Xia Xiqing noticed that Zhou Ziheng’s dining room was spacious, yet the table seemed disproportionately small—barely seating six. A rectangular solid wood table was draped with a lake-blue tablecloth, set with the simplest white porcelain tableware. Centered on the table stood a deep brown vase resembling a wide-mouthed jar, holding a bouquet of white preserved flowers.
Wait—Xia Xiqing plucked one out and realized these weren’t ordinary preserved flowers. They were white roses meticulously folded from specially treated crinkled paper.
He pressed his nose close to the petals and caught a whiff of rose fragrance. Xia Xiqing felt strangely familiar with these flowers and furrowed his brow in thought.
He seemed to recall folding these things as a child.
Zhou Ziheng, carrying the final salad course, noticed Xia Xiqing staring blankly at the paper rose he held. The scene was rather pleasing to the eye.
“The online comments were right—you really are beautiful.” Zhou Ziheng placed the salad on the table and sat down across from Xia Xiqing. “As long as you don’t speak.”
“Get lost.” The word “pretty” was practically a forbidden term for Xia Xiqing. Zhou Ziheng didn’t understand; in his eyes, describing Xia Xiqing’s features as pretty couldn’t be more fitting. Pretty wasn’t exclusively a word for girls.
“I’m genuinely complimenting you, and you still don’t like hearing it.”
Zhou Ziheng, who was pouring fish soup for him, chuckled softly. “I’ll remember that.”
“Your dining table is so small.” Xia Xiqing spread his arms wide, almost touching the edges. “But I like the decor. Your taste is decent.”
“It used to be a big, long table, but I live alone most of the time and spend so much time on set. Meals are pretty casual.” Zhou Ziheng placed the tomato fish soup in a small white porcelain bowl, padded the bottom with a paper towel, and handed it to Xia Xiqing. “I felt it was wasteful to have such a big table for one person, so I switched to a smaller one.”
“But living alone in such a big place is wasteful,” Xia Xiqing couldn’t follow his logic.
“Then move in with me?” Zhou Ziheng had only meant it as a joke, but the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted it slightly, feeling he’d overstepped. Every moment spent with Xia Xiqing, he carefully guarded his boundaries. He wanted to be kind to him, yet feared that kindness might push him away.
Xia Xiqing froze at the suggestion. Before he could respond, Zhou Ziheng softened his tone. “Just kidding. A house isn’t like a dining table. How to put it… In my mind, a dining table holds a special place. Eating alone is the loneliest thing. If you sit by yourself at a huge table, with just one or two dishes laid out, quietly eating by yourself… it just feels pitiful.”
Xia Xiqing suddenly found himself at a loss for words. Zhou Ziheng’s description seemed to perfectly capture his own life over the years.
That’s why he loved crashing on Xu Qichen’s meals. Even amidst his chaotic romantic history, he’d always clung to a peculiar habit: he disliked sharing a bed afterward, yet relished sharing a meal beforehand.
It made things feel less lonely.
Thinking this, Xia Xiqing looked down at the fish soup in his bowl. The broth glowed a beautiful tomato red, shimmering with light under the warm yellow lamp. The aroma was comforting. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip. The rich tomato flavor mingled with the sweet freshness of yellow croaker, smooth and aromatic on the tongue. One sip warmed his stomach.
Zhou Ziheng seemed quite nervous. “Well? Is it good?”
Xia Xiqing didn’t respond. He finished the small bowl in one go, then handed it back. “Another bowl, please. Scoop me a piece of fish.”
Watching Zhou Ziheng happily ladle more soup for him, then scoop a large piece of fish from the ceramic pot and carefully pick out the visible bones with chopsticks, Xia Xiqing felt a slight sting in his nose. He rubbed it, then picked up a piece of sweet and sour spare ribs and popped it into his mouth.
“Don’t drink it all at once. You won’t have room for dinner.”
“I’m not a little girl,” Xia Xiqing mumbled with ribs in his mouth. “These ribs are delicious—crispy. Different from the ones Xu Qichen makes.”
Zhou Ziheng switched bowls to serve him rice, only to see Xia Xiqing dunk the rice straight into the fish soup.
“That’s bad for your stomach.”
