White Jade Capital

He wanted to burn down the house, burn himself, burn the old dream that devoured people. But Fu Ci carried him on his back and walked out into the reality that devoured people. "Young Master," he whispered, his voice as soft as a dream, "it's spring outside. I'll take you to see it."

World-weary, aloof, distant bottom x Humble, sensitive, taciturn top

"My love, you are spring."

Content warning: I don't even recognize what I wrote. I give up. When will I ever kick this habit of writing melancholy stuff in the middle of the night?

Qiu Shang · An old dream of being trapped within self-made walls

"My soul died yesterday. This body is merely an obituary delivered late."

[Exterior: Character sketch]

· Age: 27.

· Identity: A descendant of a declining scholarly family, and the last keeper of the family graves.

· Appearance: His skin is a cool, pale white from years without sunlight. His slender frame is as graceful as a crane, and he is always wrapped in a dark long gown made of fine material that has faded with age. His fingers are long and slender, and when he holds a cigarette, his fingernails have a faint bluish tinge. His eyes are empty, reflecting none of the warmth of human life.

· Aura: Old books, bitter medicine, and the faint, cool scent of opium combine into a strange, alluring decadence.

[Interior: Dissection of the soul]

· Mindset: A pessimistic sage. He sees that the tide of the times cannot be stopped, and that his class and cultural heritage are destined to be swept away. His indifference comes from a total, despair-inducing clarity.

· Speech: Concise and precise, with an aristocratic elegance and cruelty.

· "Sympathy is charity for beggars. I don't need it."

· "Living? Nothing but a slow death, witnessed by others."

· To a socialite trying to ingratiate herself with him: "Miss, my heart is a tomb. There is no room in it for the living."

[Details and symbolism]

· Pastime: Late at night, he plays Western opera on an old gramophone at full volume, as if trying to cover the emptiness inside with its magnificent, sorrowful music.

· Signature gesture: He unconsciously rubs an ancestral jade pendant, his only fragile connection to the world he left behind.

· His "decay": Not a physical illness, but an affliction of the heart. It is the disillusionment of idealism and an existential crisis, the helplessness of "watching himself sink with full awareness." He lives within a tragic aesthetic of his own making, and draws a strange pleasure from it.

Fu Ci · Silent fire beneath the earth

"My world had never known light until I saw you. So burning myself became my only direction."

[Exterior: Character sketch]

· Age: 22.

· Identity: A servant boy bought by Qiu Shang's father at a slave market, and Qiu Shang's personal attendant.

· Appearance: Clean-cut and handsome, but far too thin from long-term malnutrition. He always wears a blue cotton shirt washed until it has faded white, and keeps his head bowed, like a weightless shadow.

· Aura: The clean, fresh scent of soapberry, mixed with the faint bitterness of medicinal herbs.

[Interior: Dissection of the soul]

· Mindset: His logic is brutally simple: "The Qiu family bought my life, and I belong to the young master." He bases his entire sense of worth on "being needed by Qiu Shang." His humility comes from deep self-denial and a devotion bordering on religious faith.

· Speech: Extremely sparing with words. Each sentence takes all the courage he can muster.

· "Young Master, it's cold. Please put on another layer."

· When Qiu Shang stares at him: "I... I'll leave now."

· The only time he overstepped was when Qiu Shang coughed blood, and he shouted through his tears: "You can't die!"

[Details and symbolism]

· Pastime: He secretly reads the drafts Qiu Shang throws away, clumsily piecing together his young master's inner world from fragmented poems and notes in foreign languages.

· Signature gesture: He always follows half a step behind Qiu Shang, walking as lightly as a cat and deliberately slowing his breathing, afraid of disturbing the person ahead of him.

· His "sensitivity": He has an animal-like intuition for everything about Qiu Shang. From a sigh or the slightest furrow of his brow, he can accurately judge his mood and needs. This sensitivity is both his armor and his weakness.

Intertwined destinies: Love sprouting from decaying soil

Their relationship is a silent sacrifice and a closeness allowed without a word.

1. [The cultivation of dependence]

At first, Qiu Shang regarded Fu Ci as nothing more than a quiet piece of furniture. But gradually, he realized he had grown used to:

· The light left on for him in the study, no matter how late he came home.

· The glass of water on his bedside table, always at just the right temperature when he woke.

· The shadow cast by the moonlight outside his door, keeping quiet watch whenever he woke from a nightmare.

He began to accept this care. It was a wordless dependence, like oxygen: unnoticed when present, but suffocating when absent.

1. [A crack in the ice]

One snowy night, Qiu Shang's old illness flared up, and he coughed as if his lungs were being torn apart. As usual, Fu Ci knelt beside the bed and rubbed his back. A hot tear unexpectedly landed on the back of Qiu Shang's hand.

Qiu Shang froze. For the first time, his cold hand reached out of its own accord and covered Fu Ci's trembling hand.

"Why are you crying?" His voice was hoarse, but strangely free of anger. "I'm not dead yet."

In that moment, the frozen river in Fu Ci's world thawed, and all things came back to life.

2. [The great betrayal: The burning of Baiyujing] (Climax)

Beiping was about to fall. Qiu Shang resolved to burn himself along with the ancestral home, completing his ultimate martyrdom in the name of aesthetics. He dismissed everyone except Fu Ci.

"Why aren't you leaving?"

For the first time, Fu Ci didn't answer his question. Instead, he asked, "Young Master, are you thirsty?"

The moment Qiu Shang struck a match, Fu Ci wrapped both arms around him from behind with all his strength, then knocked unconscious the god he adored, who had imprisoned him for his whole life, with a swift, clean chop to the back of the neck.

He carried the weightless Qiu Shang on his back, as if carrying all his faith, and burst through the burning door called "the past."

"They all say you're a... I think you're a crane in the sky," he murmured amid the flames. He didn't know whether he was speaking to the unconscious Qiu Shang or to himself.

"A crane shouldn't die in..."

Epilogue: The warmth of ordinary life

They settled in a damp little town in the south. Qiu Shang's health had completely collapsed, and he spent his days wrapped in an old blanket, lying in a wicker chair. Fu Ci made a meager living copying books and writing Spring Festival couplets, struggling to support them both.

One afternoon, the sunlight was so warm it made his skin itch. Qiu Shang narrowed his eyes and watched Fu Ci washing the clothes he had coughed on the night before. Water splashed and gurgled. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Fu Ci's profile in the sunlight, and a faint scar, a mark left by the fire, crossed his skin.

Qiu Shang watched him for a long time, then spoke very softly.

"Fu Ci."

Fu Ci turned around, his eyes still carrying their habitual question and a trace of fear that was hard to notice.

Qiu Shang looked at him for a long time. Then, on his pale face, a truly carefree, almost translucent smile slowly blossomed.

"Spring is here."

Fu Ci froze. The wooden laundry beater slipped from his hand and fell into the basin, splashing water everywhere. Then tears poured from his eyes without warning.

He had waited so long for this spring. So long that he had nearly forgotten that all his humility, sensitivity, and steadfast devotion had been for the sake of becoming the long-awaited spring that belonged to him alone.

Theme: I write melancholy stuff in the middle of the night, and keep going further down that road.