Lu Yang went over and sat down, his body stiff as a board. Even when he lay back, he was straight as a plank. When Zhao Peilan untied his forehead band and hair cord and gently parted his hair with her fingers, he jolted so hard he nearly jumped up on the spot.
Zhao Peilan told him to close his eyes and stop overthinking.
“The more tense you are, the heavier you feel, and the more tired I get. Just pretend you’re sleeping.”
She also said to him, “A-Yan used to have his hair washed like this when he was little. He knew how to enjoy it. Before I even poured the water, he’d already be asleep. He said he liked getting his hair washed—if he fell asleep during it, his dad wouldn’t wake him up to study. I actually think he liked studying just fine. He’d nap for a bit like that, then stay up late burning lamp oil at night. Still such a child.”
Listening to her talk, Lu Yang gradually relaxed.
Even his brow smoothed out. With his eyes closed, he muttered, “He really is childlike.”
If you put it in scholarly terms, that was a pure, unspoiled heart.
Lu Yang felt as if he were about to fall asleep himself, his body floating, swaying. Whenever he was utterly exhausted, right on the edge of sleep, he would get this drifting, sinking sensation.
But this time, he knew he wouldn’t fall into endless darkness. Someone was holding him up. Half-asleep, he called for his mother. Every call was answered. By the time his thoughts sank deep and heavy, a long while passed. When no more water flowed over his scalp and he felt both chilly and restless, he woke again to find his hair already washed.
Lu Yang rubbed his eyes. Still sleepy.
He took the cotton towel from his mother and rubbed his hair himself, tousling and drying it hard.
Fatigue had drained a lot of warmth from his body. He felt a little cold, while his scalp and neck—wrapped in thick hair—felt stuffy and hot.
The intense drowsiness made him irritable. When his hair was mostly dry, it felt like he’d finally pushed past the sleepiness. He even wanted to wash his clothes first. Zhao Peilan wouldn’t hear of that.
Then he said he’d cook. It was getting late, and Xie Yan would be home soon.
Cooking wasn’t for him either. Zhao Peilan sent him back to the room to sit for a bit.
“Go try on your clothes. I made two more outfits for you.”
Lu Yang went back to the room, saw the kang, and felt sleepy all over again.
He shook his head, baffled.
Why did it feel like a drowsiness bug had possessed him?
He didn’t bother trying on the clothes. He flopped down on the kang, pulled a thin blanket over his back, and decided to close his eyes for just a bit.
Hearing no movement from the room, Zhao Peilan guessed he’d fallen asleep and didn’t go in to call him.
When Xie Yan returned from school and pushed open the courtyard gate, he immediately felt that something at home had changed.
From the surroundings alone, it was obvious. There were puddles of water in the yard, a basin soaking clothes, and several pairs of shoes.
From the kitchen came the sound of stir-frying—the spatula clanging against the iron wok.
A person’s mood shows in the way they work.
Even wielding a spatula—there was the dull, perfunctory kind of stirring, and then there was the energetic, passionate kind.
Xie Yan called out at once, “Mom! I’m home!”
Zhao Peilan answered from the kitchen and told him to keep his voice down. “Yang-ge’er’s worn out. Don’t shout.”
Xie Yan broke into a huge smile. After two steps, his left and right feet tangled. He wanted to check the kitchen first, then wanted to go look in the room first, and nearly tripped himself.
Zhao Peilan came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and told him to go look in the room.
“Yang-ge’er’s probably asleep. Don’t wake him. I’ll save some food and heat it up when he wakes.”
Xie Yan answered with a string of “Mm-hmms.”
Lu Yang’s return—without even stepping into the yard to join this brief exchange—filled the house with energy. Mother and son spoke in lowered voices, yet sounded livelier than usual. They smiled, eyes bright, moving as if carried by the wind.
Xie Yan entered the main room. Before pushing the door open, he even acted like a thief, craning his neck and peeking through the crack, trying to see something inside.
Lu Yang hadn’t lit an oil lamp. It was late outside, and the room was already dim. He saw nothing.
He pushed the door open quietly.
That was the best thing about the small room—once inside, you were right at the kang. The person lying there was instantly in Xie Yan’s sight.
His heart finally settled. His steps grew even lighter. He took off his book bag without letting it brush against anything, afraid the slightest sound might disturb Lu Yang.