“It’s bad if you do it every day, but one meal won’t hurt.” Xia Xiqing scooped a spoonful of rice into his mouth, his eyes squinting with satisfaction. “I haven’t eaten like this in years. Soup rice is so delicious.”
Zhou Ziheng tentatively asked, “Did you eat this often as a kid? Your mom…”
“My mom doesn’t cook. Her hands are only for appreciating fine art.” Xia Xiqing’s tone grew slightly colder. “She’s an oil painting collector—well, I mean, before she got sick.” He tapped his temple with his index finger.
Zhou Ziheng knew this topic was a minefield. Even if curious, he didn’t press further. But the fact that Xia Xiqing was willing to speak about it at all was a huge surprise to him.
Xia Xiqing steered the conversation back himself. “When I was in elementary school, the cook at our house made amazing fish soup. Since my hometown is Wuhan, right by the Yangtze River, we ate fish every day. But I was a picky eater as a kid. So she’d rinse the rice with fish broth for me, then sit beside me, carefully picking out every fish bone and placing them on top of my rice. “
“And then?”
“Nothing else.” Xia Xiqing lowered his head and took a few bites of rice. “She had a baby later and quit her job.”
Zhou Ziheng reached out and ruffled Xia Xiqing’s hair. “Whenever you want to eat it, I’ll cook it for you.” Xia Xiqing disliked being treated like a child. He grabbed Zhou Ziheng’s wrist, his expression warning, “Don’t act like you’re looking after a little kid.”
“No, I just think—” Zhou Ziheng used the hand Xia Xiqing held to trace his cheek. “Since I don’t like eating alone, and you don’t either, we could occasionally keep each other company like this.”
He spoke insincerely, only wanting to avoid seeming too eager and scaring this little cat away.
Xia Xiqing released his wrist. He wanted to refuse outright—this sense of sharing daily life felt both dull and strange. But Zhou Ziheng’s cooking was so delicious, so perfectly suited to his taste, that rejecting it outright might lead to regret in a couple of days. Better to stay silent for now and leave himself some wiggle room.
The meal dragged on slowly. Afterward, Xia Xiqing volunteered to wash the dishes. After all, he’d been freeloading for so long. Though he’d never done such chores before, compared to cooking, washing dishes was several orders of magnitude easier.
But Zhou Ziheng flatly dismissed his offer. “We have a dishwasher. Besides,” he said, standing up with the neatly stacked dishes in hand, his tone casual, “an artist’s hands aren’t meant for washing dishes. That would be a waste of talent.”
Xia Xiqing struggled to suppress the smile tugging at his lips. He was truly amazed. Zhou Ziheng was clearly a pure, innocent virgin, yet he was so skilled at this. If this were a low-level player, a few moves like that would have them utterly devoted and unable to resist.
But he wasn’t.
Still, it was precisely when high-level players clashed that things got interesting. Otherwise, wouldn’t the story end too simply? This wasn’t some fairy tale meant to placate children.
The emotional world of adults was nothing but a back-and-forth game of teasing, wasn’t it?
It was already late after dinner. Xia Xiqing used the excuse of needing a shower to head back to the apartment across the hall. He’d just stepped out of the shower when he noticed a string of messages piling up on his phone.
[Moral Exemplar: Finished showering? Want to watch a movie?]
[Moral Champion: I bought a projector ages ago but never used it. Just set it up—turns out it works pretty well.]
Xia Xiqing roughly towel-dried his hair, tossed the towel aside, and sat on the couch to reply. Suddenly, a call came in—from his uncle, who hadn’t contacted him in ages. After a moment’s thought, he answered.
“What’s up?” Xia Xiqing’s uncle, Xi Hui, had never been close to him. But no closeness meant no conflicts. Plus, he was a generally polite and refined person, so Xia Xiqing didn’t mind exchanging a few words.
“Xiqing, it’s been a while. I know you dislike false pleasantries, so let’s skip the formalities. I have two matters to discuss, both concerning your mother. Her health hasn’t been good lately. I think you should visit her if you have time, though it’s entirely up to you.”
“Get straight to the second point.” Xia Xiqing suddenly craved a cigarette, but after fumbling around for a while, he realized he was wearing pajamas.
