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The pavilion stood in quiet reverence amid the sprawling gardens of the Imperial Palace, its intricate lattices casting dappled shadows upon the stone floor as the wind wove through the open doors. The air was filled with the scent of blooming lotuses and the sounds of the babbling brook that fed the nearby pond.
Dan Feng exhaled slowly, savoring the serenity, the fleeting illusion of peace in a place heavy with memories. Though he had not visited this pavilion since that talk with his father oh-so long ago, it welcomed him into its tranquil embrace as though he had never left.
I’m home, Mother, Dan Feng greeted in his mind, I’ve come home --- and I’ve brought a guest for you to meet.
Yingxing had joined him on this pilgrimage to the family pavilion, an induction as much as it was paying respects. Though what had prompted this visit was nothing so somber --- Yunhua had insisted that Yingxing needed fresh air to help his recovery, which led them to sit on the same bench Dan Feng had once sat on with his father, what felt like eons ago.
At least he still had the remnants of his mother and the memories of their family. From when the palace had felt more like a home than a battlefield, before her death fractured the family. Dan Feng wondered, not for the first time, what her final thoughts had been as she fell to Yaoshi’s forces. Did she worry how her children would react? Did she long for her husband’s embrace and protection as she took her final breaths?
Something painful and raw chafed in him at the thought, the betrayal from both Huyuan-jun and their father too fresh. Dan Feng pressed those feelings down to be pondered upon later, outside of his mother’s domain.
A shift in his peripheral vision brought his focus back to the present. Yingxing had leant back against the pavilion’s red-lacquered railing, the light breeze playing with loose strands of his silver hair. His skin had regained some colour since his convalescence, no longer bearing the ashen pallor that it had taken on while he lay in his sickbed. Though Dan Feng knew that the scars would take a much longer time to fade, he took solace in Yingxing’s recovery.
Dan Feng let his gaze drift outward, tracing the edges of the garden: the sculpted hills, the lotus-lined ponds, and the bamboo whispering secrets to the wind. A masterpiece of his mother’s careful design. He wondered if she had been thinking of her children, of the future, when she had shaped these gardens, unaware that fate would cut her time short before she could see them in full bloom.
This place was a snapshot of a time untouched by treason and grief. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter, the memories of Tianfeng-jun, Yanting-jun, and Kungang-jun when they were young --- when their greatest worries were how to evade their tutors or who would sneak the last sweet bun from the kitchen.
But their family was fractured now. Huyuan-jun and their father both imprisoned --- though their father had long been a specter haunting the halls, the absences still weighed heavily.
It struck Dan Feng then, how similar himself and Yingxing were --- both missing a mother, both forever shaped by the void left behind. And yet, they were so different. Master Huaiyan, unlike Emperor Long, had not vanished into grief. He had anchored himself to his children, to his business, ensuring they remained tethered even in the tsunami of sorrow.
Dan Feng’s fingers brushed lightly against Yingxing’s wrist. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he murmured. “You were the one who convinced Laoba1-1 to open your mother’s office for my use.”
Yingxing blinked at him, then let out a soft sigh. “Yes. I did.”
“Why?”
A flush crept up Yingxing’s neck as he evaded Dan Feng’s gaze. “You looked exhausted --- I thought that maybe a change of scenery would do you good.”
Dan Feng took a slow breath, guilt pressing at him again. Another thing to add to the list of kindnesses Yingxing had granted him long before he had earned them. Just in hopes that a change of scenery would help him, Yingxing had convinced his father to give him access to a space belonging to his mother. “Thank you.” He refused to take such a gift for granted.
“Tell me about her?” Dan Feng asked, his voice quieter than before.
Yingxing blinked in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected the question. His fingers tightened around the fabric of his sleeve as he looked out over the garden. “I assume Father already told you how she died, then.”
Dan Feng inclined his head but said nothing, letting Yingxing decide how much to share.
The sound of the rustling leaves almost covered the shaky exhale that rocked through Yingxing’s chest. “Father had to leave on a business trip to Fanghu. I had never been and insisted he take the whole family, and he gave in.” Something dark crossed Yingxing’s face, almost smothering the flames of his eyes. “It was supposed to be simple --- a deal with the army so our forge could provide Fanghu’s soldiers with weaponry.
“While Father was away,” Yingxing began, his voice steady yet distant, as though he was truly in Fanghu rather than the gardens, “the estate we were staying at was caught in a border raid.
“She threw us both in a closet and defended us with her life.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with grief that time had not erased. Dan Feng’s chest ached at the quiet grief in Yingxing’s tone, so he reached out, cupping Yingxing’s face in his palm to ground him.
