He passed through the hanging flower gate, braving the falling snow as he pushed open the doors of Chun Chao Hall.
This hall truly lived up to its name now—their very own Spring Court.
And yet, he could no longer bear the scent of that clove balm.
Just the faintest whiff, and his whole body flushed red, as if it had become some kind of conditioned response.
He stood at the threshold, one hand braced against the doorframe, while snowflakes drifted down, settling thickly on his shoulders. The icy wind pressed at his back; he lowered his head, and a flake landed on the nape of his neck, cool as ice, only to melt in an instant. The sky hung low, the storm raging all around him. Clad in his black robe embroidered with gold serpents, beneath the dark green plaque that bore the characters for Spring Court, he felt caught between cold and heat, as if this moment were some strange dream.
Fu Huang was still asleep, his tall frame sprawled across the bed, nearly filling it. The red gauze canopy that Fu Ye had torn down earlier lay in a heap upon the mattress, and the heavy scent of clove balm filled the room.
Fu Ye knelt at the bedside, leaning over to look at him.
It was rare to have such a chance to simply watch Fu Huang like this.
Asleep, the sharp edge of the emperor’s presence was gone, leaving behind only weariness. The crease between his brows had returned, and in slumber, his breathing was deeper than before.
Maybe he was just too exhausted.
Fu Ye felt a deep ache for him.
He reached out, gently smoothing his fingers across Fu Huang’s forehead, trying to ease the crease between his brows.
Suddenly, Fu Huang’s hand shot out, catching his fingers.
“You’re awake?” Fu Ye whispered.
Fu Huang tugged him forward, pulling him down to lie against his chest.
“My body’s freezing,” Fu Ye murmured.
Still heavy with sleep, Fu Huang pressed his cheek to his, then took his hands and placed them against his bare chest.
His chest was solid now, stronger than before—so warm.
Feeling the steady thump of his heart, Fu Ye spread his palms wide, resting them there.
And just like that, the two of them stayed locked in a quiet embrace. The warmth enveloped them, and before long, Fu Ye felt sleep tugging at him too.
He didn’t want to move.
He drifted off like that.
Fu Huang pulled the blanket up around him.
Not long after, Eunuch Qin came in, ignoring the red gauze canopy that had slipped down.
“Your Majesty, would you like something to eat?”
Fu Huang eased Fu Ye down gently and got up to eat a little.
Outside, night had fully fallen.
Inside Chun Chao Hall, everything seemed just as it always was—except now, Qin’s hair had turned white.
“I’ve made it back safe,” Fu Huang said. “You should take a few days to rest.”
Qin smiled and nodded. “With the prince here, I’ve nothing to worry about.”
Fu Huang turned to glance at Fu Ye, fast asleep.
Then he said to Qin, “Tomorrow, have that sandalwood bed from the main hall brought over.”
Qin hesitated. “…Your Majesty, that bed is too big. It can’t be taken apart, so it won’t fit through the doors.”
As expected, he thought. The emperor and the prince really were different. The prince always tried to avoid talking about these matters.
But the emperor? He could mention it as casually as talking about eating or sleeping, not the slightest change in his expression.
“Your Majesty,” Qin ventured, “why not just move to the main hall? There’s more space there… and it’s more private.”
Fu Huang shook his head. “I like it here.”
The emperor had his quirks—stubborn, obsessive quirks.
Qin sighed inwardly. That bed really isn’t big, and it’s easy enough to move—if only His Majesty would be a little gentler!
He couldn’t help thinking: every time he came in and saw the bed had been dragged to a new spot, he thanked the heavens the prince was a man—and that he’d been out riding and training these past few days, tough enough to take it. His Majesty was truly terrifying!
Now that he’d returned from battle, Fu Huang seemed even more imposing and forceful—as if the god of death himself had strode back from the field.
Then Fu Ye saw him glance down at the heated brick bed nearby.
Eunuch Qin froze.
