Wen Jining (BL) · Chat

Xunhuan Pavilion · Second Floor Private Room The faint sound of string and wind instruments drifts up from downstairs, the laughter of the girls muffled and distant behind the closed door. You lean back in the chair by the window, holding a cup of wine in your hand, barely drinking. The candlelight reflects off your profile; your expression is indifferent, revealing neither joy nor anger. Two friends sit opposite you—one talking with cup in hand, the other reclining on the daybed, listening to the music. "That dance yesterday was truly splendid," Friend A says, setting down his cup with a click. "That waist of hers, spinning like the wind." Friend B laughs and scolds him, "You say it's splendid every time you come, yet I've never seen you actually call for anyone." "Call for whom? I'm not that kind of man. Just watching is enough." Friend A replies righteously, then turns to look at you. "Don't you agree?" You bring the cup to your lips but say nothing. Friend A is long used to this attitude of yours and doesn't mind, continuing to chatter on. Downstairs, the tune changes; the sound of the pipa grows frantic, like rain battering banana leaves. You turn your head to look out the window. Across the street stands an old scholar tree, its branches reaching toward the second-floor window. The moonlight casts dappled shadows over you. Something crosses your mind; your brow furrows slightly, only to smooth out just as quickly. "Say," Friend B suddenly speaks up, "has that spouse of yours... never made a scene?" You down the wine in your cup in one gulp, your voice quiet: "Make a scene about what?" "True," Friend B chuckles. "I heard yours is a concubine's son from the Minister's estate. Someone of that background knows the rules best." You don't reply, setting the empty cup on the table, your fingertip absentmindedly tracing the rim. Downstairs, another tune begins—a flute this time, melodious and drifting, like someone speaking from far away, each word scattering into the air as soon as it is uttered. --- The Minister's Old Estate · West Wing Side Room Meanwhile, in the southern part of the city, a carriage rumbles over the cobblestone road. No lantern is lit inside the carriage. Wen Jining sits alone in the darkness, his hands resting flat on his knees, his fingers gripping the hem of his cloak so tightly that his knuckles are white. The wind lifts a corner of the carriage curtain, letting in flickers of light that sweep across his face. He is pale, the corners of his eyes flushed red, his lips pressed into a thin line. The carriage driver calls out from outside, "Young Master, we are almost there." He utters a soft "Mm," his voice raspy, as if filled with sand. In truth, he doesn't know what he will do once he arrives. He only knows he must go. He doesn't want to sit in that room and wait anymore. "The wind and rain bring darkness, the roosters crow without cease. Now that I have seen my lord, how can I not rejoice?" He repeats these lines in his mind, over and over again. By the third time, his eyes grow hot. He closes them tightly, forcing back the rising moisture. The carriage takes a turn, slowing down. Through the gap in the curtain, he sees the brightly lit street ahead. The lanterns of Xunhuan Pavilion can be seen from half a street away—red, hanging in clusters beneath the eaves like a row of mocking, squinted eyes. Wen Jining takes a deep breath, releasing his grip on his cloak to clutch the unsent sachet in his sleeve pocket instead. The scent of dried sweet osmanthus is extremely faint, almost non-existent. But he can smell it. --- Xunhuan Pavilion · Entrance The carriage comes to a halt. The driver hops down, glances hesitantly at the door, then back inside the carriage, whispering, "Young Master, we have arrived." The curtain is lifted. Wen Jining bends down to step out, treading onto the footstool with footsteps as light as a fallen leaf. He stands tall and adjusts the collar of his cloak—it is still untied, hanging open to reveal the moon-white inner robe beneath. The greeter at the door freezes when he sees him. It isn't that he recognizes him, but rather that most patrons here are Qianyuan. On the rare occasion a Kunhua visits, they are always accompanied by their husband. For a lone Kunhua to show up late at night—especially such a slender, pale young gentleman—is highly unusual. "Young master, you—" "I am looking for my husband," Wen Jining says. His voice isn't loud, but every word is pronounced with absolute clarity. The greeter dazes again. "Your husband... which one?" "你." He speaks your name directly. His voice is incredibly soft, yet those two syllables carry a heavy weight as they leave his lips. "Please wait a moment, let me—" Before the greeter can finish, Wen Jining has already bypassed him and stepped over the threshold. The hem of his cloak brushes against the threshold. The deep red silk catches the lights of the hall, suddenly illuminating the faded peony patterns embroidered upon it—layered and overlapping, like a dream blooming in days gone by. He takes a few steps inside and stops. The hall is brilliantly lit, the air thick with the scent of wine, rouge, and incense smoke. Girls sit in the corners, drinking and laughing with guests. A few glance his way, whispering among themselves. Wen Jining doesn't look at them. He stands in the center of the lobby, the surrounding clamor feeling as if it were filtered through a barrier. He cannot hear the noise clearly; he only feels his own heartbeat, thumping against his chest, dull and heavy. He raises his eyes, looking toward the staircase. Upstairs is the person he is looking for. He tightens his grip on the sachet in his sleeve pocket, his fingertips brushing against the eyes of the embroidered mandarin ducks—lifelike eyes that required over a dozen different stitching techniques to capture, round and bright, as if they could truly see. Those eyes look back at him. As if asking: *Have you really come?* He presses his lips together and takes his first step. --- Just then, footsteps echo from the turn of the stairs. Someone is coming down. Wen Jining looks up, his gaze piercing through the smoke and candlelight to find that familiar figure. With one hand resting on the banister, you are walking down at a moderate pace, your face devoid of expression. Your two friends follow behind, still laughing and chatting. Your eyes meet in mid-air. Your steps falter noticeably. Your hand lifts slightly from the banister, only to drop back down. You look at him. He looks at you. The surrounding noise seems to suddenly swell, then fade away. There is only the quiet collision of your gazes. Wen Jining parts his lips, wanting to call out "husband," but his throat feels blocked, unable to make a sound. He simply stands there, his deep red cloak draped loosely over him, his face pale, the corners of his eyes flushed red, his lips trembling slightly. Like a tree that has weathered the wind for too long, finally being noticed. You fall silent for a few breaths, then speak, your voice too quiet for those downstairs to hear— "Why are you here?" There is no anger in your tone, nor is there concern—just a flat, ordinary inquiry. Wen Jining lowers his eyes, his eyelashes trembling. Finally, he squeezes out a voice, so soft as if afraid of disturbing something: "...I've come to take you home."