Yingxing’s breath hitched as he pressed into Dan Feng’s palm, covering his hand with his own. He seemed more present now, less caught in the painful tangle of memory. “She was a great craftswoman too,” he added quietly. “She loved A-jie and taught me much of what I know about painting. It was Father who taught me metalworking --- maybe her influence is why my designs are more ornate than his.”
Dan Feng turned the image of her over in his mind, the woman who had given life to Yingxing, the woman who had sacrificed herself to ensure her sons lived. She must have had dark hair --- for Hanguang’s hair was dark, unlike Yingxing’s and Huaiyan’s --- and she must have had Yingxing’s red eyes --- for Huaiyan’s and Hanguang’s were orange. He wondered if it was from her that Yingxing inherited his sharp wit, his brash charm, his unwavering protectiveness.
“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Dan Feng said, his thumb tracing a soothing path over Yingxing’s cheek. “Brave, too, to do what she did.”
Yingxing nodded, his throat tight with emotion. He shut his eyes, drawing comfort from Dan Feng’s touch.
Silently, Dan Feng sent a prayer to his late laoma1-2 --- a thanks for giving Yingxing life, for saving him at the cost of her own, because Dan Feng could not imagine a world without Yingxing in it. He would never get to meet her, no, but he knew that her hand guided Yingxing’s in his craft --- and those echoes would have ot be enough.
After a moment, Yingxing opened them again and, with quiet curiosity, asked, “What about your mother? You’ve never mentioned her.”
Dan Feng turned toward the garden that lay just beyond the pavilion --- the one his mother had designed with meticulous care. The sculpted hills, the delicate arrangement of flowers, the way the bamboo and lotus framed the streams: it was all her, writ large in every tiny aspect of these gardens.
“My mother was an artist too, of sorts,” he whispered, “she designed all the Imperial Gardens. But this pavilion --- ” he exhaled sharply, the ache of loss curling through his chest and taking its home in his soul --- “this pavilion was her favorite.”
Yingxing followed his gaze, taking in the beauty of the garden with new appreciation. “I can see why.”
“She never got to see it fully grown,” Dan Feng admitted, almost bitterly. The ache spread, creeping into old wounds left by his father’s absence and his sister’s betrayal.
“The former Emperor once said we look alike ---” the words were acid in his mouth --- “I am told we act the same as well.” His tone was sharper than he had intended, almost anguished, but here, in this sanctuary of memory, with only Yingxing beside him, he let the mask slip. “She died in an ambush,” Dan Feng finally confessed, the bitterness thick in his throat. “Attempting to negotiate peace with Yaoshi.”
For a fleeting moment, Dan Feng wondered if Yingxing would resent his mother --- and by extension, him, for they were so alike --- for that. For wanting peace with the very people who killed Yingxing’s mother and countless other people.
Instead of recoiling, Yingxing wrapped his arms around Dan Feng, the touch warm and grounding. “If she was like you,” he murmured, “then I’m sure she was an incredible woman and mother. A capable Empress, too.”
Dan Feng’s breath hitched, his vision blurring at the edges. He inhaled, pressing his face into Yingxing’s shoulder to hide. The warmth of his husband against him, steady and alive, was an anchor against the waves of grief that threatened to rise within him.
For a long moment, they remained like that, enveloped in each other’s presence. Then, breaking the silence, Dan Feng murmured, “tell me about Hanguang. I have only spoken to him thrice.”
Yingxing hummed, shifting slightly so that his head rested atop Dan Feng’s. “I’m surprised you’ve spoken to him at all since the wedding. He’s a snappish young man who’ll grow out of it when he gets older. Father intends to see him married soon, since he’s now head of the forge.”
Dan Feng frowned slightly at that, a twinge of guilt flickering in his chest. He had taken Yingxing away from his passion, from the work he loved, and though he knew Yingxing did not resent him for it, some days the thought pained him. Still, he explained, “He came to my suite once to speak to me --- and then we exchanged brief words in the halls.”
“What did you speak about?”
“Nothing of particular import,” Dan Feng answered plainly. He pressed closer to Yingxing, almost childishly upset that he could not fuse the two of them together, one heart, one soul, so that they would never have to part. “He asked how I was settling in, what I was reading --- he did strike me as a boastful young man.”
The sigh that Yingxing let out was almost comical. “He is, and worse, he’s a ladies’ man.”
Dan Feng hummed, almost amused by the thought of the young man he met being surrounded by women, before he remembered how quickly Hanguang had gotten drunk at their wedding. “A man of vices, then?”
“Unlike anyone else I’ve met,” Yingixng groaned, “I don’t understand where he got it from.”
“You mean to say you have no vices?” Dan Feng questioned, “how ascetic of you.”
Yingxing squeezed Dan Feng briefly, reminding him just how strong Yingxing was for a moment. “Do I act so holy? I have my vices, Your Highness.”
“Like?”
“Forging -- and you.”