That bed was built up with blue bricks against the window; it wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t dare say a word—just gathered up the empty dishes and quietly left.
Fu Huang looked at his white-haired old servant and said, “Get some rest. Stop overthinking everything.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Qin closed the door behind him and went out.
Outside, the snow had stopped, but the wind still howled. Fu Huang rinsed his mouth and climbed back onto the bed.
These past days had been nothing but rushing through wind and frost. Now, with warm candlelight and fragrant incense, his beloved at his side, it all felt like a dream.
He cupped Fu Ye’s chin, tilting it this way and that, remembering the sight of him biting down on his inner robe, those tear-filled eyes looking up at him like a sacrificial offering—like he was Fu Ye’s whole world. Like Fu Ye would gladly die for him if he asked.
Half asleep, Fu Ye felt Fu Huang loosening his clothes and mumbled, “I really can’t… I’m spent.”
Fu Huang chuckled softly. “Just your outer robe, so you can sleep better.”
Fu Ye, eyes half-closed, drowsy and confused, muttered, “Climaxing’s exhausting…”
Fu Huang didn’t catch every word, but the last part he understood.
“Useless,” Fu Huang teased him.
Drowsy and embarrassed, Fu Ye whispered, “It’s because you’re too good…”
Fu Huang’s eyes darkened with amusement. “Am I really?”
Fu Ye flushed even deeper, half lost in sleep.
Of course Fu Huang knew. He could tell just from Fu Ye’s reactions—how he’d cry out, hair loose and wild, so breathtakingly beautiful it hurt to look.
But still, he wanted to hear Fu Ye say it.
He pinched Fu Ye’s lips, pressing them out of shape, then let his hair down so it spread out like a dark cloud around him, before leaning close, watching him.
Fu Ye gazed back. “Feels like a dream,” he murmured.
Fu Huang paused. “Have you dreamed of this before?”
Fu Ye nodded.
He looked thinner now, his features sharper, more masculine—bearing the marks of all the fear and responsibility he’d carried in the capital. He’d done so well, held everything together.
Fu Huang pulled him close, kissed his hair, and lay down with him.
After a while, Fu Ye blushed and said, “Can I sleep without anything on?”
Fu Huang raised a brow. “…If you do that, you won’t get much sleep.”
But in the end, he gave in.
They lay together, skin to skin, heat mingling.
Fu Ye reached out and gently tangled their hair together.
Fu Huang couldn’t hold back anymore. He lifted him up in his arms.
The silk quilt slipped to the floor, and this tall, powerful man carried his stunningly beautiful beloved off the bed, both of them bare as the day they were born.
His body burned, strength and desire surging through him.
Fu Ye’s smooth skin was already marked with bruises.
Fu Huang carried him over to the brick bed, shoved the low table aside, and set the candle on top.
The red candle burned brightly.
Outside, the wind had died down. Only the soft hiss of falling snow remained. That night, two young eunuchs kept watch at the palace gate.
“Did you hear that? I think the prince was calling out for someone.”
“Huh?”
The other peeked toward the dark courtyard.
Nothing there but black shadows and falling snow.
“Master said everything’s set in Chun Chao Hall tonight. They don’t need us in there.”
“…What if people find out about the prince and the emperor?”
“Not our business. As long as we keep our mouths shut, that’s all that matters.”
The two eunuchs hurried back into their duty room, shutting the door behind them.
It really was warmer inside.
That night, after the heavy snow, the palace awoke to a world blanketed in white—half a foot deep by dawn. The palace attendants were already up early, sweeping the snow. Eunuch Qin hadn’t slept this soundly in ages. He changed into fresh clothes and made his way to Chun Chao Hall. Along the way, he spotted a few sets of footprints.
His Majesty was already up.
He found the Emperor in the imperial study, reading memorials.
“Your Majesty is up so early today.”
Fu Huang said, “Don’t wake him. Let him sleep.”