“Right. You know your mother’s Pulito Art Center finished renovations last month and is preparing to reopen. A couple days ago, I received an invitation to an art gala. Since you’re the center’s owner, you’d be a more fitting representative than me. This event will draw many heavyweights from the art world—and business figures, of course—which could greatly benefit the center’s relaunch.”
The reasoning was flawless, typical of Xi Hui’s meticulous approach. But Xia Xiqing knew better than anyone that none of these were the real reasons. The most crucial factor was that he now had name recognition, eliminating the need for promotion. Xia Xiqing despised being used, yet his feelings toward his mother’s business—or rather, toward his mother herself—were complex. He both resented her and pitied her.
“You know Pulito was built by your mother after you were born—a memorial to your arrival.”
Yes, that was true. Even its name was the Italian word for “clear.” Yet she had ultimately destroyed this very art center herself, lending the whole affair a sense of inescapable fate.
“Xiqing?”
“I understand. I’ll go, but I won’t do anything else.” Xia Xiqing’s tone was flat. “Artists are the most useless people. Don’t count on me.”
The person on the other end seemed to relax. “I’ll send you the address shortly. Take care of yourself out there.” Xi Hui paused before adding, “The entertainment industry is a mess. Be careful.”
“Compared to the circles I grew up in, the entertainment world is child’s play.”
After hanging up, Xia Xiqing forgot about replying to Zhou Ziheng. He wondered if he should just take his paintings to Pulito if it really reopened. But that would be downright ridiculous—what owner would display their own work in their gallery? It sounded like a cheap gimmick.
People’s perceptions were always peculiar—they seemed to believe art only gained value when tied to poverty and hardship. Who would believe a rich kid could produce anything worthwhile?
That was precisely why Xia Xiqing never mentioned his profession when socializing, nor his family background when collaborating on creative projects. Mixing the two always created a subtle sense of cheapness.
After rummaging for ages, he finally dug out a pack of Marlboro Peach Double Menthol from between the sofa cushions. He stared at the pack for a while before remembering it was probably the one he’d taken from Xia Zhixu last time. That guy had been forced to quit smoking, so he couldn’t smoke the ones he’d bought earlier.
Xia Xiqing had never been fond of bubble-bursting cigarettes, finding them rather lackluster. But when the craving hit, he had no choice but to indulge. They made a decent after-dinner treat. He placed the slender cigarette between his lips, lit it, and took a drag. His phone suddenly rang. Thinking it might be Xi Hui calling back, he glanced at the screen only to find it was Zhou Ziheng. Only then did he remember their earlier conversation had been cut short.
The Double Burst contained two bursting beads: a blue mint bead and a peach-flavored one near the mouthpiece. Xia Xiqing took a drag, then casually crushed the blue bead. The icy mint aroma, wrapped in smooth tobacco flavor, shot straight to his scalp. His hair wasn’t fully dry yet, and his mind jolted as if a nerve had been sharply tugged then quickly released, opening every pore in his body.
“Hello?”
For some reason, Zhou Ziheng found Xia Xiqing’s voice on the other end of the line lazy, almost ethereal. He cleared his throat. “You finished showering? What are you doing?”
“Doing drugs.”
“…”
“Just kidding.” Xia Xiqing chuckled lazily twice, the chill mostly gone. He leaned back comfortably against the armrest of the sofa, only then remembering Zhou Ziheng’s earlier invitation. He wasn’t particularly interested in movies, but he was quite curious about something else.
“I don’t want to watch a movie. Do you have any of those TV dramas you acted in when you were a kid? I want to see them.”
Zhou Ziheng choked on his words and coughed a few times. “What’s so interesting about those…”
“I just want to see them.” Xia Xiqing blew a faint smoke ring, reaching out with his long fingers to catch it. The smoke slipped through his fingers.
The silence on the other end felt like an eternity. He didn’t rush him, just smoked quietly. He’d smoked nearly a third of the cigarette when Zhou Ziheng finally ended the standoff, reluctantly conceding.
Even when Xia Xiqing appeared at his doorstep, wearing Zhou Ziheng’s slippers and holding a white cigarette between his teeth, Zhou Ziheng’s expression remained sour. Xia Xiqing, however, grinned happily, took the cigarette from his mouth, and tucked it between his fingers before reaching out to pinch Zhou Ziheng’s ear.
“Time to see Little Zhou Ziheng.”
“Shut up.”
