the cold. One by one, the glass lanterns nearby died. Wine banners snapped in the wind. The long street sank into gloom, and only those windows facing the street still let through a faint glow. Someone shouted loudly. Someone else laughed heartily. But Mijin heard none of it.

He stared at him. His eyes were just like that day.

Shache opened his mouth, then pulled his tongue back a fraction. After a moment, he said: “Is using your gaze to apply pressure a technique you learned from your Aye?”

“No — it’s something I taught myself.” Mijin’s expression was fearless. “Then deflecting questions with rhetorical ones — is that a technique you learned from your Aye?”

“Why don’t you take a guess,” Shache threw it back again. “How many Ayes do I have?”

“One,” Mijin pressed forward. “If there were another real one, you wouldn’t want a fake one.”

Snowflakes melted against his neck, leaving it faintly cool. Shache flinched as though stung. He pulled at his own wrist: “You answered wrong.”

“Ah,” Mijin’s tone was certain. “Seems I answered right.”

“Miwuye,” Shache said, seeming very concerned. “Has no one ever told you that you’re annoying?”

“Only annoying?” Mijin still held Shache’s wrist. His gaze circled there. “Was that also only annoying to you?”

The marks on Shache’s wrist bone were laid bare. At the webbing between thumb and forefinger, faint abrasions remained. Mijin had kissed him there — not only would Mijin remember this, Shache’s body would remember it too. The wind drove the snow. Mijin’s gaze was unmistakable. He didn’t need Shache to answer; he had his own judgment.

“…Miwuye,” Shache called him again. “The snow is heavy.”

The tone was much like the words “the wound hurts.” Mijin sensed keenly a kind of command in it. Shache seemed to always issue him orders in moments like this — in such faint, blurred ways.

The former crown prince pretended not to notice. He let go of Shache and took up the umbrella: “Consider it compensation. So, Young Master — where shall we go?”

“You could give the umbrella back to me,” Shache hooked the handle. “Then we each go our separate ways.”

“Certainly.” Mijin opened the umbrella, unhurried. “Then that whip—”

Shache clicked his wooden clogs lightly and looked up at him. Snow hissed against the canopy of the umbrella. Mijin shielded from the wind, wearing an expression of listening.

What a bastard.

“Crown Prince,” Shache said gently, “do you enjoy serving me this much?”

“So formal.” Mijin fabricated nothing from nothing. “Last time when you rewarded me, didn’t you call me Naga?”

“You were delirious with illness.” Shache held grudges. “I called you Miwuye.”

Mijin looked at Shache. This bastard was well prepared. He tilted the umbrella shaft to one side, covering Shache: “I was talking about when you stabbed me, not when I kissed you.”

The snow-laden wind rattled on. Shache opened his mouth once more.

“Miwuye,” Mijin spoke first. “Your tongue hurts, doesn’t it.”

Shache was slightly dazed, slightly confused. Mijin held his gaze, tilted his head slightly, and teased: “Hasn’t it healed yet? Let me see.”

Mijin understood when to advance and when to retreat. He knew he had been behaving erratically these past days, so he didn’t intend to do anything tonight. The sentence finished. He waited for Shache to refuse — but Shache looked at him, and in that entirely unguarded expression, pushed his tongue past his teeth, aimed it at him —

Mijin’s throat bobbed.

Sha Sanqing.

Mijin recalled that day. Every sound Shache had made, each one… He suddenly — from how he had seized him, to how he had bullied him — but when Shache truly fell into his arms—

“No wound.” Mijin seemed absentminded, averting his gaze. “What about the meeting?”

“Collecting debts doesn’t need that many people.” Shache’s tongue had long since healed. He was simply uncertain. “You were waiting for me here in the dead of night — did you hear something at the palace hall?”

Mijin didn’t answer. “What did Brother Jinxiu say?”

Thin snow. Shache stepped into it, his wooden clogs leaving impressions on the surface. “…just to make him feel that you are not without allies, that Brother Jinxiu still places bets on you.”