Qin said, “It’s freezing cold out, Your Majesty. You finally made it back to the palace. Why not get some more rest?”
Fu Huang replied simply, “I’m used to it.”
Sleep had always been scarce for him—just like that persistent head ailment of his. He didn’t expect it to ever fully heal. But he’d learned to live with it.
Qin called for attendants to serve the Emperor his breakfast, and as he helped set the table, he gave a quick report on the current routines of the palace: “These days, ministers come for morning court at around the hour of Chen. If they’re still here come noon, His Highness the Prince always gives the word to the kitchens to keep food ready for them.”
Fu Huang nodded.
Qin hesitated, then asked, “Does Your Majesty wish to change that arrangement?”
Fu Huang had never cared much for those stiff, formal morning courts. He preferred handling state affairs his own way.
“No need.”
Qin felt a quiet relief.
True, handling matters privately was efficient—but it bordered on lazy governance. Word got around: The Emperor doesn’t even show up for court. This small daily meeting was a good compromise. The Emperor didn’t have to trek out to the Qing Tai Hall at dawn, and the officials didn’t have to rise in the dead of night.
Soon enough, Minister Xie and the others began arriving, riding their warm sedan chairs.
Qin, always thoughtful, quickly reported, “Given the cold, His Highness the Prince allowed the ministers to enter and leave the palace in warm chairs.”
Fu Huang gave a nod.
But the ministers stepped down from those sedan chairs trembling a little—not from the cold, but from nerves.
Yes, His Majesty had won everlasting glory, but he was still the Emperor. They’d grown used to His Highness the Prince’s gentler ways, but in front of the Emperor, they braced for hardship without complaint.
So they entered the imperial study light-footed, hardly daring to breathe. Usually, there’d be a bit of polite chatter among them before they got down to business. Today, not a word.
Minister Xie finally whispered, “Is His Highness the Prince… not joining us this morning?”
Oh, please let him come.
When he was here, they felt reassured.
His Highness was kind—he always gave them cover when things got tense.
Fu Huang said, “He’s still resting. Maybe in a few days.”
Thank goodness, they thought. They could hold out a few more days.
They settled in and began their discussion of state affairs. Qin quietly closed the door behind them and left.
By then, the sun was well up. Qin figured His Highness was probably awake by now.
He headed for Chun Chao Hall.
The place was tidy, but the scent of clove balm hung heavy in the air.
Again?!
Good heavens…
The Emperor sure…
Well, let it be. After all, these months hadn’t been easy on His Majesty either.
Qin cleared his throat softly and stepped up to the bed. His Highness lay with his back to him, curled up. He seemed awake.
“Your Highness?”
Fu Ye didn’t turn, just gave a soft, nasal “Mm.”
The Prince stayed in bed till nearly noon. When he finally got up, he was dressed with particular care—elegant layers, high collar. But for some reason, his face stayed flushed, and he looked a bit… dazed. Even on the day of their imperial wedding, he hadn’t looked like this. Qin thought: Is it shyness? No, not exactly… What’s going on?
At lunchtime, as usual, Qin set the dishes out on the brick bed’s low table. But the Prince said, “Not here. Set it in the main hall.”
Qin froze. …What?
He quickly ordered the attendants to move the lunch to the main hall.
Just then, Fu Huang happened to return for his meal. Seeing everyone carrying the dishes toward the main hall, he stepped into Chun Chao Hall.
There he found Fu Ye, his hand resting on the soft cushions of the brick bed, quietly feeling them.
Fu Huang said, “Everything’s been changed.”
Eunuch Qin fell silent.
He noticed that Prince Huan’s earlobes looked as if they were about to drip blood from how red they were.
Just then, an attendant outside announced, “Your Majesty, Your Highness, the Empress Dowager has sent dishes for Your Majesties.”
Fu Huang’s smile faded, and he said calmly, “Let them in.”
Fu Ye had already stepped outside ahead of him.