He noticed the two stones on the table. After a quick glance, he closed the window first.
Lu Yang worried that bugs might bite Xie Yan while he studied and distract him, so he’d gone out of his way to buy gauze and had the window lattice modified with a layered screen that let in light but kept insects out.
The house was fumigated with mugwort often, and the doors stayed closed. Inside, only one or two mosquitoes buzzed about.
Lu Yang wasn’t foolish—he’d put up the mosquito net before sleeping. This nap was deep and sweet.
Xie Yan squatted by the kang, looking at him, hands resting on the edge. He dared inch forward only little by little, only dared to touch Lu Yang’s hair.
His husband was home.
His heart was whole again.
The familiar home let Lu Yang relax completely. Even with soft movements around him, he didn’t wake. Even when Xie Yan accidentally bumped a table or chair, he slept on.
After dinner, Xie Yan hurriedly washed up and returned to the room, lit the oil lamp, and found Lu Yang still asleep.
He moved a chair to the kang and sat down with a book. After reading a few pages, he’d glance sideways to check on Lu Yang.
After a while, he went to the desk to grind ink and write his assignments.
Xie Yan often said that essays had no fixed form—especially exam essays. With the same structure and the same question, there could be endless variations. But in his mind, these essays could be produced in batches.
There were set patterns. He knew them too well. Once he put pen to paper, it was a solid piece.
A “solid piece” met the formal requirements, stayed tightly on topic, and hit the key points cleanly.
The essays that truly moved him, though, were the ones where you could feel life in the words. The prose flowed like a stream, surged like a river. Gathered together, it carried vibrant vitality. Maybe some parts were too narrow, or unexpected branches appeared, or great rocks clogged the flow, making you sigh in regret—but those were the essays you couldn’t forget.
When he taught Wu Pingzhi how to write, Xie Yan told him: if you just wanted to be average, it was three parts technique, seven parts thought. But to rank at the very top, he had to find his literary heart.
The literary heart was like a spring—one source of living water that could gather into a sea.
What exactly was that literary heart? Xie Yan found it hard to explain.
For him, it was pure vitality.
He needed that spark of life to write essays that flowed smoothly from start to finish, sound in both logic and feeling.
As he wrote with sweeping strokes, Lu Yang slowly woke on the kang.
Still groggy, Lu Yang took in the light in the room and the shadows cast on the wall, gradually coming back to himself.
He’d fallen asleep on his stomach, and his neck was sore. Propping himself up, he shook his head to ease it. Watching his top scholar writing with flying brushstrokes, he smiled quietly without speaking.
Only after Xie Yan set down his pen did he speak. “A-Yan, are you done? Come here and let me hold you.”
Xie Yan had been waiting all along. The moment he heard that, he didn’t hesitate—he turned and dove straight into the mosquito net.
Lu Yang had barely blinked before Xie Yan wrapped him in a tight embrace.
His smile widened. “Look at you, so impatient. My hair’s still loose—don’t press on it and hurt me.”
Xie Yan felt around, gently sweeping Lu Yang’s hair out of the way, onto the back of his hand.
That touch made Lu Yang feel itchy.
Noticing two mosquito bites on Xie Yan’s face, Lu Yang scratched them for him, pressing little cross-shaped marks with his fingernail.
“Damn mosquitoes, daring to bite my top scholar’s handsome face. I’ll kill them!”
Xie Yan didn’t laugh. When he spoke, his voice even carried a sob.
“Exactly. You have to stand up for me. When you weren’t here, they all bit me.”
Lu Yang wanted to laugh, but hearing it made his chest ache. He gently nudged Xie Yan, and the embrace loosened a little.
Facing each other, Lu Yang saw how red Xie Yan’s eyes were. Tears fell just like that, and his heart ached for him.
“I told Mom this afternoon that you’re childlike. Look at you—crying already.”
Xie Yan said, “I didn’t cry outside. You’ve lost so much weight. I finally managed to put a bit of flesh on you, and you ran it all off.”
Lu Yang told him, “That’s just how it is in summer—no appetite. I really didn’t mistreat myself this time. Meat every meal. I even ate beef—three mace of silver a plate! I just couldn’t eat much, no helping it. You can fatten me up again.”