He was talking about the previous time at Changdu Palace when they had drunk together and pretended to meet for the first time before Lu Guanjie.

“After this assassination attempt, it’s not just Lu Guanjie,” Shache stepped out a squeaking sound. “Everyone will think we’re bound together.”

“You knew, and you still came to find me that day.” Mijin watched the road. “So I wasn’t wrong back then — this time it wasn’t me forcing it.”

“Mm—” Shache tugged at Mijin’s sleeve. “Pie falling from the sky.”

“Why did Brother Jinxiu appear at that moment?” Mijin was courteous, holding Shache’s hand by his sleeve. “Besides delivering pie to me, it’s because he’s the one who truly reads the winds, isn’t it.”

“My Aye is just a merchant,” Shache said. “What winds could he know?”

“I received my reward at the palace hall today.” Mijin glanced back. “After all this time, Young Master — still not going to ask me what reward I got?”

“I won’t ask.” Shache pulled his sleeve tighter. “Because I’m not curious.”

“It’s not that you’re not curious.” Mijin’s hand hovered lightly at the small of Shache’s back to keep him from slipping. “You already know.”

A few flakes of snow drifted between them, the distance between the two of them clear. The fine feathers behind Shache’s ears stirred slightly. He saw Mijin lean in a little, speaking to himself: “Actually, the reason I hosted my uncle at Changdu Palace was because of you, Snow Guest. You heard our conversation.”

Little Que, you can’t blow all your chips at once. Yuan Bocheng’s words still echoed in his ears. If you still want them to come back to Yumian for deliberations, you must make them believe that they have never once been heard by you.

“…You’re such a…” Shache smiled, pressing out the three words between his teeth: “big… fuck… ing… bastard.”

“I presumed Yumian’s ears and eyes must be formidable — but what’s more formidable is Brother Jinxiu.” Mijin didn’t resist this name at all. He tilted his head, chin pointing back the way they’d come. “Those Yongzhou guests daring to run tabs at Yumian — that’s precisely what Brother Jinxiu permitted.”

Liubo, cockfighting — all gambling games under heaven, in the end, none are beyond manipulation. Yuan Bocheng made them lose again and again, precisely to tolerate the wicked.

“They thought Brother Jinxiu didn’t want money because he feared their family standing and surnames — actually it was because the time to take money hadn’t come.” Mijin turned his head back. “The reason you came today is because that time has arrived.”

“If you understand Yumian so well, do you understand yourself?” Shache didn’t deny it. He followed Mijin’s sleeve upward and climbed to the umbrella handle. “Mili-Nan going to enjoy plum blossoms wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea at all — it was you. Day after day you had Xu Daochun present him with plain plum blossoms. Whenever he saw those blossoms, he’d think of Empress Chuncheng. So his departure from the city was well within your expectation — you just weren’t sure of the exact date.”

“Good answer.” Mijin’s tone was casual. “Is that also something you ‘heard’ with those borrowed ears?”

“This is me knowing you,” Shache toyed with a fluff of fur. “I’ve always listened to you with my own ears.”

“Knowing me?” Mijin pulled away. He seemed interested. “Then what am I thinking about now?”

He held his gaze. This time, Shache’s tongue began to tingle faintly. The marks from Mijin’s kisses wouldn’t disappear — they would only be peeled out, bit by bit, by that gaze. It was a brutal contest. He had kissed him, he had bitten him, he had even pried open his mouth, forcing him to pant against him. They were separated by half an arm’s length, yet it felt as though they were still among the statues.

Shache suddenly gripped the umbrella handle tight. He stepped back on his wooden clogs — but Mijin’s hand still hovered at the small of his back. He thought of that wild dog, yet couldn’t recall its teeth. It had once nuzzled his palm with its warm, damp snout, nestled deep in the alley with him.

“You’re thinking,” Shache’s eyes were misted with gathered water. His tongue circled lightly, his words as ruthless as his gaze: “That after falling into the water, you need something to grab onto.”