Dan Feng nuzzled his head into the crook of Yingxing’s neck, an almost childish tone coming through, “ah, I cannot believe I am the second spouse --- your anvil truly is your first wife.”
“And that’s why I am here, in the Capital, instead of Zhuming,” Yingxing volleyed back sarcastically, “because I love my craft more than my husband.”
Though Dan Feng knew this was but banter, the admission of Yingixng’s love was still so new it set his heart jackrabbiting again. “Hush.”
Yingxing chuckled, letting the moment settle before asking, “and what are your siblings like? I have only met and spoken to them briefly --- aside from Yanting-jun, that is.” He paused, a small shiver running through his body. “Kungang-jun gave the impression that she might murder me in my sleep.”
Dan Feng pulled away slightly, just enough to search Yingxing’s face for any signs of jest. Instead, he found himself momentarily distracted by how strikingly beautiful his husband looked in the soft evening light. “You jest. Kungang-jun could not hurt a flower.”
Yingxing’s mouth gaped. “She spoke as though she knew we would be impris --- ” his eyes widened --- “Is xiaogu1-3 a seer?”
Dan Feng could not help the small smile that grew on his face. “No,” he assured Yingxing. “Though you are not the first to think she might be. She’s very perceptive.”
“I’ll say,” Yingxing muttered, shivering slightly. “Even though she approved of me in the end, it felt like she was staring into my soul.”
“That’s why she approved of you,” Dan Feng responded almost cheekily. “She saw into your soul and found no intention to harm me.”
Yingxing sighed, still looking mildly disturbed before noting, “Tianfeng-jun, I thought he was going to cry the entire wedding.”
“Really?” Dan Feng hadn’t noticed, and a flicker of guilt gnawed at him for not paying closer attention. So much had been happening that day, and he had been drowning in his own head, but still, to think he missed such an important thing weighed on Dan Feng.
“Yes,” Yingxing continued. “Though his door game was quite easy --- he just made me prepare your favorite foods according to the four flavors of life.”
When Dan Feng’s brows raised, Yingxing barreled on. “You like bitter tea, honey, lemon, and though you can eat spicy food, you prefer more bland options.”
Dan Feng took in the information, processing it, and then realization dawned. “You told the family cooks that.” He had always heard that Zhuming cuisine was incredibly hot --- but none of the food served at the Flamewheel Estate was very spicy at all. His tea was always brewed to be particularly bitter, even at ---
“At our wedding. You were the one who served me that tea, weren’t you?”
Yingxing’s smile softened, warmth shining in his crimson eyes. “Yes. Tianfeng-jun watched over me like a hawk to make sure I got it right.”
Dan Feng felt warmth flood his cheeks. Even when he had been so rude to Yingxing in the beginning, Yingxing had still cared for him.
“So you do brew good tea,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t lie.”
Yingxing laughed, the sound filling Dan Feng with something tender and unshakable. Oh, how he preferred Yingxing laughing and smiling rather than being sickly and pale.
“If Your Highness says so, then it must be true,” Yingxing teased.
Dan Feng wanted to retort, but instead found his heart caught in his throat. Against the backdrop of the garden, with the golden light catching in his hair, Yingxing looked so unbearably beautiful that Dan Feng couldn’t take it. Slowly, gently, he leaned in, one arm winding around Yingxing’s shoulders while the other settled over his still-beating heart. He exhaled a shaky breath, grounding himself in the steady march of Yingxing’s pulse.
Yingxing’s breath hitched, eyes widening slightly before his hands found their places --- one at Dan Feng’s hip, the other resting against his cheek.
“You know,” Yingxing murmured, his voice husky and low, “I believe you still owe me a kiss.”
Dan Feng’s breath stuttered in his throat, and he swallowed thickly. “I --- I suppose I do.”
He pressed in closer, giving Yingxing time to pull away, but there was no hesitation. Their lips met in an uncoordinated slide, not a practiced dance but something sweeter, something raw. And yet --- yet there was nowhere Dan Feng would rather be. He had lost so much for this, for the right to love freely --- and it was all worth it, just for this moment.
Somewhere in the distance, a servant called out for them. They parted, breathing heavily, and Dan Feng took in the sight of Yingxing’s reddened cheeks and lips. Unable to stop himself, he murmured, completely lovestruck, “your blush --- it matches your eyes.”
Yingxing groaned and pressed a hand over his face. “You can’t say things like that when you’re going to be busy until tonight.”
Dan Feng only smiled, standing and turning toward the gardens his mother had so lovingly designed, the vestiges of his childhood spent among his parents and siblings. Then he turned to his future --- to Yingxing.
He offered a hand to his husband, considering he was still recovering, and then noted, “we should bring the whole family out here sometime soon. It’s about time we gave it life again.”