Their everyday clothes mostly used pankou (frog buttons).
Pankou could be sewn on individually—if one fell off, it could be repaired or replaced.
There were many styles of pankou, so a matching pair like this was rare. Men, when out in public, dressed neatly and didn’t bother with romantic or decorative touches. At most, they might wear a jade pendant or handkerchief.
Xie Yan examined the pair carefully, unsure how to use them.
Wu Pingzhi demonstrated: “You know a vertical-collar garment, right? I once wore a vertical-collar underlayer, with a round-collar robe over it. One button would show at the neck. You can make clothes like that and sew the mandarin duck clasps on.”
Xie Yan thought it over and accepted the gift.
That evening, he went home, placed the mandarin duck clasps carefully in the cabinet, and lingered a long time looking at Lu Yang’s portrait.
When the evening darkened, he hurried out to help in the kitchen.
Zhao Peilan suggested he study and do his homework, saying he didn’t need to help with the kitchen.
But Xie Yan insisted. He could do some chores, and his cooking was good—he had to help.
Zhao Peilan noticed his expression was off and asked if he had been resting poorly.
Xie Yan shook his head: “No, I’ve been sleeping well.”
They say, “What you think by day, you dream by night.” He hoped to meet Lu Yang in his dreams and took sleeping seriously.
But the more he thought, the less he dreamed. Recently, he had no dreams at all.
He used to dream vividly, sometimes even the characters in books came alive, chasing him to ask the meaning of words. If he answered wrongly, the character would crash onto his robe, leaving bold ink marks.
The marks would move, leaving a lasting impression. Upon waking, he remembered the content more clearly, even what had been blurry in the dream. He loved these dreams.
This made Xie Yan reflect—did he love studying more than Lu Yang? Otherwise, why didn’t he dream of him? It troubled him greatly.
After dinner, he returned to his room to study and write compositions.
At home, he would glance sideways at the portrait.
When Lu Yang was around, he would sit close. Lu Yang often said he became so absorbed in reading that he was oblivious to sounds—if a thief entered, asking about the money box, he would answer truthfully without noticing.
Lu Yang himself behaved the same when reading or writing. At first, Xie Yan would watch secretly; later, he would glance openly from the side.
When Lu Yang worked, he was like a whirlwind, attending to everything in sight. When he concentrated, Xie Yan would quiet down and watch, unable to tear his eyes away.
After moving, these side glances became common.
Now Lu Yang was gone, and Xie Yan could only look at the wall portrait.
On Lu Yang’s first day away, he found all three letters.
Each letter had a marked date for opening: June 5, June 21, and July 1.
The June 5 letter even had a giant warning on the envelope not to open it early. Xie Yan obeyed, keeping all letters safe until the proper dates.
The first letter was long and detailed. Lu Yang had cut extra paper, stored fine ink sticks for him to use freely, and prepared a cotton jacket for rainy, damp days—thicker than his usual garments, for warmth and protection.
The house was stocked with rice, flour, oil, and groceries, though fresh vegetables required more effort. If Zhao Peilan refused to go alone, Zhang Tie could deliver fresh vegetables daily.
Lu Yang encouraged Xie Yan to take more walks outside, warning that staying cooped up would affect his health.
He advised diligence in study but not to overstrain. Xie Yan, already lean and having endured hardship, now needed to balance learning, fitness, and eventually writing for income. With Lu Yang away, the household responsibilities weighed heavily—he needed rest when necessary.
He also wrote about the neighborhood: neighbors got along well, and extra vegetables should be shared. Relations weren’t for gain—help in emergencies or passing messages was enough.
Knowing Xie Yan often lost track of time while studying, Lu Yang reminded him to draw, noting that even simple drawings took time, and warned against staying up late by lamp. Sleep on schedule.
Lu Yang’s letters rambled but consistently conveyed: where the money, clothes, and supplies were, to rest properly, and that he loved Xie Yan.
Xie Yan obeyed, rarely drawing himself these days, mostly observing Lu Yang’s calligraphy and sketches.
After visiting the prefecture, Lu Yang’s demeanor had changed: softer, more determined and steady. Xie Yan was glad for him.
On June 21, he opened the second letter.
It was thin, three pages—two illustrations, one letter.
The drawings depicted Xie Yan.
Lu Yang, not yet able to depict the person in his heart directly, had boldly observed Xie Yan to draw him.
Both illustrations showed him studying: one sitting on the kang in the morning, clothes slightly disheveled, struck by inspiration, immediately grinding ink and writing; the other late at night, pushing the stool to the door, standing at the table, writing furiously.
As a beginner, Lu Yang’s lines were shaky, not as expressive as Xie Yan’s. Facial details weren’t recognizable; only the room setup, clothing, and posture conveyed who it was.
That was enough. Xie Yan treasured these two drawings—they were gifts from his beloved.
The letter itself was playful. Xie Yan could almost hear Lu Yang teasing, making faces, asking if he cried alone under the covers each night.
Lu Yang had planned ahead for that day, going to the grand inn to eat a feast, celebrating the scholar-boy’s birthday.
Previously, in the village, he had heard Xie Yan recite a few poems and liked them. Xie Yan had written them down, and Lu Yang kept them close, gradually learning more characters and writing more poems over time.
Practical in learning, Lu Yang didn’t memorize many poems but said to Xie Yan: “Even though we don’t eat together, today we eat for the same purpose—celebrating together.”
He used the metaphor of sharing the same sky and moon.
Xie Yan understood, his heart stirred.
That night, he didn’t study. Sitting in his chair, he stared at Lu Yang’s portrait for a long time.
By July 1, he opened the last letter.
This one had one drawing and one letter.
The drawing showed great improvement: the figure was accurate at a glance—Lu Yang.
Xie Yan sat upright suddenly.
Could his beloved be a genius?
The drawing depicted Lu Yang at his desk, glancing sideways at Xie Yan, eyes seemingly piercing through the paper, directly meeting his gaze.
Xie Yan couldn’t sit still. He stood, unfolding the letter.
The opening lines had Lu Yang repeatedly writing “ha ha ha,” asking if Xie Yan was surprised.
“I’ll tell you—I traced this using paper! I went through many sheets, and only this one is decent. Surprised, aren’t you? Ha ha ha! I wanted to draw you, but you only appear as a small figure from behind, really hard to draw.”
