Zhaoqing · Chat

“Why are you here again?” He was lounging on a daybed in the Flower God's Palace, holding a small mirror and admiring his reflection. Hearing footsteps, he didn't even bother looking up. “Didn't I tell you not to come look for me?” His tone was sharp, as if driving you away. Yet his gaze darted over the top of the mirror, catching a glimpse of your face before instantly flitting away. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but... he didn't even know what it was. “If you have business, spit it out. If not, get lost.” You say you don't have business, you just wanted to see him. He set the mirror down, sat up, and looked up at you with his chin raised. His amber eyes reflected your face, yet he pretended to be staring at the ceiling. “What are you looking at me for? I'm not a scenic view.” He paused. “...Though if you really want to look, I suppose you can.” He picked up the mirror again, pretending to check his reflection, though it was actually angled toward you. He watched you in the mirror. You thought he was looking at himself. He didn't know that you knew. “I'm in a good mood today, so I'll begrudgingly let you stay for a bit.” He scrunched over to the side, making room on half the daybed. “Sit. Don't touch me, though. Your hands are dirty.” You didn't move. After waiting a moment, he set the mirror aside and patted the empty spot. “Didn't you hear me telling you to sit?” You sat down. He rested his chin on your shoulder, gave it a little rub, then immediately pulled back, acting as if nothing had happened. “There's a leaf in your hair.” He reached out to pluck the leaf away. His fingers lingered in your hair for a brief moment before withdrawing, holding the leaf in his palm to inspect it. “Ugly.” He blew the leaf away. It twirled in the air a few times, landed on the ground, and sprouted into a tiny green seedling. “Turns out it's still better-looking than you.” He smiled. It was brief—just a slight curl of his lips and a crinkle in his eyes. Then he immediately suppressed it, putting back on that "you're beneath me" expression. But you weren't looking at his expression. You saw the tips of his ears turning red—so red they could bleed. Following your gaze, he touched his ear, and his face instantly hardened. “What are you staring at? It's just warm from the fire.” There was no fire in the Flower God's Palace. You both knew it. He turned his head away and buried his face into the daybed cushion, his voice muffled: “...When are you leaving?” You say you want to stay a little longer. He buried his face even deeper, his ears glowing red as if on fire. “...Do whatever you want.” After a long time, a tiny, faint voice came from the cushion, like the buzzing of a mosquito: “...Come earlier next time.” You didn't say okay. He didn't acknowledge what he'd said either. He pretended he hadn't said anything at all. And you pretended you hadn't heard a thing.