He straightened his robes, clearly paying extra attention to his appearance today. When he saw Sun Gongzheng approaching, he perked up and greeted her with a warm smile: “Auntie, you’re here.”
Sun Gongzheng curtsied and said, “The Empress Dowager ordered me to bring a few dishes for Your Majesty and His Highness.”
Sun Gongzheng was well-known in the capital for her graceful bearing. But Eunuch Qin felt that, today, with his layered and intricate attire and the stark white collar at his throat, Fu Ye’s elegance surpassed even hers.
From beneath the ornamental arch of the doorway, Fu Huang watched Fu Ye for a moment longer before turning and heading toward the main hall. Eunuch Qin followed, noting to himself that the way the emperor looked at the prince—those deep, quiet, lingering glances—were like ripples spreading endlessly in still water.
Sun Gongzheng cast another concerned look at Fu Ye and said, “Your Highness looks quite unwell. The cold season is harsh, and you’ve worked hard these days for the sake of state affairs. Please take care of yourself.”
Fu Ye didn’t eat much at lunch.
It was the emperor who, compared to before he left on campaign, seemed to have gained quite the appetite—which was surely a good thing.
After the meal, Fu Huang returned to the imperial study, while Fu Ye summoned the secretariat to deliver memorials to Chun Chao Hall.
There, Fu Ye rearranged the hall’s layout, setting up a folding screen to partition off a smaller office space.
It was about half the size of the imperial study and held half as many staff.
Once Fu Huang finished a stretch of work, he returned to Chun Chao Hall to check on Fu Ye.
He found Fu Ye reclining on the couch, looking rather weary as he listened to reports. When Fu Ye noticed him peeking in, he merely turned his head slightly, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
Fu Huang lingered for a moment before quietly departing.
Eunuch Qin asked, “Your Majesty, did you upset His Highness?”
Fu Huang replied, “I’m not sure if it counts as that.”
“Huh?”
“He said to stop. I didn’t stop, so then he…”
Then what?
Eunuch Qin felt his face heat up. Enough! His Majesty might have no shame speaking of such things, but he certainly didn’t have the nerve to listen.
Instead, he offered gentle advice: “Your Majesty should be more tender. His Highness has been under much strain lately. His health is delicate.”
Fu Huang merely gave a quiet “Mm” in response.
He felt that, truth be told, Fu Ye himself actually liked it—if he really had stopped, Fu Ye would probably have squirmed about in protest.
Someone like that was hard to please; best to just be forceful and not give him a choice.
Since the emperor pacified the realm and secured unmatched glory, ever since Fu Huang’s return, a flood of sycophantic memorials had poured in from officials desperate to flatter him, lauding his triumphs.
Lately, a certain official from the Ministry of Works tried to curry favor, proposing that, since His Majesty’s deeds surpassed those of Emperor Mingzong, his mausoleum should be of grander scale to reflect his extraordinary achievements.
The ancients placed great importance on funerary matters, adhering to the principle of “serving the dead as the living.” Since time immemorial, emperors began planning their tombs upon ascending the throne, regarding them as their dwelling in the next world.
Fu Huang was no exception; construction on his tomb began in the first year of his reign.
That official’s memorial suggested lengthening the sacred way, adding more stone statuary, expanding the mausoleum’s palace complex, and so on.
But the emperor approved only one change: that the coffin be redesigned as a double coffin. Everything else would remain as it was.
These memorials were all reviewed by Fu Ye, who compiled them into summaries for the Secretariat to present to Fu Huang for final review.
Ordinarily, Fu Huang would merely glance at them and give his consent.
But this time, he personally wrote a vermillion comment on that particular item.
Fu Ye found himself holding that red-marked memorial, staring at it for a long while.
He noticed the eunuchs had seen the note as well, exchanging glances with one another.
That age-old vow of “sharing the same quilt in life, sharing the same tomb in death”—in that moment, it became tangible, real, striking him with profound force.
