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Xiaoge doesn’t like winter. It’d taken him a long time to realize that, or maybe he’d known once and forgotten, but either way it’d been slow, the same as winter’s advance, creeping up on him. The cold bites at the ungloved tips of his fingers, and the sunlight disappears too soon. He’s not afraid of the dark, nor will the cold kill him—after all, most tombs are dark and cold, and those are what he was forged for—but he doesn’t like either.
(What a simple thing, to be able to recognize discomforts alongside threats. A gift as small as a name, and just as meaningful.)
Returning to Wushanju always settles something in Xiaoge’s chest, makes him feel warm from the inside out, but especially so during the winter. Today’s his first time coming home since the fall breeze gave way to winter snow. The afternoon is dim, the sun already crawling to rest; what little light remains is like a frosty puff of air on his skin. Ice clings to the edges of everything he passes, and clouds on the horizon promise snow by dawn. Xiaoge weaves his way through crowds of people in brightly colored puffer jackets and thick woolen sweaters, feeling almost ghostly in his thin black hoodie. Once, he might’ve leaned into it, worn the foggy dissociation like an extra layer, but not now. Now, knowing who will be waiting for him makes every stride longer, every step quicker.
When he finally reaches the main gates of Wushanju, he takes a moment to study the old wooden doors and the faded sign above them, and then keeps walking. Why enter the expected way, when he can seemingly pop out of nowhere instead?
Along the southern wall, there’s a pair of trees, one on each side. They are tall and sturdy, but just far enough apart that any normal person would be unable to jump from one to the other.
Fortunately, Xiaoge is no normal person. He approaches the tree outside the compound, checks around to make sure no one is watching, and scales the trunk as easily as he would a set of stairs. Once he’s on the branch that stretches closest to the wall, he takes a running start, feet light and quick against the bark, and leaps to the tree inside Wushanju.
He’s so focused on keeping his grip on the icy branches that he doesn’t notice something’s different until his feet touch the ground. The hairs on the back of his neck rise as he glances around, looking for the threat, only to find…lights.
There’s strings of them, tiny glittering things, bordering the path by the tree. They’re hanging from the bushes, carefully woven between the leaves. Xiaoge reaches out and lets his fingers brush a couple of them, blinking. It’s not that he’s never seen these before—they’re practically everywhere, after all—but there isn’t normally much in the way of frivolous decoration around Wushanju. Most of the appeal of the place is in the old architecture; he’s not even sure where, exactly, these lights could be plugged in, considering how scarce outlets are beyond the main buildings.
Still, the lights continue down the dirt path, which eventually turns into one of the more formal, paved garden paths. Xiaoge takes his time creeping down it, footsteps nearly silent. When he reaches the center of the garden, though, he can’t help but come to a stop, boots scuffing against the stone.
The heart of Wushanju’s courtyard holds a pond bordered by several sturdy trees that might be older than Xiaoge himself. Each tree has gone bare already, leaves lost to the cold, but in their place now hang dozens of those fairylights. They sway gently in the breeze like strings of beads, their reflections twinkling off the pond’s surface, swirled occasionally by the movement of the fish within.
Even with his fragmented memories, Xiaoge knows he’s seen many beautiful things. But not one of them compares to this: a home.
“Do you like it?”
He looks back over his shoulder, unsurprised to find Liu Sang standing there. With his hearing, he’s the only one who can even get close to Xiaoge’s levels of stealth. Wu Xie would’ve announced his presence ages ago.
In the warm glow of the lights, the red hues of Liu Sang’s hair stand out like liquid fire. How tempting it is, to run his fingers through it—later, he thinks he will, when they’re done eating, and they’ve settled on the couches together to watch whatever show Wu Xie and Pangzi are bickering over. For now he just nods, and turns back to study the lights, to commit the image to memory, however long it’ll last.
There’s a soft sigh, almost like relief, and then Liu Sang comes to stand next to him. “Good. When you said you were coming ho—coming back—we wanted to surprise you.” A little huff. “Wu Xie’s first idea was a fireworks show. This was the compromise.”
Of course it was; the balance is painted all over it, Wu Xie’s brightness, Liu Sang’s quiet presence, even Pangzi’s practicality in the mismatched lights, some of which he’s sure were dug out of storage rather than buying them all new. There’s a piece of each of them in it, in the feeling settling itself between Xiaoge’s ribs, cozy and safe.
“Xiaoge!” comes a loud cry from across the courtyard, and then hurried steps. “Liu Sang, you were supposed to tell me when he got back!”
Liu Sang huffs again. “I never said I would.”
“Traitor,” Wu Xie says, but it’s undercut by the grin spreading across his face as he approaches, and immediately pulls Xiaoge into a hug.
He doesn’t fight it, just lets Wu Xie’s arms encompass him, like right here is where he’s meant to be, and maybe it is. After a second, when he doesn’t feel a second pair of arms joining them, Xiaoge reaches out blindly, snags Liu Sang’s wrist, and tugs him in, too. Liu Sang lets out a little noise of exasperation, but doesn’t need to be invited twice as he tucks one arm around Xiaoge and the other around Wu Xie.
Xiaoge closes his eyes, the warm glow of the lights still imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, and he lets himself be held.