But Xia Xiqing hadn’t anticipated that the projector Zhou Ziheng mentioned was actually installed in his bedroom. Anyone else would have suspected ulterior motives behind such an invitation, but coming from Zhou Ziheng, it was undoubtedly a genuine movie night.
His bed faced a large blank wall. Zhou Ziheng had found an old box in one of the rooms, containing several hard drives.
“I haven’t even seen them myself.” Zhou Ziheng’s tone still carried a hint of wistfulness. Xia Xiqing crouched down beside him, ruffling his hair. “Then isn’t this perfect? Let’s revisit your adorable childhood together.”
He looked up, his eyes carrying a hint of menace. Xia Xiqing immediately fell silent, climbing onto the bed with practiced ease.
“Is it okay if I turn off the lights?” Zhou Ziheng still felt uneasy despite the projector’s glow.
Xia Xiqing’s expression remained calm. “It’s fine.”
Darkness spread, the shifting patterns from the projector blocking the flow of shadow. Those rays, like sunlight dancing on water, cast beautiful colors across Zhou Ziheng’s approaching body, stirring a flutter in Xia Xiqing’s heart.
If this body could be a canvas, it would surely paint a breathtaking masterpiece.
The soft bed dipped as Zhou Ziheng sat beside him.
“Why did you ask me to see a movie?” Xia Xiqing turned his face, seeing light filter through Zhou Ziheng’s lashes. When they fluttered, they resembled shed cicada wings—beautiful.
“I’m about to join a production crew. After that, I probably won’t have this much free time anymore. I originally picked a foreign film where the lead is also HIV-positive. I wanted to see how others portray it, but watching alone feels a bit depressing.” Zhou Ziheng rested his head against the pillow. “Having you along makes it feel better.”
All that talk was just nonsense. He simply wanted more time with him.
Xia Xiqing nodded. The projector screen showed a small child in tiny overalls, speaking in a babyish voice. He burst out laughing. “How old were you here?”
Zhou Ziheng squinted, recalling. “Six, I think. The year I debuted.”
“So adorable.” Xia Xiqing stared at Zhou Ziheng, then shifted his gaze to the child on screen, searching for similarities between them. Embarrassed, Zhou Ziheng turned Xia Xiqing’s face away. “Watch your TV, not me.”
“It is your TV.” Xia Xiqing chuckled softly. Zhou Ziheng kept sensing a fruity scent around him—not the usual fragrance Xia Xiqing wore. Confused, he asked, “Did you switch body washes?”
“No,” Xia Xiqing quickly realized. “You mean the cigarettes, right?” Though he answered, his eyes remained glued to the screen, watching the adorable little boy. Six-year-old Zhou Ziheng played the youngest son in the family, with two older sisters and a brother. The scene showed him clattering up the stairs, calling out for his brother in a crisp, sweet voice, like a little peach.
He was so much better as a kid—obedient and soft.
“Cigarettes? You mean the scent comes from cigarettes?”
He knew this goody-two-shoes hadn’t seen much of the world. Xia Xiqing took the cigarette from his lips and handed it to him. “Want to try?”
Zhou Ziheng declined. “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Tsk.” Xia Xiqing finally shifted his attention away from little Zhou Ziheng. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Model student.”
He’d always had this twisted sense of humor, enjoying teasing and corrupting well-behaved children.
“I don’t like things that are addictive, and they’re bad for your health,” Zhou Ziheng explained stiffly. Little did he know, Xia Xiqing, still holding the cigarette, sat up abruptly. He straddled Zhou Ziheng, legs spread wide as he pinned his shoulders down. The pink bubble gum tip at his lips shattered instantly under his bite, flooding Zhou Ziheng’s lungs with the rich, crisp scent of fresh peaches.
Xia Xiqing removed the cigarette, blew a perfect smoke ring, and watched the haze drift across Zhou Ziheng’s furrowed brow, melting into the shifting light. His cigarette-clutching fingers pinched his jaw, and he pressed his lips to his.
The icy sweetness of smoke was passed between them, completing a long, hypnotic exchange.
Peach, mint, cigarette.
Intertwined light and shadow, the soft, sweet tones of childhood, sticky, intimate kisses.
“Look into my eyes and say it again.”
Soft lips ground against desire.
“Do you like addictive things?”