That night, as they retired, Fu Huang returned from his medicinal bath to find Fu Ye already lying in bed, his hair dry.
The moment Fu Huang lay down, Fu Ye instinctively snuggled closer.
…
So he hadn’t been wrong—Fu Ye did like this very much.
Fu Huang picked up a book and said, “Take a look at this.”
Fu Ye took it and saw it was a small storybook.
Fu Huang said, “When I was with the army, I’d sometimes hear Zhang Gui and the others chatting idly. They mentioned this story, so I had it found. It’s actually quite interesting.”
Fu Ye glanced at the title—The Tale of Twin Pillows.
It told of a beautiful youth named Pan Zhang during some bygone dynasty: “His looks were so fine that all admired him.” A man named Wang Zhongyuan, having heard of him, “sought him out as a friend.” They became schoolmates, and “at first sight, fell in love, their bond like husband and wife.” Later, they “shared the same quilt and pillow, and their affection never waned.”
In the end, they died together, their families deeply grieved, and buried them side by side. From their shared grave, “a tree sprang up, its branches and leaves intertwined without end.”
Though Fu Ye had read his share of tales of same-sex love, he’d never encountered such a pure and moving story.
Its branches and leaves intertwined without end.
He finished reading, his heart swelling with a hazy, drifting feeling. Suddenly, Fu Huang tugged him over and held him close.
By then, the candlelight flickered softly, casting a golden glow upon their faces.
Fu Huang said softly, “When I was out at war, there were times I was in grave danger. In those moments, I truly thought I might die. And so I often thought: in this world, a husband and wife ought to share not just the same bed in life, but the same tomb in death. If I died out there, even if my body were somehow brought back to Jiantai City and buried in the imperial mausoleum, leaving you behind to battle the court just to be buried alongside me—how hard that would be. Life lasts no more than a hundred years; it passes in the blink of an eye. But if after death we could lie together for ten thousand years, our bones side by side in one tomb—that is what I truly desire.”
Then he added, “And not just in adjoining coffins either—it must be a single coffin, the two of us together.”
Fu Ye didn’t know what to say—he could only stare at him, nodding over and over, his heart full.
When Fu Huang saw the tears welling in Fu Ye’s eyes, he seized the moment to say, “In life and death, together always—there’s no greater closeness in the world than that. You and I are husband and wife, closer than anyone. So what’s there to be shy about in front of your own husband? Besides, you were just too happy, and seeing that made me feel nothing but proud. A true man conquers the world outside, and at home, he knows how to bring joy to the one he loves—that’s what makes a man.”
Fu Ye hadn’t expected all of this to circle back to that—his face turned bright red.
But Fu Huang held him fast, their necks pressed together in a close embrace. The veins on Fu Huang’s neck were flushed and hot, and it left Fu Ye dizzy, his heart in turmoil.
Then Fu Huang murmured, “I want to make you feel that joy every single day—would you like that?”
And before Fu Ye could answer, he swept him up in his arms. That’s when Fu Ye realized that, at some point, Eunuch Qin and the others had quietly withdrawn.
Fu Ye’s long hair spilled loose as he trembled on the bed, overwhelmed, unable to resist at all.
Fu Huang’s passion infected him. The thought that, one day, their remains would rest together for all eternity—it thrilled him.
Branches and leaves, all intertwined.
Branches and leaves, all intertwined.
That phrase echoed in his mind as his senses blurred. How beautiful it was! What better end could there be for love? In the depths of feeling, what lover wouldn’t yearn to become those intertwined branches and leaves?
He let everything else fall away—only that intertwined forever mattered.
That night felt like a spell, a madness. He cried out, pleaded, wept—heart and soul chasing that dream of sharing death together.
By the next morning, his voice was completely hoarse.
The Empress Dowager, thinking he’d fallen ill, promptly sent him a bowl of loquat syrup.
